The Camera Seems To Me,

I'll Do What Little I Can In Writing. Only It Will Be Very Little. I'm Not Capable Of It; And If I Were, You Would Not Go Near It At All. For If You Did, You Would Hardly Bear To Live

For In The Immediate World, Everything Is To Be Discerned, For Him Who Can Discern It, And Central And Simply, Without Either Dissection Into Science, Or Digestion Into Art, But With The Whole Of Consciousness, Seeking To Perceive It As It Stands: So That The Aspect Of A Street In Sunlight Can Roar In The Heart Of Itself As A Symphony, Perhaps As No Symphony Can: And All Of Consciousness Is Shifted From The Imagined, The Revisive, To The Effort To Perceive Simply The Cruel Radiation Of What Is.

...but You Are Too Much For Them: The Weak In Courage Are Strong In Cunning; And One By One, You Have Absorbed And Have Captured And Dishonored, And Have Distilled Of Your Deliverers The Most Ruinous Of All Poisons; People Hear Beethoven In Concert Halls, Or Over A Bridge Game, Or To Relax; Cézannes Are Hung On Walls, Reproduced, In Natural Wood Frames; Van Gogh Is The Man Who Cut Off His Ear And Whose Yellows Became Recently Popular In Window Decoration.

It Is Probably Well On The Conservative Side To Estimate That During The Past Ten To Fifteen Years The Camera Has Destroyed A Thousand Pairs Of Eyes, Corrupted Ten Thousand, And Seriously Deceived A Hundred Thousand, For Every One Pair That It Has Opened, And Taught.

Truth Lies Within A Little And Certain Compass, But Error Is Immense.