It's So Fine And Yet So Terrible

The Clear French Landscape Is As Pure As A Verse Of Racine.

A Work Of Art Which Did Not Begin In Emotion Is Not Art.

Sometimes I Imagine Colors As If They Were Living Ideas, Being Of Pure Reason With Which To Communicate. Nature Is Not On The Surface, It Is Deep Down.

Fruits ... Like Having Their Portrait Painted. They Seem To Sit There And Ask Your Forgiveness For Fading. Their Thought Is Given Off With Their Perfumes. They Come With All Their Scents, They Speak Of The Fields They Have Left, The Rain Which Has Nourished Them, The Daybreaks They Have Seen.

One Is Neither Too Scrupulous Nor Too Sincere Nor Too Submissive To Nature; But One Is More Or Less Master Of One's Model, And, Above All, Of The Means Of Expression.