Whoever The Master Is Whom You Prefer,

If I Were Called Upon To Define Briefly The Word Art, I Should Call It The Reproduction Of What The Senses Preceive In Nature, Seen Through The Veil Of The Soul.

My Nervous System Is Very Much Weakened - Nothing But Painting In Oil Can Keep Me Going.

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 Have Not Tried To Reproduce Nature; I Have Represented It.

A Thousand Painters Ought To Be Killed Yearly. Say What You Like: I'm Every Inch A Painter.