Who wants always to look at a cafe or an altar or an oak tree with the first innocence and the limited understanding of a naive lovesick girl,
or a born-again Byron? Five minutes or five centuries from now, we will see changeless realities with new eyes, and the sounds
of sheep bleating and a new child's wail will be the same but heard through new ears. How can we pretend to be changeless, then?...
Is it wrong to see the phony, painted mushroom-bollard on the quay and accept it, as part of the whole strong song that keeps on singing there,
in spite of wars and movies and the turtling-on of time? ~ M.F.K. Fisher