I Criticise By Creation, Not By Finding

If There Is Some Good In Me, It Is Because I Was Born In The Subtle Atmosphere Of Your Country Of Arezzo. Along With The Milk Of My Nurse I Received The Knack Of Handling Chisel And Hammer, With Which I Make My Figures.

I Sometimes Set Myself Thinking And Imagining That I Find Amongst Men But One Single Art Or Science, And That Is Drawing Or Painting, All Others Being Members Proceeding Therefrom.

If It Be True That Any Beautiful Thing Raises The Pure And Just Desire Of Man From Earth To God, The Eternal Fount Of All, Such I Believe My Love.

Led By Long Years To My Last Hours, Too Late, O World, I Know Your Joys For What They Are. You Promise A Peace Which Is Not Yours To Give And The Repose That Dies Before It Is Born. The Years Of Fear And Shame To Which Heaven Now Set A Term, Renew Nothing In Me But The Old Sweet Error In Which, Living Overlong A Man Kills His Soul With No Gain To His Body. I Say And I Know Having Put It To The Proof, That He Has The Better Part In Heaven Whose Death Falls Nearest His Birth.

Faith In Oneself Is The Best And Safest Course.