The French Are Wiser Than They Seem,

My Painting Is Not Violent, It's Life That Is Violent. Even Within The Most Beautiful Landscape, In The Trees, Under The Leaves, The Insects Are Eating Each Other; Violence Is A Part Of Life. We Are Born With A Scream; We Come Into Life With A Scream And Maybe Love Is A Mosquito Net Between The Fear Of Living And The Fear Of Death.

It's Such An Extraordinary Supple Medium That You Never Do Quite Know What Paint Will Do.

This Is Certain, That A Man That Studieth Revenge Keeps His Wounds Green, Which Otherwise Would Heal And Do Well.

A Man That Studieth Revenge Keeps His Own Wounds Green.

For A Crowd Is Not Company; And Faces Are But A Gallery Of Pictures; And Talk But A Tinkling Cymbal, Where There Is No Love.