Civilization Is What Makes You Sick.

There Are Tonalities Which Are Noble And Others Which Are Vulgar, Harmonies Which Are Calm Or Consoling, And Others Which Are Exciting Because Of Their Boldness.

My God! How Terrible These Money Questions Are For An Artist!

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.

There Is No Such Thing As Exaggerated Art. I Even Believe That There Is Salvation Only In Extreme.

A Nude By Degas Is Chaste. But His Women Wash In Tubs!