Art is the proper task of life.
Photography, alone of the arts, seems perfected to serve the desire humans have for a moment – this very moment – to stay.
My son – and what’s a song? A thing begot within a pair of minutes, thereabout, a lump bred up in darkness.
Critics have their purposes, and they’re supposed to do what they do, but sometimes they get a little carried away with what they think someone should have done, rather than concerning themselves with what they did.
If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate: The “Ode on a Grecian Urn” is worth any number of old ladies.
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