Everything Human Is Alien To Me.

One Blow In Anger [would] Kill, Probably, A Child From Aged Two To Eight. Those Over Eight Would Take Two Blows To Kill.

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

I Find The Public Passion For Justice Quite Boring And Artificial.

It Always Gets Late With You. - Is That A Compliment?

I Don't Want To Know Movie Directors. I Don't Want To Be Close To Them. I Don't Want To Interfere With Their Work. I Don't Want Them To Interfere With Mine.