In my madness I was actually in love with her for the few hours it all lasted; it was the same unmistakable ache and stab across the mind, the same sighs, the same pain, and above all the same reluctance and fear to approach.

I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.

I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else?

How I wished I'd have had a camera of my own, a mad mental camera that could register pictorial shots, of the photographic artist himself prowling about for his ultimate shot - an epic in itself. (On the road with Robert Frank, 1958)

...[the photographer] can be considered a kind of disembodied burrowing eye, a conspirator against time and its hammers. His work, print after print of it, seems to call to be shown before the decay which it portrays flattens all... Here are the records of the age before an imminent collapse.

The fact was I had the vision... I think everyone has... what we lack is the method.

Who can leap the world's ties and sit with me among white clouds?