The Work Of A Man Is The

For Christ's Sake, Were The Mountains Blue, Then Chuck On Some Blue And Don't Go Telling Me That It Was A Blue A Bit Like This Or Like That, It Was Blue Wasn't It? Good - Make Them Blue And That's Enough!

In Painting One Must Search Rather For Suggestion Than For Description, As Is Done In Music.

It Is The Eye Of Ignorance That Assigns A Fixed And Unchangeable Color To Every Object; Beware Of This Stumbling Block.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

Sometimes People Accuse Me Of Being Incomprehensible Only Because They Look For An Explicative Side To My Pictures Which Is Not There.