The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.
Serene I fold my hands and wait.
One paints with one's head, not one's hand.
No thought is born in me that does not bear the image of death.
Is it any wonder, since, when near the fire, I was melted and burned, if now that it's extinguished outside me, it besets and consumes me inside, and bit by bit reduces me to ashes?
Faith in oneself is the best and safest course.