I had use for it, and beyond that I never
went. I am downright sorry to confess here that I am no good at all
as a photographer, for I would like to be. The thing is a constant
marvel to me, and an unending delight. To watch the picture come
out upon the plate that was blank before, and that saw with me for
perhaps the merest fraction of a second, maybe months before, the
thing it has never forgotten, is a new miracle every time. If I
were a clergyman I would practise photography and preach about it.
But I am jealous of the miracle. I do not want it explained to me
in terms of HO(2) or such like formulas, learned, but so hopelessly
unsatisfying. I do not want my butterfly stuck on a pin and put in
a glass case. I want to see the sunlight on its wings as it flits
from flower to flower, and I don't care a rap what its Latin name
may be. Anyway, it is not its name. The sun and the flower and
the butterfly know that. The man who sticks a pin in it does not,
and never will, for he knows not its language. Only the poet does
among men. So, you see, I am disqualified from being a photographer.
Pages:
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302