Fortitude Is The Marshal Of Thought, The

To Spend Too Much Time In Studies Is Sloth.

No Artist Knows In His Own Lifetime Whether What He Does Will Be The Slightest Good, Because It Takes At Least Seventy-five To A Hundred Years Before The Thing Begins To Sort Itself Out.

Suspicions That The Mind, Of Itself, Gathers, Are But Buzzes; But Suspicions That Are Artificially Nourished And Put Into Men's Heads By The Tales And Whisperings Of Others, Have Stings.

To Conclude, Therefore, Let No Man Upon A Weak Conceit Of Sobriety Or An Ill-applied Moderation Think Or Maintain That A Man Can Search Too Far, Or Be Too Well Studied In The Book Of God's Word, Or The Book Of God's Works, Divinity Or Philosophy; But Rather Let Men Endeavor An Endless Progress Or Proficience In Both; Only Let Men Beware That They Apply Both To Charity, And Not To Swelling; To Use, And Not To Ostentation; And Again, That They Do Not Unwisely Mingle Or Confound These Learnings Together.

My Painting Is Not Violent, It's Life That Is Violent. Even Within The Most Beautiful Landscape, In The Trees, Under The Leaves, The Insects Are Eating Each Other; Violence Is A Part Of Life. We Are Born With A Scream; We Come Into Life With A Scream And Maybe Love Is A Mosquito Net Between The Fear Of Living And The Fear Of Death.