Dith Pran, photojournalist for The New York Times and subject of the 1984 film “The Killing Fields” died in New Brunswick, N.J. on Sunday at the age of 65.

From The New York Times:

“Mr. Dith saw his country descend into a living hell as he scraped and scrambled to survive the barbarous revolutionary regime of the Khmer Rouge from 1975 to 1979, when as many as two million Cambodians — a third of the population — were killed, experts estimate. Mr. Dith survived through nimbleness, guile and sheer desperation.”

Read more about Dith Pran…

“The Met’s latest poster campaign urges Londoners who spot “unusual” activity to ring the police and let them know. Examples include someone taking pictures of CCTV cameras or acting out of the ordinary. After all, these are dangerous times, and we all must be vigilant.”

“Contrast this for a moment with an earlier dangerous time: the Blitz. Bombs rained down upon London on a near-daily basis, killing, maiming and laying waste to whole neighbourhoods (one American friend recently described a trip around east London where his hosts pointed to every car park and said, “Of course, that was bombed in the Blitz” – and came away with the impression that Hitler had dropped car parks on Hackney).”

“The ability to keep things in perspective is very important for a journalist. In a tense situation you need the ability to be there, yet somehow step aside; to keep a cool head and keep working without getting frustrated.”

- Philip Jones Griffiths

“The world that I grew up in will be, from today, a poorer place. It is with great sadness I have to write that Philip – a monumental, irrepressible force in photography and in life – and a courageous fighter against the cancer that finally defeated him – passed away early this morning.”

- Stuart Franklin

Read More At The Magnum Photos Blog

Philip Jones Griffiths Portfolios

The New York Times Obituary

I live in a third floor walk-up closet, a veritable cracker box of eighth inch press board walls and no heat to speak of, remembering a recent February morning where the thermostat read 48 degrees. Rent is astronomical. Gas is more expensive than booze and I won’t explain whats more important, a car is not an option what with no garage and no parking and being a bit short on scratch because of the cracker box and 8.5% sales tax and every grocery store thinks they’re Whole Foods (or whole paycheck, whichever comes first). So I’ll ride the bus for a dollar and a half, camera in pocket, f/5.6 at a 60th, always sitting in the back with the hobos and hoodlums and never get anywhere on time.

Late in the day, having hopped the bus with hobos and hoodlums down South of Market I stopped at the cafe for the customary small coffee in largish cup, sitting outside on a warm San Francisco March afternoon watching all the restless afternoon professionals (yuppies) scurry about. All the while entertained by the man on the street with the electric piano churning out Beethoven note for note with a little Maple Leaf Rag thrown in for color and some Leon Russell for style, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not terribly bothered by the cracker box or 8.5% sales tax as long as the guy on the corner keeps on playing the piano.

Five nights a week at approximately 12:15 AM walking home through the Stockton tunnel staring at the sidewalk stepping over trash and puddles and needles and other city scenery while deeply entrenched in thoughts of the hours past, each night while on this path I pass a security guard likely on his way home, in security guard uniform of nondescript khaki pants and official blue security guard blazer, walking just as quiet and intently as I and deeply entrenched in thoughts of days past head down and moving with purpose.

Each night for nearly six months we pass in the Stockton tunnel only mildly aware of one another, never exchanging more than a glance or a nod, never speaking or saying hello or goodbye or any such pleasantries, only a merciful and somewhat forced acknowledgement that the other exists as we pass in the Stockton tunnel stepping over puddles and trash and needles and other scenery.

Five nights a week for six months this routine was un-changed, each night the same as the last, in the Stockton tunnel at approximately 12:15 AM we’d pass and nod and go on with our lives and nothing more.

Last night he wasn’t there, and I couldn’t help but worry.