It would never occur to them to say at home (as pastors’ kids) anything they were really thinking, unless it is forced out of them by anger.

They were so absorbed in their plotting that they did not hear Boule de Suif return. But the Comte’s whispered ‘shh!’ made them all look up. There she was. A sudden silence fell, and at...

I want a History of Looking. For the Photograph is the advent of myself as other: a cunning dissociation of consciousness from identity. Even odder: it was before Photography that men had the most to...

There is a perfect rout of characters in every man—and every man is like an actor’s trunk, full of strange creatures, new & old. But an actor and his trunk are two different things

We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, that in the end, we become disguised to ourselves.