Seems As Unfounded ... To Say There

It Is A Peculiar Part Of The Good Photographer's Adventure To Know Where Luck Is Most Likely To Lie In The Stream, To Hook It, And To Bring It In Without Unfair Play And Without Too Much Subduing It.

All Of Consciousness Is Shifted From The Imagined, The Revisive, To The Effort To Perceive Simply The Cruel Radiance Of What Is

As Small, Quick, Foolproof Cameras Became Generally Available, Moreover, The Camera Has Been Used So Much And So Flabbily By So Many People That It Has Acted As A Sort Of Contraceptive On The Ability To See.

Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got To Have Gumption.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.