I Allow No One To Touch Me.

Shut Your Eyes, Wait, Think Of Nothing. Now, Open Them ... One Sees Nothing But A Great Coloured Undulation. What Then? An Irradiation And Glory Of Colour. This Is What A Picture Should Give Us ... An Abyss In Which The Eye Is Lost, A Secret Germination, A Coloured State Of Grace ... Loose Conciousness. Descend With The Painter Into The Dim Tangled Roots Of Things, And Rise Again From Them In Colours, Be Steeped In The Light Of Them.

Fruits ... Like Having Their Portrait Painted. They Seem To Sit There And Ask Your Forgiveness For Fading. Their Thought Is Given Off With Their Perfumes. They Come With All Their Scents, They Speak Of The Fields They Have Left, The Rain Which Has Nourished Them, The Daybreaks They Have Seen.

When A Picture Isn't Realized, You Pitch It In The Fire And Start Another One!

The Contour Eludes Me.

With An Apple I Will Astonish Paris.