So many directors are solely focused on their own success in Hollywood and multimillion dollar budgets and deals.
I want what everybody wants, that's how I know I'm still breathing.
Being in grief, it turns out, is not unlike being in love. In both states, the imagination's entirely occupied with one person. The beloved dwells at the heart of the world, and becomes a Rome: the roads of feeling all lead to him, all proceed from him. Everything that touches us seems to relate back to that center: there is no other emotional life, no place outside the universe of feeling centered on its pivotal figure.
Even sad stories are company. And perhaps that's why you might read such a chronicle, to look into a companionable darkness that isn't yours.
Love, I think, is a gateway to the world, not an escape from it.
We long to connect; we fear that if we do, our freedom and individuality will disappear.
Here and gone. That’s what it is to be human, I think—to be both someone and no one at once, to hold a particular identity in the world (our names, our place of origins, our family and affectional ties) and to feel that solid set of ties also capable of dissolution, slipping away, as we become moments of attention.
Real life seeks the gentle slopes at the back of Mount Improbable, while creationists are blind to all but the daunting precipice at the front.
I have a really good relationship with a lot of designers. I like Gaultier, Billionaire and Cavalli.
I feel overestimated.
I couldn't be sufficiently interested in human beings to be a writer if I had contempt for human beings.