The work of art itself is . . . a vibrant, magical, and exemplary object which returns us to the world in some way more open and enriched.

Love dies because its birth was an error.

Nature in America has always been suspect, on the defensive, cannibalized by progress. In America, every specimen becomes a relic.

I am profoundly uncertain how to write. I know what I love and what I like, because it's a direct passionate response. But when I write, I'm very uncertain whether it's good enough. That is, of course, the writer's agony.

The question of the social uses of photography opens out into the very largest issues of the self, of the relationship to community, to reality.

In NY sensuality completely turns into sexuality - no objects for the senses to respond to, no beautiful river, houses, people. Awful smells of the street, and dirt... Nothing except eating, if that, and the frenzy of the bed.

What makes me feel strong? Being in love and work. I must work.