I Would Live To Study,

I Would Like My Pictures To Look As If A Human Being Had Passed Between Them, Like A Snail, Leaving A Trail Of The Human Presence And Memory Trace Of Past Events, As The Snail Leaves Its Slime.

My Praise Shall Be Dedicated To The Mind Itself. The Mind Is The Man, And The Knowledge Is The Mind. A Man Is But What He Knoweth. The Mind Is But An Accident To Knowledge, For Knowledge Is The Double Of That Which Is.

I Would By All Means Have Men Beware, Lest Æsop's Pretty Fable Of The Fly That Sate [sic] On The Pole Of A Chariot At The Olympic Races And Said, 'what A Dust Do I Raise,' Be Verified In Them. For So It Is That Some Small Observation, And That Disturbed Sometimes By The Instrument, Sometimes By The Eye, Sometimes By The Calculation, And Which May Be Owing To Some Real Change In The Heaven, Raises New Heavens And New Spheres And Circles.

They That Reverence To Much Old Times Are But A Scorn To The New.

Death Is A Friend Of Ours; And He That Is Not Ready To Entertain Him Is Not At Home.