The Great Artist Is A Formulation Of

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

In Europe Men And Women Have Intercourse Because They Love Each Other. In The South Seas They Love Each Other Because They Have Had Intercourse. Who Is Right?

Beware Of Luxury! Beware Of Acquiring The Taste And Need For It, Under The Pretext Of Providing For The Morrow.

The Flat Sound Of My Wooden Clogs On The Cobblestones, Deep, Hollow And Powerful, Is The Note I Seek In My Painting.

Oh Mysterious World Of All Light, Thou Hast Made A Light Shine Within Me, And I Have Grown In Admiration Of Thy Antique Beauty, Which Is The Immemorial Youth Of Nature.