Art Is Either A Plagiarist Or A

Night Is Here. All Is At Rest. My Eyes Close In Order To See Without Actually Understanding The Dream That Flees Before Men Infinite Space; And I Experience The Languorous Sensation Produced By The Mournful Procession Of My Hopes.

How To Re-light The Fire The Very Ashes Of Which Are Scattered?

Without Delay I Began Work, Without Hesitation And All Of A Fever.

There Is Always A Heavy Demand For Fresh Mediocrity. In Every Generation The Least Cultivated Taste Has The Largest Appetite.

It Was So Simple To Paint Things As I Saw Them; To Put Without Special Calculation A Red Close To A Blue.