Janet Malcolm
[Writer, b. 1934, Prague, Czechoslovakia, lives in New York.]

 There are good photographers who might elevate themselves to the ranks of the great simply by burning most of their work. 

Martine Franck
[Photographer, b. 1938, Antwerp, Belgium, d. 2012, Paris.]

 My grandfather killed himself falling off the dike in Ostend while photographing my two cousins. This can happen so easily when looking through a lens: for a split second nothing else exists outside the frame. 

Roger Ballen
[Photographer, b. 1950, New York, lives in Johannesburg, South Africa.]

 Nothing is staged. And nothing is already there. Everything is transformed through the camera. 

Susan Sontag
[Writer, theorist, and critic, b. 1933, New York, d. 2004, New York.]

 If photographs are our connection to the past, it’s a very peculiar, fragile, sentimental connection. You take a photograph before you destroy something. The photograph is its posthumous existence. 

Nan Goldin
[Photographer, b. 1953, Washington, D.C., lives in New York and Paris.]

 I don’t even like photography at all. I’m just doing photography until I can do something better. 

Brian Duffy
[Photographer, b. 1933, London, d. 2010, London.]

 Photography was dead by 1972. Everything had been resolved between 1839 and 1972. Every picture after ‘72, I have seen pre-‘72. Nothing new. But it took me some time to detect its death. The first person who twigged was Henri Cartier-Bresson. He just stopped—and started painting and drawing. God, he was useless. 

Robert Morris
[Artist and theorist, b. 1931, Kansas City, Missouri, lives in New York.]

 There is probably no defense against the malevolent powers of the photograph to convert every visible aspect of the world into a static, consumable image. 

Henry Miller
[Writer, b. 1890, New York, d. 1980, Pacific Palisades, California.]

 [The photographer] is like a secretive insect who awaits for the appearance of some unknown epidemic before commencing his ravages. He is stubborn and elusive. He does the banal thing in order to hide his monstrous eccentricities. He has the eye of a ghoul, the indifference of a leper, the calm of a Buddha. He is insatiable. He is a monster—the most amiable, the most courteous, the most raffiné—but a monster. (On Brassaï, who he lastingly dubbed “the eye of Paris.”) 
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