Journalists justify their treachery in various ways according to their temperaments. The more pompous talk about freedom of speech and ‘the public’s right to know’; the least talented talk about Art; the seemliest murmur about earning a living.

If you scratch a great photograph, you find two things; a painting and a photograph.

Malice remains its animating impulse.

All analyses end badly. Each 'termination' leaves the participants with the taste of ashes in their mouths; each is absurd; each is a small, pointless death. Psychoanalysis cannot tolerate happy endings; it casts them off the way the body's immunological system casts off transplanted organs.

This is what it is the business of the artist to do. Art is theft, art is armed robbery, art is not pleasing your mother.

Analysts keep having to pick away at the scab that the patient tries to form between himself and the analyst to cover over his wounds. The analyst keeps the surface raw, so that the wound will heal properly.

There are good photographers who might elevate themselves to the ranks of the great simply by burning most of their work.