I Sit At My Door, Smoking A

We Never Really Know What Stupidity Is Until We Have Experimented On Ourselves.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

When The Physical Organism Breaks Up, The Soul Survives. It Then Takes On Another Body.

I Sit At My Door, Smoking A Cigarette And Sipping My Absinthe, And I Enjoy Every Day Without A Care In The World

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.