The True Traveler Never Arrives.

If Painting Weren't So Difficult, It Wouldn't Be Fun.

What Use Is My Mind? Granted That It Enables Me To Hail A Bus And To Pay My Fare. But Once I Am Inside My Studio, What Use Is My Mind? I Have My Model, My Pencil, My Paints. My Mind Doesn't Interest Me.

Painting Is Easy When You Don't Know How, But Very Difficult When You Do.

And Even This Heart Of Mine Has Something Artificial. The Dancers Have Sewn It Into A Bag Of Pink Satin, Pink Satin Slightly Faded, Like Their Dancing Shoes.

I Have Been, Or Seemed, Hard With Everyone Because I Was Carried Away By A Sort Of Brutality Born Of My Distrust In Myself And My Ill-humor. I Have Felt So Badly Equipped, So Soft, In Spite Of The Fact That My Attitude Towards Art Seemed To Me So Just. I Was Disgusted With Everyone, And Especially Myself.