He Has Found His Style, When He

Nothing Can Be Rushed. It Must Grow, It Should Grow Of Itself, And If The Time Ever Comes For That Work, Then So Much The Better!

In My Productive Activity, Every Time A Type Grows Beyond The Stage Of Its Genesis, And I Have About Reached The Goal, The Intensity Gets Lost Very Quickly, And I Have To Look For New Ways.

Everything Vanishes Around Me, And Works Are Born As If Out Of The Void. Ripe, Graphic Fruits Fall Off. My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

In Earlier Days, Even As A Child, The Beauty Of Landscapes Was Quite Clear To Me. A Background For The Soul's Moods. Now Dangerous Moments Occur When Nature Tries To Devour Me; At Such Times I Am Annihilated, But At Peace. This Would Be Fine For Old People But I... I Am My Life's Debtor, For I Have Given Promises.

He Has Found His Style, When He Cannot Do Otherwise.