The Flat Sound Of My Wooden Clogs

I Made A Promise To Keep A Watch Over Myself, To Remain Master Of Myself, So That I Might Become A Sure Observer.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

What Still Concerns Me The Most Is: Am I On The Right Track, Am I Making Progress, Am I Making Mistakes In Art?

Painting Is The Most Beautiful Of All Arts. In It, All Sensations Are Condensed, At Its Aspect Everyone May Create Romance At The Will Of His Imagination, And At A Glance Have His Soul Invaded By The Most Profound Memories, No Efforts Of Memory, Everything Summed Up In One Moment. Complete Art Which Sums Up All The Others And Completes Them.

In Europe Men And Women Have Intercourse Because They Love Each Other. In The South Seas They Love Each Other Because They Have Had Intercourse. Who Is Right?