Here I Am Trying To Live, Or

The Poet, By Composing Poems, Uses A Language That Is Neither Dead Nor Living, That Few People Speak, And Few People Understand We Are The Servants Of An Unknown Force That Lives Within Us, Manipulates Us, And Dictates This Language To Us.

My Little Renoirs. Matisse Describes Having Seen Renoir Make These Tiny Canvases. When He Had Finished Working, He Would Use Up The Color Left In His Brushes On Them.

The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame Or Success But Intoxication: That Is Why So Many Bad Artists Are Unable To Give It Up.

You Are Always Concentrated On The Inner Thing. The Moment One Becomes Aware Of The Crowd, Performs For The Crowd, It Is Spectacle.

Wealth Is An Inborn Attitude Of Mind, Like Poverty. The Pauper Who Has Made His Pile May Flaunt His Spoils, But Cannot Wear Them Plausibly.