I Still Come Closest To Success With

An Active Line On A Walk, Moving Freely, Without Goal. A Walk For A Walk's Sake.

First Of All, The Art Of Living; Then As My Ideal Profession, Poetry And Philosophy, And As My Real Profession, Plastic Arts; In The Last Resort, For Lack Of Income, Illustrations.

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.

Light And The Rational Forms Are Locked In Combat; Light Sets Them Into Motion, Bends What Is Straight, Makes Parallels Oval, Inscribes Circles In The Intervals, Makes The Intervals Active.

One Does Not Lash Hat Lies At A Distance. The Foibles That We Ridicule Must At Least Be A Little Bit Our Own. Only Then Will The Work Be A Part Of Our Own Flesh. The Garden Must Be Weeded.