So . . . try for that other world, the real world, where orphans burn orphans and nothing is more difficult to discover than a simple fact. And with that pride of the artist, you must blow against the wall of every power that exists, the small trumpet of your defiance.
It appears I have committed a grave sin. A chiding missive from a concerned photographer informed me that my moral standards are too high, my approach to art incompatible with the contemporary definition of the term, and my writing politically incorrect. At the risk of further offending the sender, I confess that the note prompted not only some anger, but also a bit of pride.
To eliminate from one’s work and rhetoric anything that might offend ...