If I Work Incessantly To

The True, Prescriptive Artist Strives After Artistic Truth; The Lawless Artist, Following Blind Instinct, After An Appearance Of Naturalness. The One Leads To The Highest Peaks Of Art, The Other To Its Lowest Depths.

An Angel! Nonsense! Everybody So Describes His Mistress; And Yet I Find It Impossible To Tell You How Perfect She Is, Or Why She Is So Perfect: Suffice It To Say She Has Captivated All My Senses.

You Can’t, If You Can’t Feel It, If It Never Rises From The Soul, And Sways The Heart Of Every Single Hearer, With Deepest Power, In Simple Ways. You’ll Sit Forever, Gluing Things Together, Cooking Up A Stew From Other’s Scraps, Blowing On A Miserable Fire, Made From Your Heap Of Dying Ash. Let Apes And Children Praise Your Art, If Their Admiration’s To Your Taste, But You’ll Never Speak From Heart To Heart, Unless It Rises Up From Your Heart’s Space.

How Many Years You Have To Keep On Doing, Until You Know What To Do And How To Do!

Death Is Nature's Expert Advice To Get Plenty Of Life.