When One Loves One's Art No Service

I Wanted To Paint A Picture Some Day That People Would Stand Before And Forget That It Was Made Of Paint. I Wanted It To Creep Into Them Like A Bar Of Music And Mushroom There Like A Soft Bullet.

In Dress, Habits, Manners, Provincialism, Routine And Narrowness, He Acquired That Charming Insolence, That Irritating Completeness, That Sophisticated Crassness, That Overbalanced Poise That Makes The Manhattan Gentleman So Delightfully Small In Its Greatness.

When A Man Begins To Be Hilarious In A Sorrowful Way You Can Bet A Million That He Is Dyeing His Hair.

But The Best, In My Opinion, Was The Home Life In The Little Flat--the Ardent, Voluble Chats After The Day's Study; The Cozy Dinners And Fresh, Light Breakfasts; The Interchange Of Ambitions--ambitions Interwoven Each With The Other's Or Else Inconsiderable--the Mutual Help And Inspiration; And--overlook My Artlessness--stuffed Olives And Cheese Sandwiches At 11 P.m.

By Rights You're A King. If I Was You, I'd Call For A New Deal.