We talked filth for a pleasant half hour.
I know many older writers who were very successful and whose books are now out of print, so you have to go to antiquarian booksellers to buy their fifth or eighth novel or whatever it is.
We all possess, like it or not, the people we know, and are possessed by them in turn.
Humankind can tolerate only so much rejection.
Do we change every time we have a new encounter? Are we endlessly mutable? I think these are fascinating questions: it's a rich vein to tap, and I don't think I have exhausted it fully yet.
I don't think they'll ever make a retro Bond.
I have this lock of hair that keeps falling across my forehead. It drives me mad.
Sometimes limbo is a tolerable place to be stuck.
I tend to admire dead people more than the living. All too often, human reality diminishes the glowing reputation.
The only times we are consciously aware of the authorship of a photograph, I would argue, are when we contemplate the photographs we ourselves have taken (or those of friends and family) or when we go deliberately to the photographers monograph or exhibition. The signed image - the appropriated, the owned image - is by far the rarest in this pullulating world of pictures.
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