Go On Working, Freely And

Do Not Copy Nature. Art Is An Abstraction. Rather, Bring Your Art Forth By Dreaming In Front Of Her And Think More Of Creation.

There Are Noble Tones, Ordinary Ones, Tranquil Harmonies, Consoling Ones, Others Which Excite By Their Vigour.

Happiness And Work Rose Up Together With The Sun, Radiant Like It.

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.

The Work Of A Man Is The Explanation Of The Man.