It Is The Job Of Poetry To

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

The Reproach That Superficial People Formulate Against Manet, That Whereas Once He Painted Ugliness, Now He Paints Vulgarity, Falls Harmlessly To The Ground, When We Recognize The Fact That He Paints The Truth.