It's Hard To Find A Book That's

Innocence Ends When One Is Stripped Of The Delusion That One Likes Oneself.

For However Dutifully We Record What We See Around Us, The Common Denominator Of All We See Is Always, Transparently, Shamelessly, The Implacable I.

Hand That On Parting Squeezes Your Shoulder, Salutes The Small Of Your Back.

Making Judgments On Films Is In Many Ways So Peculiarly Vaporous An Occupation That The Only Question Is Why, Beyond The Obvious Opportunities For A Few Lectures Fees And A Little Careerism At A Dispiritingly Self-limiting Level, Anyone Does It In The First Place.

The Last Sentence In A Piece Is Another Adventure. It Should Open The Piece Up.