“Today, we must realize that nature is revealed in the simplest meadow, wood lot, marsh, stream, or tidepool, as well as in the remote grandeur of our parks and wilderness areas.”

A true photograph need not be explained, nor can it be contained in words.

It is the photographer, not the camera, that is the instrument.

I believe the world is incomprehensibly beautiful – an endless prospect of magic and wonder.

Millions of men have lived to fight, build palaces and boundaries, shape destinies and societies; but the compelling force of all times has been the force of originality and creation profoundly affecting the roots of human spirit.

Photograph not only what you see but also what you feel.

A great photograph is one that fully expresses what one feels, in the deepest sense, about what is being photographed.

The only things in my life that compatibly exists with this grand universe are the creative works of the human spirit.

The negative is comparable to the composer’s score and the print to its performance. Each performance differs in subtle ways.

There is nothing worse than a sharp image of a fuzzy concept.

Art is both the taking and giving of beauty, the turning out to the light of the inner folds of the awareness of the spirit.

The negative is the score, and the print the performance.

Bad weather makes for good photography.

You don’t take a photograph, you make it.

When words become unclear, I shall focus with photographs. When images become inadequate, I shall be content with silence.

The artist and the photographer seek the mysteries and the adventure of experience in nature.

The camera cannot, but the photographer can.

The handsome gifts that fate and nature lend us Most often are the very ones that end us.

You can’t deny what you’ve learned; you can’t deny your travels; you can’t deny the nature of your life.

What is life, when wanting love? Night without a morning; Love’s the cloudless summer sun, Nature gay adorning.

The world is good natured to people who are good natured.

I yearn for the hues of grey along with the rumbling clouds bunched together as an alluring bouquets. I relish those days basking in the crisp air away from sun rays.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art– Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite.

Though leaves are many, the root is one.

The glory of the garden lies in more than meets the eye.