Only The Stupid And The Phlegmatic Should

Many People Seem To Think That Art Is A Luxury To Be Imported And Tacked On To Life. Art Springs Out Of The Very Stuff That Life Is Made Of. Most Of Our Young Authors Start To Write A Story And Make A Few Observations From Nature To Add Local Color. The Results Are Invariably False And Hollow. Art Must Spring Out Of The Fullness And Richness Of Life.

Personal Life Becomes Paler As The Imaginative Life Becomes Richer.

In New Mexico, He Always Awoke A Young Man, Not Until He Arose And Began To Shave Did He Realize That He Was Growing Older. His First Consciousness Was A Sense Of The Light Dry Wind Blowing In Through The Windows, With The Fragrance Of Hot Sun And Sage-brush And Sweet Clover; A Wind That Made One's Body Feel Light And One's Heart Cry 'to-day, To-day,' Like A Child's.

Every Artist Knows That There Is No Such Thing As "freedom" In Art. The First Thing An Artist Does When He Begins A New Work Is To Lay Down The Barriers And Limitations; He Decides Upon A Certain Composition, A Certain Key, A Certain Relation Of Creatures Or Objects To Each Other. He Is Never Free, And The More Splendid His Imagination, The More Intense His Feeling, The Farther He Goes From General Truth And General Emotion.

Our Tree Became The Talking Tree Of The Fairy Tale; Legends And Stories Nestled Like Birds In Its Branches.