I Think It Is Vanity

In Quoting Others, We Cite Ourselves.

Salt And The Center Of The World Have To Be There, In That Spot On The Tablecloth.

I Raised The Camera, Pretended To Study A Focus Which Did Not Include Them, And Waited And Watched Closely, Sure That I Would Finally Catch The Revealing Expression, One That Would Sum It All Up, Life That Is Rhythmed By Movement But Which A Stiff Image Destroys, Taking Time In Cross Section, If We Do Not Choose The Essential Imperceptible Fraction Of It.

For Me The Thing That Signals A Great Story Is What We Might Call Its Autonomy, The Fact That It Detaches Itself From Its Author Like A Soap Bubble Blown From A Clay Pipe.

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.