Art Lives On Constraint And

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.

He Who Follows Another Will Never Overtake Him

I Dare Affirm That Any Artist... Who Has Nothing Singular, Eccentric, Or At Least Reputed To Be So, In His Person, Will Never Become A Superior Talent.

I Give My Soul To God, My Body To The Earth, And My Worldly Possessions To My Nearest Of Kin, Charging Them To Remember The Sufferings Of Jesus Christ.

Every Block Of Stone Has A Statue Inside It And It Is The Task Of The Sculptor To Discover It.