Blood-eyed wretches faint in spectacles of rank worship, their blue bodies reeling, the obscene ceremony nothing but formless candle fat. Shadows fall over the dark flowers, trumpets sound in the deserted cloisters, and projected mysteries die in a storm of little words and dancing willows flushed of heaven.
“In the first place, the wretches in power, when they get a perfectly competent author—say a novelist of great repute—will not trust him at all. The great writer’s story has always been a ‘movie’—on the screen of the author’s mind. It was complete in every picture before he ever put pen to paper. But the producing wretches do not know that. They do not realize that he has done the thing right. They do not even realize this in the case of a famous novel—or play—where a long success has proved it.” [via]