A Young Man Who Is

In Art, All Who Have Done Something Other Than Their Predecessors Have Merited The Epithet Of Revolutionary; And It Is They Alone Who Are Masters.

No One Wants My Painting Because It Is Different From Other People's Peculiar, Crazy Public That Demands The Greatest Possible Degree Of Originality On The Painter's Part And Yet Won't Accept Him Unless His Work Resembles That Of The Others!

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.

A Young Man Who Is Unable To Commit A Folly Is Already An Old Man.

Color! What A Deep And Mysterious Language, The Language Of Dreams.