Quotes About Photograph

I want to photograph the considerable ceremonies of our present. I want to gather them, like somebody's grandmother putting up preserves, because they will have been so beautiful.

I kiss her ghost, and sleep with the dust on her photograph, next to my bedside.

I sat on my Dad's bed and flipped through the page after empty page. No stamps. No exotic locales. No travel-worn smudges or creases. Just the ID information and my mother's black and white photo which if it where used in a psychology textbook on the meaning of facial expressions would be labelled: Obscenely, heartbreakingly hopeful

One soldier picked up a dead Argentine, supported the corpse's weight underneath his arm, put a cigarette in the dead man's mouth, then one in his own. He then held a lighter under the corpse's cigarette and his friend took a photograph. They both laughed. I also laughed. This was foolish ? smoking can kill.

there was something indefinably tired and worn-out about Birgit, like a photograph whose edges were missing their crispness.

I admit that I am hopelessly hooked on the printed newspaper. I love turning the pages and the serendipity of stumbling across a piece of irresistible information or a photograph that I wasn't necessarily intending to read.

I click my teeth together every time I want to take a mental picture of something, like, "Wow, what a beautiful sunset!" Slam your teeth together.

I really miss you and I still have that one picture of you, where your eyes had no point of view, but pictures say nothing and this one will stay in my minds room.

Nicholas was already tall for his age, dark unruly hair and dark eyes, although in the photograph you couldn't tell if they were brown or dark blue.

Friendship based solely upon gratitude is like a photograph; with time it fades.

You can't photograph the hugest mysteries of the universe that really have nothing to do with what shows up before your eyes, under a microscope, through a telescope, in the pages of books.

Pain is nothing, just a warning signal from the body to the brain. Pain is no more the real thing than an X-ray photograph is the real thing. Biut of course he is wrong.

Last Friday night, I Twitted a photograph of myself that I intended to send as a direct message as part of a joke to a woman in Seattle. Once I realized I posted to Twitter I panicked, I took it down and said that I had been hacked. I then continued with that story, to stick to that story which was a hugely regrettable mistake.

A man without hands came to the door to sell me a photograph of my house. Except for the chrome hooks, he was an ordinary-looking man of fifty or so.

I did a bit of boxing when younger. Once I was joined by Muhammad Ali as my co-commentator. I've got a picture of the two of us together ringside at the Albert Hall on my wall at home.

Everybody in Naples must have a picture with me by now, but if you need another one, I never say no to a selfie.

There's nothing worse than illustrating a chapter on space travel with a photograph of the latest American satellite. Signor Garamond had taught me that it needs, at the very least, an angel by Dore.

I allowed myself a microscopic view into his ice-colored eyes. It was like viewing one of those photographs of the Arctic region – very foreign, exotic, clearly a place you've never dreamed of going.

Here's something I bet you don't know: every time someone writes a story about a dragon a real dragon dies. Something about seeing and being seen something about mirrors that old tune about how a photograph can take your whole soul. At the end of this poem I'm going to go out like electricity in an ice storm. I've made peace with it.

There are no absolute truths, and the best historians know that. You strive to capture a moment of time, and if your work is done properly, history becomes a written photograph.

A picture is worth a thousand words but it takes 3,000 times the disk space.

The photograph reverses the purpose of travel, which until now had been to encounter the strange and unfamiliar.

Esquire, in a July, 1957 issue, has a photograph of me playing the French horn at the Five Spot.

In a Cafe" I watched a man in a cafe fold a slice of bread as if he were folding a birth certificate or looking at the photograph of a dead lover.