My Nervous System Is Enfeebled, Only Work

Talks On Art Are Almost Useless. The Work Which Goes To Bring Progress In One's Own Subject Is Sufficient Compensation For The Incomprehension Of Imbeciles.

If I Think, I Am Lost.

Is It The Factitious And The Conventional That Most Surely Succeed On Earth And In The Course Of Life?

There Is No Model, There Is Only Color.

I Should Have Wished To Possess The Intellectual Equilibrium That Characterizes You And Permits You To Achieve Without Fail The Desired End... Chance Has Not Favoured Me With An Equal Self-assurance, It Is The Only Regret I Have About Things Of This Earth.