There Is No Substitute For Intuition.

Everything Vanishes Round Me And Good Works Rise From Me Of Their Own Accord.

Everything Vanishes Around Me, And Works Are Born As If Out Of The Void. Ripe, Graphic Fruits Fall Off. My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.

A Certain Fire Pretends To Be Alive; It Awakens. Working Its Way Along The Hand As A Conductor, It Reaches The Support And Engulfs It; Then A Leaping Spark Closes The Circle It Was To Trace, Coming Back To The Eye And Beyond.

The Biblical Story Of The Creation Is An Excellent Parable Of Movement. The Work Of Art, Too, Is Above All A Process Of Creation, It Is Never Experienced As A Mere Product.

Beauty Is As Relative As Light And Dark. Thus, There Exists No Beautiful Woman, None At All, Because You Are Never Certain That A Still Far More Beautiful Woman Will Not Appear And Completely Shame The Supposed Beauty Of The First.