All Art Is A Kind Of Confession.

Yet I Also Suspected That What I Was Seeing Was But A Part Of The Truth And Perhaps Not Even The Most Important Part; Beneath These Faces, These Clothes, Accents, Rudenesses, Was Power And Sorrow, Both Unadmitted, Unrealized, The Power Of Inventors, The Sorrow Of The Disconnected.

Perhaps Home Is Not A Place But Simply An Irrevocable Condition.

If You Think Too Far Ahead, If You Even Try To Think Too Far Ahead, You'll Never Make It.

The Trick Is To Love Somebody.... If You Love One Person, You See Everybody Else Differently.

Experience, Which Destroys Innocence, Also Leads One Back To It.