Pain is not a conduit to art or joy

If the light is great in front of you, you should turn around and see what it is doing behind you.

If you are out there shooting, things will happen for you. If you're not out there, you'll only hear about it.

Try to go out empty and let your images fill you up.

If you want to make more interesting pictures, become a more interesting person.

Always carry a camera, it's tough to shoot a picture without one.

Photography is an act of love.

The drama of light exists not only in what is in the light, but also in what is left dark. If the light is everywhere, the drama is gone.

Always shoot it now. It won't be the same when you go back.

You are responsible for every part of your image, even the parts you’re not interested in.

Failing is not a problem. Not trying is a problem.

So let’s raise our glass to the accident season, To the river beneath us where we sink our souls, To the bruises and secrets, to the ghosts in the ceiling, One more drink for the watery road.

And frankly, I'm a huge gold digger and The Miz is about to make a lot of money!

To love one's neighbor is a tough command. It works better for people who live far away.

Courage is a muscle that develops through use. It's no use waiting for some inner fire to conveniently become apparent at the moment of crisis - that's cartoon stuff.

The Jew has his anchorage not in place but in time, in his highly developed sense of history as personal context. Six thousand years of self-awareness are a homeland.

To be misunderstood even by those whom one loves is the cross and bitterness of life. It is the secret of that sad and melancholy smile on the lips of great men which so few understand.

Sometimes holding on was all you could do.

I don't want the ideas to be limited by what I can physically do. The ideas come first.

I'm not interested in creating a book that is read once and then placed on the shelf and forgotten. I am very happy when people have worn out my books, or that they're held together by Scotch tape.

Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?