What Is One To Think Of Those

Here, On The River's Verge, I Could Be Busy For Months Without Changing My Place, Simply Leaning A Little More To Right Or Left.

I Could Paint For A Hundred Years, A Thousand Years Without Stopping And I Would Still Feel As Though I Knew Nothing.

I'd Like To Combine Melancholy And Sunshine... There's A Sadness In Provence Which No One Has Expressed... I'd Like To Put Reason In The Grass And Tears In The Sky, Like Poussin.

To Achieve Progress Nature Alone Counts, And The Eye Is Trained Through Contact With Her. It Becomes Concentric By Looking And Working.

The Painter Unfolds That Which Has Not Been Seen.