Why Work? The Gods Are

I Am Entering Into The Truth, Into Nature.

Night Is Here. All Is At Rest. My Eyes Close In Order To See Without Actually Understanding The Dream That Flees Before Men Infinite Space; And I Experience The Languorous Sensation Produced By The Mournful Procession Of My Hopes.

A Critic Is Someone Who Meddles With Something That Is None Of His Business.

And Here In My Isolation I Can Grow Stronger. Poetry Seems To Come Of Itself, Without Effort, And I Need Only Let Myself Dream A Little While Painting To Suggest It.

How To Re-light The Fire The Very Ashes Of Which Are Scattered?