I'm A Hopeless 19th-century Romantic.

The Trouble With You, Vic," He Said, "is That You Think Of The World As A Sort Of Huge Museum With Too Many Visitors Allowed In.

The Secret Of Survival Is A Defective Imagination.

Enormous Morning, Ponderous, Meticulous; Gray Light Streaking Each Bare Branch, Each Single Twig, Along One Side, Making Another Tree, Of Glassy Veins.

No Two Things The Same, The Equals Sign A Scandal.

All A Work Of Art Can Do Is Present The Surface. I Can't Know The Insides Of People. I Know Very Little About The Inside Of Myself.