Whoever invented marriage was an ingenious tormentor. It is an institution committed to the dulling of the feelings. The whole point of marriage is repetition. The best it aims for is the creation of strong, mutual dependencies.

The possession of a camera can inspire something akin to lust. And like all credible forms of lust, it cannot be satisfied.

Mad people = People who stand alone and burn. I'm attracted to them because they give me permission to do the same.

There is a great deal that either has to be given up or be taken away from you if you are going to succeed in writing a body of work.

I perceive value, I confer value, I create value, I even create — or guarantee — existence. Hence, my compulsion to make “lists.” The things (Beethoven’s music, movies, business firms) won’t exist unless I signify my interest in them by at least noting down their names. Nothing exists unless I maintain it (by my interest, or my potential interest). This is an ultimate, mostly subliminal anxiety. Hence, I must remain always, both in principle + actively, interested in everything. Taking all of knowledge as my province.

The two ideas are antithetical. Insofar as photography is (or should be) about the world, the photographer counts for little, but insofar as it is the instrument of intrepid, questioning subjectivity, the photographer is all.

Existence is no more than the precarious attainment of relevance in an intensely mobile flux of past, present, and future.