How Can This World, Which

Take Hold Of Objects By Their Centres, Not By Their Lines Of Contour... The Contour Accentuated Uniformly And Beyond Proportion, Destroys Plasticity, Bringing Forward Those Parts Of An Object Which Are Always Most Distant From The Eye - Namely Its Outlines.

As For The Ridiculous Fear Of Making Things Below One's Potential Abilities... No, There Is The Root Of The Evil. There Is The Hiding Place Of Stupidity I Must Attack: Vain Mortal, You Are Limited By Nothing.

The Artist Who Aims At Perfection In Everything Achieves It In Nothing.

Nourish Yourself With Grand And Austere Ideas Of Beauty That Feed The Soul Seek Solitude.

The True Wisdom Of The Philosopher Ought To Insist In Enjoying Everything. Yet We Apply Ourselves To Dissecting And Destroying Everything That Is Good In Itself, That Has Virtue, Albeit The Virtue There Is In Mere Illusions. Nature Gives Us This Life Like A Toy To A Weak Child. We Want To See How It All Works; We Break Everything. There Remains In Our Hands, And Before Our Eyes, Stupid And Opened Too Late, The Sterile Wreckage, Fragments That Will Not Again Make A Whole. The Good Is So Simple.