Nothing So Resembles A Daub As A

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

Out In The Sun, Some Painters Are Lined Up. The First Is Copying Nature, The Second Is Copying The First, The Third Is Copying The Second... You See The Sequence.

Beware Of Luxury! Beware Of Acquiring The Taste And Need For It, Under The Pretext Of Providing For The Morrow.

The Public Wants To Understand And Learn In A Single Day, A Single Minute, What The Artist Has Spent Years Learning.

Civilization Is Paralysis.