As For The Outside World,

One Can Fool Life For A Long Time, But In The End It Always Makes Us What We Were Intended To Be.

Every Young Man's Heart Is A Graveyard In Which Are Inscribed The Names Of A Thousand Dead Artists But Whose Only Actual Denizens Are A Few Mighty, Often Antagonistic, Ghosts.

War Puts Its Questions Stupidly, Peace Mysteriously.

Just As A Musician Loves Music And Not Nightingales, And A Poet Loves Poetry And Not Sunsets, A Painter Is Not Primarily A Person Who Responds To Figures And Landscapes. He Is Primarily One Who Loves Pictures.

The Artist Is Not The Transcriber Of The World, He Is Its Rival.