The Work Of A Man Is The

How Do You See Those Tree?... They Are Yellow. Well Then Put Down Yellow. And That Shadow Is Rather Blue. So Render It With Pure Ultramarine. Those Red Leaves? Use Vermillion.

And Here In My Isolation I Can Grow Stronger. Poetry Seems To Come Of Itself, Without Effort, And I Need Only Let Myself Dream A Little While Painting To Suggest It.

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.

Machines Have Come, Art Has Fled, And I Am Far From Thinking Photography Can Help Us.

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?