A Quote by John Updike

In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified. — © John Updike
In memory's telephoto lens, far objects are magnified.
With a short lens I can reveal the hidden things near at hand, with a long lens the hidden things far away. The telephoto lens provides a new visual sensation for people: it widens their horizons. And, conversely, the things under our nose invariably look good when blown up really big.
Objects obey quantum laws- they spread in possibility following the equation discovered by Erwin Schodinger- but the equation is not codified within the objects. Likewise, appropriate non-linear equations govern the dynamical response of bodies that have gone through the conditioning of quantum memory, although this memory is not recorded in them. Whereas classical memory is recorded in objects like a tape, quantum memory is truly the analog of what the ancients call Akashic memory, memory written in Akasha, Emptiness- nowhere.
I never use a telephoto lens. I need to be close to people. I need their complicity; I need them to be aware that I am there taking their picture. I hate paparazzi.
The precise effects of lensing depend on the mass of the lens, the structure of space-time, and the relative distance between us, the lens, and the distant object behind it. It's like a magnifying glass, where the image you get depends on the shape of the lens and how far you hold it from the object you're looking at.
One can say that the city itself is the collective memory of its people, and like memory it is associated with objects and places. The city is the locus of the collective memory.
I think it magnified it. For me, I wasn't sheltered so I think it was magnified. Especially when you're a teenager and you go to high school and you're in the business and you are known.
Memory is a tenuous thing, like a rainbow's end or a camera with a failing lens.
I wonder sometimes what the memory of God looks like. Is it a palace of infinite rooms, a chest of many jeweled objects, a long, lonely landscape where each tree recalls an eon, each pebble the life of a man? Where do I live, in the memory of God?
From the first moment I handled my lens with a tender ardour, and it has become to me as a living thing, with voice and memory and creative vigour.
My mission is to change the way people see the world. Everybody has a perspective or a lens they see things through, and hopefully I can adjust that lens or change that lens so that they see things from a different perspective, a different lens.
You are merely the lens in the beam. You can only receive, give, and possess the light as the lens does. If you seek yourself, you rob the lens of its transparency. You will know life and be acknowledged by it according to your degree of transparency - your capacity, that is, to vanish as an end and remain purely as a means.
Memory is often - perhaps usually - a distorting lens: what we think we remember isn't the way it was at all. It's what we'd like to remember.
Everything becomes magnified at night. Sounds travel in a different way, it's dark, and everything seems far more spooky.
A scattered dream that's like a far-off memory... a far-off memory that's like a scattered dream. I want to line the pieces up... yours and mine.
Pictures and shapes are but secondary objects and please or displease only in the memory.
It is good to be in front of the lens to appreciate more being behind the lens.
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