The Landscape With Its Violent, Pure Colours

All The Joys - Animal And Human - Of A Free Life Are Mine. I Have Escaped Everything That Is Artificial, Conventional, Customary.

With Practice The Craft Will Come Almost Of Itself, In Spite Of You And All The More Easitly If You Think Of Something Besides Technique.

The Cyclone Ends. The Sun Returns; The Lofty Coconut Trees Lift Up Their Plumes Again; Man Does Likewise. The Great Anguish Is Over; Joy Has Returned; The Sea Smiles Like A Child.

Having The Certitude Of A Succession Of Days... Equally Free And Beautiful, Peace Descends On Me.

Thanks To Our Cinctures And Corsets We Have Succeeded In Making An Artificial Being Out Of Woman. She Is An Anomaly, And Nature Herself, Obedient To The Laws Of Heredity, Aids Us In Complicating And Enervating Her. We Carefully Keep Her In A State Of Nervous Weakness And Muscular Inferiority, And In Guarding Her From Fatigue, We Take Away From Her Possibilities Of Development. Thus Modeled On A Bizarre Ideal Of Slenderness To Which, Strangely Enough, We Continue To Adhere, Our Women Have Nothing In Common With Us, And This, Perhaps, May Not Be Without Grave Moral And Social Disadvantages.