The Human Race Sleepwalked To Oblivion, Thinking

Yes, Sometimes I Think That All My Writing Is Nothing More Than The Compensatory Work Of A Frustrated Painter.

The Surrealists, And The Modern Movement In Painting As A Whole, Seemed To Offer A Key To The Strange Postwar World With Its Threat Of Nuclear War. The Dislocations And Ambiguities, In Cubism And Abstract Art As Well As The Surrealists, Reminded Me Of My Childhood In Shanghai.

Films, Like Memories, Seem To Re-shoot Themselves Over The Years, Reflecting Our Latest Needs And Obsessions. In Many Cases They Can Change Completely, And Reveal Unexpected Depths And Shallows. Will Four Weddings And A Funeral Be Seen One Day As A Vicious Social Satire? Could Jaws Become As Tearful And Sentimental As Bambi?

The Catastrophe Story, Whoever May Tell It, Represents A Constructive And Positive Act By The Imagination Rather Than A Negative One, An Attempt To Confront The Terrifying Void Of A Patently Meaningless Universe By Challenging It At Its Own Game. [. . .] Each One Of These Fantasies Represents An Arraignment Of The Finite, An Attempt To Dismantle The Formal Structure Of Time And Space Which The Universe Wraps Around Us At The Moment We First Achieve Consciousness.

Memories Have Huge Staying Power, But Like Dreams, They Thrive In The Dark, Surviving For Decades In The Deep Waters Of Our Minds Like Shipwrecks On The Sea Bed.