Men may dam it and say that they have made a lake, but it will still be a river. It will keep its nature and bide its time, like a caged animal alert for the slightest opening. In time, it will have its way; the dam, like the ancient cliffs, will be carried away piecemeal in the currents.
A picture was a motionless record of motion. An arrested representation of life. A picture was the kiss of death pretending to possess immutability.