And Now I Have To Confess The

The Public Only Takes Up Yesterday As A Stick To Beat Today.

Artists Can No More Speak About Their Work, Than Plants Can Speak About Horticulture.

A Child's Reaction To This Type Of Calamity Is Twofold And Extreme. Not Knowing How Deeply, Powerfully, Life Drops Anchor Into Its Vast Sources Of Recuperation, He Is Bound To Envisage, At Once, The Very Worst; Yet At The Same Time, Because Of His Inability To Imagine Death, The Worst Remains Totally Unreal To Him. Gerard Went On Repeating: "paul's Dying; Paul's Going To Die"' But He Did Not Believe It. Paul's Death Would Be Part Of The Dream, A Dream Of Snow, Of Journeying Forever.

The Reward Of Art Is Not Fame Or Success But Intoxication: That Is Why So Many Bad Artists Are Unable To Give It Up.

Alas! I Do Not Believe That Inspiration Falls From Heaven. Think It Rather The Result Of A Profound Indolence.