ours is a time of the machine, and ours is a need to know that the machine can be put to creative effort • if it is not, the machine can destroy us • it is within the power of the photographer to help prohibit this destruction, and help make the machine an agent more of good than of evil • though not a poet, nor a painter, nor a composer, he is yet an artist, and as an artist undertakes not only risks but responsibilities • and it is with responsibility that both the photographer and his machine are brought to their ultimate tests.

bad as it is, the world is potentially full of good photographs • but to be good, photographs have to be full of the world.

the camera does not easily capture the image of a secret, though when it does, we are, as always, warmed with the honor of being told.

every image he sees, every photograph he takes, becomes in a sense a self portrait • the portrait is made more meaningful by intimacy - an intimacy shared not only by the photographer with his subject but by the audience.

while there is perhaps a province in which the photograph can tell us more than we see with our own eyes, there is another in which it proves to us how little our own eyes often permit us to see.

when one person touches another with an act of kindness, their lights fuse for a moment, and from that union, an angel is born.

say yes when nobody asked.

the most beautiful make-up of a woman is passion • but cosmetics are easier to buy.

with the appearance of the light,
the universe expanded.
with concealment of the light,
all things that exist were created in their variety.
this is the mystery of the act of creation.
one who understands will understand.

he who limps is still walking.

go with the flow, you're made mostly of water, so why not act that way?

death is not strange.
strange is life,
that flesh can think,
and body believe,

that dust can sing;
that a clod of earth
for one's lifetime
can house God.

that dead things live
when touched by God's breath,
is the miracle,
not death.

my hereafter

do not come when I am dead
to sit beside a low green mound,
or bring the first gay daffodils
because I love you so,
for I shall not be there.
you cannot find me there.

i will look up at you from the eyes
of little children;
i will bend to meet you in the swaying boughs
of bud-thrilled trees,
and caress you with the passionate sweep
of storm-filled winds;
i will give you strength in your upward tread
of everlasting hills;
i will cool your tired body in the flow
of the limpid river;
i will warm your work-glorified hands through the glow
of winter fire;
i will soothe you into forgetfulness to the drop, drop
of the rain on the roof;
i will speak to you out of the rhymes
of the Masters;
i will dance with you in the lilt
of the violin,
and make your heart leap with the bursting cadence
of the organ;
i will flood your soul with the flaming radiance
of the sunrise,
and bring you peace in the tender rose and gold
of the after-sunset.

all these have made me happy;
that are part of me;
i shall become part of them.

all the beautiful sentiments in the world weigh less than a single lovely action.