I Am Entering Into The Truth, Into

A Critic In My House Sees Some Paintings. Greatly Perturbed, He Asks For My Drawings. My Drawings? Never! They Are My Letters, My Secrets.

Nature Has Mysterious Infinities And Imaginative Power. It Is Always Varying The Productions It Offers To Us. The Artist Himself Is One Of Nature's Means.

Literary Poetry In A Painter Is Something Special, And Is Neither Illustration Nor The Translation Of Writing By Form.

Whatever May Happen The Sun Will Rise Tomorrow As It Rose To-day, Beneficent And Serene.

Life Being What It Is, One Dreams Of Revenge.