I like going from one lighted room to another, such is my brain to me; lighted rooms.

How then did it work out, all this? How did one judge people, think of them? How did one add up this and that and conclude that it is liking one felt, or disliking?

All artists need a room of their own

Tom's great yellow bronze mask all draped upon an iron framework. An inhibited, nerve-drawn; dropped face - as if hung on a scaffold of heavy private brooding; and thought.

It is probable that both in life and in art the values of a woman are not the values of a man.

Thoughts without words… Can that be?

But when we sit together, close,’ said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.