Misery is the only thing in the world that has no end or edge.

An artist would not rise above the mediocrity if he condemns it.

The paintings that laughed at him merrily from the walls were like nothing he had ever seen or dreamed of. Gone were the flat, thin surfaces. Gone was the sentimental sobriety. Gone was the brown gravy in which Europe had been bathing its pictures for centuries. Here were pictures riotously mad with the sun. With light and air and throbbing vivacity. Paintings of ballet girls backstage, done in primitive reds, greens, and blues thrown next to each other irreverantly. He looked at the signature. Degas.

Story writers say that love is concerned only with young people, and the excitement and glamour of romance end at the altar. How blind they are. The best romance is inside marriage; the finest love stories come after the wedding, not before.

Sometimes men are generous and forgiving, sometimes angry and blind.

Drawing is the poet's written line, set down to see if there be a story worth telling, a truth worth revealing.

Nature always resists the artist at the beginning.