The Work Of A Man Is The

I Have Always Wanted A Mistress Who Was Fat, And I Have Never Found One. To Make A Fool Of Me, They Are Always Pregnant.

My Eyes Close And Uncomprehendingly See The Dream In The Infinite Space That Stretches Away, Elusive, Before Me.

Happiness And Work Rose Up Together With The Sun, Radiant Like It.

But I Owe Something To Vincent, And That Is, In The Consciousness Of Having Been Useful To Him, The Confirmation Of My Own Original Ideas About Painting. And Also, At Difficult Moments, The Remembrance That One Finds Others Unhappier Than Oneself.

Out In The Sun, Some Painters Are Lined Up. The First Is Copying Nature, The Second Is Copying The First, The Third Is Copying The Second... You See The Sequence.