New Things Are Always Ugly.

There Is Something Frank And Joyous And Young In The Open Face Of The Country. It Gives Itself Ungrudgingly To The Moods Of The Season, Holding Nothing Back.

Merely Having Seen The Season Change In A Country Gave One The Sense Of Having Been There For A Long Time.

I Shall Not Die Of A Cold. I Shall Die Of Having Lived.

Artistic Growth Is, More Than It Is Anything Else, A Refining Of The Sense Of Truthfulness.

Every Artist Makes Himself Born. It Is Very Much Harder Than The Other Time, And Longer.