The Way To Form Transcends Its Own

A Line Comes Into Being. It Goes Out For A Walk, So To Speak, Aimlessly For The Sake Of The Walk.

My Hand Is Entirely The Implement Of A Distant Sphere. It Is Not My Head That Functions But Something Else, Something Higher, Something Somewhere Remote. I Must Have Great Friends There, Dark As Well As Bright. They Are All Very Kind To Me.

I Want To Be As Though New-born, Knowing Nothing, Absolutely Nothing About Europe.

My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

First Of All, The Art Of Living; Then As My Ideal Profession, Poetry And Philosophy, And As My Real Profession, Plastic Arts; In The Last Resort, For Lack Of Income, Illustrations.