Photography, Because It Stops The Flow Of

The Heart Of Paris Is Like Nothing So Much As The Unending Interior Of A House. Buildings Become Furniture, Courtyards Become Carpets And Arrases, The Streets Are Like Galleries, The Boulevards Conservatories. It Is A House, One Or Two Centuries Old, Rich, Bourgeois, Distinguished. The Only Way Of Going Out, Or Shutting The Door Behind You, Is To Leave The Centre.

Common-sense Is Part Of The Home-made Ideology Of Those Who Have Been Deprived Of Fundamental Learning, Of Those Who Have Been Kept Ignorant.

When He Painted A Road, The Roadmakers Were There In His Imagination, When He Painted The Turned Earth Of A Ploughed Field, The Gesture Of The Blade Turning The Earth Was Included In His Own Act. Whenever He Looked He Saw The Labour Of Existence; And This Labour, Recognised As Such, Was What Constituted Reality For Him. (on Vincent Van Gogh)

It Is Comparatively Easy To Achieve A Certain Unity In A Picture By Allowing One Colour To Dominate, Or By Muting All The Colours. Matisse Did Neither. He Clashed His Colours Together Like Cymbals And The Effect Was Like A Lullaby.

Words Are So Often Used In The Opposite Sense, As A Screen Of Diversion. It's The Struggle Towards Truthfulness Which Is The Same Whether One Is Writing A Poem, A Novel Or An Argument.