One Never Paints Violently Enough.

I Go To Work As Others Rush To See Their Mistresses, And When I Leave, I Take Back With Me To My Solitude, Or In The Midst Of The Distractions That I Pursue, A Charming Memory That Does Not In The Least Resemble The Troubled Pleasure Of Lovers.

The Outcome Of My Days Is Always The Same; An Infinite Desire For What One Never Gets; A Void One Cannot Fill; An Utter Yearning To Produce In All Ways, To Battle As Much As Possible Against Time That Drags Us Along, And The Distractions That Throw A Veil Over Our Soul.

Not Only Can Color, Which Is Under Fixed Laws, Be Taught Like Music, But It Is Easier To Learn Than Drawing, Whose Elaborate Principles Cannot Be Taught.

Real Beauty In The Arts Is Eternal And Would Be Accepted At All Periods; But It Wears The Dress Of Its Century: Something Of That Dress Clings To It, And Woe To The Works Which Appear In Periods When The General Taste Is Corrupted.

In Every Art We Are Always Obliged To Return To The Accepted Means Of Expression, The Conventional Language Of The Art. What Is A Black-and-white Drawing But A Convention To Which The Beholder Has Become So Accustomed That With His Mind's Eye He Sees A Complete Equivalent In The Translation From Nature?