Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they all made the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad.

there is enough treachery , hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day

all that I know is that I believe in the sound of music and the running of a horse. all else is squabble.

That moment - to this ... may be years in the way they measure, but it's only one sentence back in my mind - there are so many days when living stops and pulls up and sits and waits like a train on the rails. I pass the hotel at 8 and at 5; there are cats in the alleys and bottles and bums, and I look up at the window and think, I no longer know where you are, and I walk on and wonder where the living goes when it stops.

Those who escape hell however never talk about it and nothing much bothers them after that

I was only photographing in words the reality of it all.

Sundays kill more people than bombs.