Everything Starts From A Dot.

Everything That Is Dead Quivers. Not Only The Things Of Poetry, Stars, Moon, Wood, Flowers, But Even A White Trouser Button Glittering Out Of A Puddle In The Street... Everything Has A Secret Soul, Which Is Silent More Often Than It Speaks.

The Artist Is Not A 'sunday Child' For Whom Everything Immediately Succeeds. He Does Not Have The Right To Live Without Duty. The Task That Is Assigned To Him Is Painful, It Is A Heavy Cross For Him To Bear.

Art Is Not Vague Production, Transitory And Isolated, But A Power Which Must Be Directed To The Improvement And Refinement Of The Human Soul.

The Organic Laws Of Construction Tangled Me In My Desires, And Only With Great Pain, Effort, And Struggle Did I Break Through These 'walls Around Art.

The Life Of The Spirit May Be Fairly Represented In Diagram As A Large Acute-angled Triangle Divided Horizontally Into Unequal Parts With The Narrowest Segment Uppermost. The Lower The Segment The Greater It Is In Breadth, Depth, And Area.