I Believe One Writes Because

When I Stand At The Top Of The Champs-elysées, With Its Chestnut Trees In Flower, Its Undulations Of Shining Cars, Its White Spaciousness, I Feel As If I Were Biting Into A Utopian Fruit, Something Velvety And Lustrous And Rich And Vivid.

I Needed To Live, But I Also Needed To Record What I Lived.

A Leaf Fluttered In Through The Window This Morning, As If Supported By The Rays Of The Sun, A Bird Settled On The Fire Escape, Joy In The Task Of Coffee, Joy Accompanied Me As I Walked.

When You Possess Light Within, You See It Externally.

Most Artists Have Retired Too Absolutely; They Grow Rusty, Inflexible To The Flow Of Currents.