Trifles Make Perfection, And Perfection Is No

I Cannot Live Under Pressures From Patrons, Let Alone Paint.

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 I Am More Alive Because Love Burns And Chars Me, As A Fire, Given Wood Or Wind, Feels New Elation, It's That He Who Lays Me Low Is My Salvation, And Invigorates The More, The More He Scars Me.

As When, O Lady Mine, With Chiselled Touch, The Stone Unhewn And Cold, Becomes A Living Mould, The More The Marble Wastes, The More The Statue Grows.

I Live In Sin, To Kill Myself I Live; No Longer My Life My Own, But Sin's; My Good Is Given To Me By Heaven, My Evil By Myself, By My Free Will, Of Which I Am Deprived.