The Writer, Like The Murderer, Needs A

Analysts Keep Having To Pick Away At The Scab That The Patient Tries To Form Between Himself And The Analyst To Cover Over His Wounds. The Analyst Keeps The Surface Raw, So That The Wound Will Heal Properly.

The Dominant And Most Deep-dyed Trait Of The Journalist Is His Timorousness. Where The Novelist Fearlessly Plunges Into The Water Of Self-exposure, The Journalist Stands Trembling On The Shore In His Beach Robe. The Journalist Confines Himself To The Clean, Gentlemanly Work Of Exposing The Grieves And Shames Of Others.

All Analyses End Badly. Each 'termination' Leaves The Participants With The Taste Of Ashes In Their Mouths; Each Is Absurd; Each Is A Small, Pointless Death. Psychoanalysis Cannot Tolerate Happy Endings; It Casts Them Off The Way The Body's Immunological System Casts Off Transplanted Organs.

There Are Good Photographers Who Might Elevate Themselves To The Ranks Of The Great Simply By Burning Most Of Their Work.

I Was Always Trying To Take Art Photographs, But The Most Interesting Pictures Were The Snapshots. The Artsy Pictures Were Boring, Always.