Suddenly the full long wail of a ship's horn surged through the open window and flooded the dim room—a cry of boundless, dark, demanding grief; pitch-black and glabrous as a whale's back and burdened with all the passions of the tides, the memory of voyages beyond counting, the joys, the humiliations: the sea was screaming.

This is a photograph, so it is as you see: there are no lies and no deceptions. One can detect here, elevated to an incomparably higher level, the same pathetic emotional appeal that lies concealed in every fake spiritualist photograph, every pornographic photograph; one comes to suspect that the strange, disturbing emotional appeal of the photographic art consists solely in that same repeated refrain: this is a true ghost... this is a photograph, so it is as you see: there are no lies, no deceptions.

Possessing by letting go of things was a secret of ownership unknown to youth.

The cynicism that regards hero worship as comical is always shadowed by a sense of physical inferiority

Nobody even imagines how well one can lie about the state of one’s own heart.

When silence is prolonged over a certain period of time, it takes on new meaning.

It seems to me that before the photograph can exist as art it must, by its very nature choose whether it is to be a record or a testimony.