A Critic In My House Sees Some

Silence! I Am Learning To Know The Silence Of A Tahitian Night.

Life Is Hardly More Than A Fraction Of A Second. Such A Little Time To Prepare Oneself For Eternity!

No One Wants My Painting Because It Is Different From Other People's Peculiar, Crazy Public That Demands The Greatest Possible Degree Of Originality On The Painter's Part And Yet Won't Accept Him Unless His Work Resembles That Of The Others!

Out In The Sun, Some Painters Are Lined Up. The First Is Copying Nature, The Second Is Copying The First, The Third Is Copying The Second... You See The Sequence.

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.