It Was A Cold Day

I Am Constantly Amazed At How Little Painters Know About Painting, Writers About Writing, Merchants About Business, Manufacturers About Manufacturing. Most Men Just Drift.

It Is Apparent That Nations Cannot Exist For Us. They Are The Playthings Of Children, Such Toys As Children Break From Boredom And Weariness. The Branch Of A Tree Is My Country. My Freedom Sleeps In A Mulberry Bush. My Country Is In The Shivering Legs Of A Little Lost Dog.

Work Accomplished Means Little. It Is In The Past. What We All Want Is The Glorious And Living Present.

Those Who Are To Follow The Arts Should Have A Training In What Is Called Poverty. Given A Comfortable Middle-class Start In Life, The Artist Is Almost Sure To End Up By Becoming A Bellyacher, Constantly Complaining Because The Public Does Not Rush Forward At Once To Proclaim Him.

Above All Avoid Taking The Advice Of Men Who Have No Brains And Do Not Know What They Are Talking About.