I Work At My Garden All The

Now, More Than Ever, I Realize Just How Illusory My Undeserved Success Has Been. I Still Hold Out Some Hope Of Doing Better, But Age And Unhappiness Have Sapped My Strength.

I Am Very Depressed And Deeply Disgusted With Painting. It Is Really A Continual Torture.

Without The Fog, London Would Not Be A Beautiful City. It Is Fog That Gives It Its Magnificent Amplitude...its Regular And Massive Blocks Become Grandiose In That Mysterious Mantle.

The Light Constantly Changes, And That Alters The Atmosphere And Beauty Of Things Every Minute.

Nothing In The Whole World Is Of Interest To Me But My Painting And My Flowers.