My Nervous System Is Enfeebled,

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

I Want To Die Painting.

The Landscape Thinks Itself In Me And I Am Its Consciousness.

I Must Be More Sensible And Realize That At My Age, Illusions Are Hardly Permitted And They Will Always Destroy Me.

Surely, A Single Bunch Of Carrots Painted Naively, Just As We Personally See It, Is Worth All The Endless Banalities Of The Schools, All Those Dreary Pictures Concocted Out Of Tobacco Juice According To Time-honored Formulas?