I Would Willingly Stand At Street Corners, Hat In Hand, Begging Passerby To Drop Their Unused Minutes Into It.
In Figure Painting, The Type Of All Painting, I Have Endeavoured To Set Forth That The Principal If Not Sole Source Of Life Enchantments Are Tactile Values, Movement And Space Composition.
German Is Of Stone, Limestone, Pudding Stone, Marble, Granite Even, And So To A Considerable Degree Is English, Whereas French Is Bronze And Gives Out A Metallic Resonance With Tones That Neither German Nor English Tolerate.
As I Got Warmed Up, And Felt Perfectly At Home In Talk, I Heard Myself Boasting, Lying, Exaggerating. Oh, Not Deliberately, Far From It. It Would Be Unconvivial And Dull To Stop And Arrest The Flow Of Talk, And Speak Only After Carefully Considering Whether I Was Telling The Truth.
We Usually Meet All Of Our Relatives Only At Funerals Where Somebody Always Observes: "too Bad We Can't Get Together More Often".
The Artist, Depicting Man Disdainful Of The Storm And Stress Of Life, Is No Less Reconciling And Healing Than The Poet Who, While Endowing Nature And Humanity, Rejoices In Its Measureless Superiority To Human Passions And Human Sorrows.
No Artifact Is A Work Of Art If It Does Not Help To Humanize Us. Without Art...our World Would Have Remained A Jungle.
I Never Felt That There Was Anything Enviable In Youth. I Cannot Recall That Any Of Us, As Youths, Admired Our Condition To Excess Or Had A Desire To Prolong It.
I Wonder Whether Art Has A Higher Function Than To Make Me Feel, Appreciate, And Enjoy Natural Objects For Their Art Value?
I Walk In The Garden, I Look At The Flowers And Shrubs And Trees And Discover In Them An Exquisiteness Of Contour, A Vitality Of Edge, Or A Vigour Of Spring, As Well As An Infinite Variety Of Colour That No Artefact I Have Seen In The Last Sixty Years Can Rival...each Day, As I Look, I Wonder Where My Eyes Were Yesterday.
Psychoanalysts Are Not Occupied With The Minds Of Their Patients; They Do Not Believe In The Mind But In A Cerebral Intestine.
