I Confess That I Have

We Think According To Nature. We Speak According To Rules. We Act According To Custom.

You See, Painting Has Now Become, Or All Art Has Now Become Completely A Game, By Which Man Distracts Himself. What Is Fascinating Actually Is, That It's Going To Become Much More Difficult For The Artist, Because He Must Really Deepen The Game To Become Any Good At All.

Nothing Is More Pleasant To The Eye Than Green Grass Kept Finely Shorn.

Time Is The Author Of Authors.

I Would By All Means Have Men Beware, Lest Æsop's Pretty Fable Of The Fly That Sate [sic] On The Pole Of A Chariot At The Olympic Races And Said, 'what A Dust Do I Raise,' Be Verified In Them. For So It Is That Some Small Observation, And That Disturbed Sometimes By The Instrument, Sometimes By The Eye, Sometimes By The Calculation, And Which May Be Owing To Some Real Change In The Heaven, Raises New Heavens And New Spheres And Circles.