Frank Horvat
[Photographer, b. 1928, Abbazia, Italy, now Opatija, Croatia, lives in Paris.]

 To me, photography is not just a visual art, but something closer to poetry—or at least to some poetry, such as the haiku. 

Jack Kerouac (Jean-Louis Lebris de Kerouac)
[Writer, b. 1922, Lowell, Massachusetts, d. 1969, St. Petersburg, Florida.]

 Anybody doesn’t like these pitchers don’t like potry, see? Anybody don’t like potry go home see television shots of big hatted cowboys being tolerated by kind horses. Robert Frank, Swiss, unobtrusive, nice, with that little camera that he raises and snaps with one hand he sucked a sad poem right out of America onto film, taking rank among the poets of the world. To Robert Frank I now give this message: You got eyes. 

Robert Adams
[Photographer and writer, b. 1937, Orange, New Jersey, lives in Astoria, Oregon.]

 Both poetry and photography tend toward metaphor. 

Stephen Spender
[Writer, poet, and critic, b. 1909, London, England, d. 1995, London.]

 Dead friend, this picture proves there was an instant
When—mirror of midday—you sent
Shadow and light from living flesh into
The sensitive dark instrument. 

Luc Delahaye
[Photographer, b. 1962, Tours, France, lives in Paris.]

 What you want to be is a poet…. To voice the real and at the same time create an image that is a world in itself, with its own coherence, its autonomy and sovereignty; an image that thinks. 

Sylvia Plath
[Poet, b. 1932, Boston, Massachusetts, d. 1963, London.]

 It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac,
A palace of velvet
With windows of mirrors.
There one is safe,
There are no family photographs,
No rings through the nose, no cries. 

Henri Cartier-Bresson
[Photographer and painter, b. 1908, Chanteloup, France, d. 2004, Paris.]

 I’m not responsible for my photographs. Photography is not documentary, but intuition, a poetic experience. It’s drowning yourself, dissolving yourself and then sniff, sniff, sniff—being sensitive to coincidence. You can’t go looking for it; you can’t want it, or you won’t get it. First you must lose your self. Then it happens. 

Charles Bukowski
[Writer, b. 1920, Andernach, Germany, d. 1994, San Pedro, California.]

 I put her photo by the radio
near the fan
and it moved
like something
alive.  
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