There Is Always A Heavy Demand For

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.

Sometimes People Accuse Me Of Being Incomprehensible Only Because They Look For An Explicative Side To My Pictures Which Is Not There.

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

Why Did I Hesitate To Put All This Glory Of The Sun On My Canvas?

If Instead Of A Figure You Put The Shadow Only Of A Person, You Have Found An Original Starting Point, That Strangeness Of Which You Have Calculated.