I Wonder Why We Are

Be Careful That You Do Not Write Or Paint Anything That Is Not Your Own, That You Don't Know In Your Own Soul.

I Think That One's Art Is A Growth Inside One. I Do Not Think One Can Explain Growth. It Is Silent And Subtle. One Does Not Keep Digging Up A Plant To See How It Grows.

There Was Neither Horizon, Cloud, Nor Sound; Of That Pink, Spread Silence Even I Had Become Part, Belonging As Much To Sky As To Earth.

Twenty Can't Be Expected To Tolerate Sixty In All Things, And Sixty Gets Bored Stiff With Twenty's Eternal Love Affairs.

Sometimes I Could Quit Paint And Take To Charring. It Must Be Fine To Clean Perfectly, To Shine And Polish And Know That It Could Not Be Done Better. In Painting That Never Occurs.