I wrote a trilogy out of order and then rearranged it, because the whole of life is like that--a cut-up--and when you cut into the present, the future leaks out.

You can always feel the cool whisper of surveillance when the film hits your flesh, the eye of the camera or simply the camera eye . . . faces of passersby, clientele, unpaid extras change completely as soon as they’re no longer observed.

The future is trash. Recycling it, re-arranging it. Making it beautiful again.

When we are hungry we eat our ghosts.

It’s television, after all. No one is dead, even when they die.

Adiós. A Dios. To God. From God. De Dios. Dedos. My fingers waving. Good-bye.

To own beauty is the first lie of it.

Tangerine tango was still in. Cardigans without buttons were in. Bahia bands were in. Senhor do Bonfim. Make a wish? But hardly anyone considered the most radical move: be yourself. Beauty is always a revolutionary act.

Half of life is pretending. The other half is pretending.

I couldn’t decide whether it was better to be the art, or the artist.