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In the light of what Proust wrote with so mild a stimulus, it is the world's loss that he did not have a heartier appetite. On a dozen Gardiner's Island oysters, a bowl of clam chowder, a peck of steamers, some bay scallops, three sauteed soft-shelled crabs, a few ears of fresh picked corn, a thin swordfish steak of generous area, a pair of lobsters, and a Long Island Duck, he might have written a masterpiece.
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Being around some of the bright lights of the technology world and having them expect great things helps you sit down and do it seriously.
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The death of a dream can in fact serve as the vehicle that endows it with new form, with reinvigorated substance, a fresh flow of ideas, and splendidly revitalized color. In short, the power of a certain kind of dream is such that death need not indicate finality at all but rather signify a metaphysical and metaphorical leap forward.
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Beneath the armor of skin/and/bone/and/mind most of our colors are amazingly the same.
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I've got a great eye for color. I'm like a chick.
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There is no old Adam Young, there is no new Adam Young, merely different colors and different brushstrokes over the same canvas.
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I want to express the utmost intensity of the color, bring out the quality, make it expressive.
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I'm a Red-baiter; I'm a witch-hunter if the witches are Communists.
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I can see it, hear it, feel it, taste it - but I can never be on the inside of it with you. I cannot even be sure whether I really know what it is like. Is it 'like' my own? Or incomparable? Just as I can never know if what you see at any given moment is exactly the same as what I see. We look at a colour. We both call it red. But it is only because we have been taught to call it by that name. There is no guarantee - not ever - that we see it in the same way, that your red is my red.
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If you tell a guy you don't like being tickled and he tickles you anyway, that's a red flag.
