A Critic In My House Sees Some

The Cyclone Ends. The Sun Returns; The Lofty Coconut Trees Lift Up Their Plumes Again; Man Does Likewise. The Great Anguish Is Over; Joy Has Returned; The Sea Smiles Like A Child.

Under The Continual Contact With The Pebbles My Feet Have Become Hardened And Used To The Ground. My Body, Almost Constantly Nude, No Longer Suffers From The Sun. Civilization Is Falling From Me Little By Little. I Am Beginning To Think Simply, To Feel Only Very Little Hatred For My Neighbor - Rather, To Love Him.

Do You Know What Will Soon Be The Ultimate In Truth? - Photography, Once It Begins To Reproduce Colors, And That Won't Be Long In Coming. And Yet You Want An Intelligent Man To Sweat For Months So As To Give The Illusion He Can Do Something As Well As An Ingenious Little Machine Can!

Oh Yes! He Loved Yellow, This Good Vincent, This Painter From Holland - Those Glimmers Of Sunlight Rekindled His Soul, That Abhorred The Fog, That Needed The Warmth.

It Is The Eye Of Ignorance That Assigns A Fixed And Unchangeable Color To Every Object; Beware Of This Stumbling Block.