“No ‘we’ should be taken for granted when the subject is looking at other people’s pain.”

The painter constructs, the photographer discloses.

Time exists in order that everything doesn’t happen all at once, and space exists so that it doesn’t all happen to you.

The fear of becoming old is born of the recognition that one is not living now the life that one wishes.

It hurts to love. It’s like giving yourself to be flayed and knowing that at any moment the other person may just walk off with your skin.

Photography is an elegiac art, a twilight art. Most subjects photographed are, just by virtue of being photographed, touched with pathos.

A writer, I think, is someone who pays attention to the world.

Time eventually positions most photographs, even the most amateurish, at the level of art.

It is not the position, but the disposition.

A photograph is not only an image (as a painting is an image), an interpretation of the real; it is also a trace, something directly stenciled off the real, like a footprint or a death mask.

All my life I’ve been looking for someone intelligent to talk to.

I don’t care about someone being intelligent; any situation between people, when they are really human with each other, produces ‘intelligence.

My library is an archive of longings.

In place of a hermeneutics we need an erotics of art.

How boring just to be a body.

I urge you to be as impudent as you dare. BE BOLD, BE BOLD, BE BOLD.

It is easier to endure than to change. But once one has changed, what was endured is hard to recall.

The berries of her love bleed, wilt and get scorched with the harshness of pain that is masked by smile.

I dragged my pain into the darkness, I carried it into the light – No matter where I choose to take it, This pain refuses to subside. I washed my sins off in the ocean, I prayed all my badness away, Whichever God I choose to worship, I cannot make my soul be saved.

Pain has one name but finds you through many.

Love is easier to carry than hate. So I untangle from my past and realize my fate. Transcend the pain to forgiveness, to nurture my scars. We are what we witness, and we are also stars.

You hurt and I bleed. What a curse to feel so deeply.

People could stab me with knives and i would still get them aid, For i see a glimpse of me in them. But sadly, people aren’t mirrors.

You greet people and are fooled by their smiles. I greet people and I’m haunted by the pain in their eyes.

Have I been buried alive by chronic pain? I can taste the dirt as they put me in the earth, thick on my lips like the honey that drips down my lips.