There Is A No Man's Land Between

We Divorced Ourselves From The Materials Of The Earth, The Rock, The Wood, The Iron Ore; We Looked To New Materials Which Were Cooked In Vats, Long Complex Derivatives Of Urine Which We Called Plastic. They Had No Odor Of The Living, ... Their Touch Was Alien To Nature. ... [they Proliferated] Like The Matastases Of Cancer Cells.

On A Late-winter Evening In 1983, While Driving Through Fog Along The Maine Coast, Recollections Of Old Campfires Began To Drift Into The March Mist, And I Thought Of The Abnaki Indians Of The Algonquin Tribe Who Dwelt Near Bangor A Thousand Years Ago.

We Are Close To Dead. There Are Faces And Bodies Like Gorged Maggots On The Dance Floor, On The Highway, In The City, In The Stadium; They Are A Host Of Chemical Machines Who Swallow The Product Of Chemical Factories, Aspirin, Preservatives, Stimulant, Relaxant, And Breathe Out Their Chemical Wastes Into A Polluted Air. The Sense Of A Long Last Night Over Civilization Is Back Again.

Giving A Camera To Diane Arbus Is Like Putting A Live Grenade In The Hands Of A Child.

...never Have I Subscribed To The Doctrine Of Willful Rejection Of The World Or Its Visual Image. To The Non-objectivist This Act Of Impiety May Be Shockingly Impure, But God, I Have No Desire To Be Either Hollow Or Sterile.