It is the childlike part of us that produces works of the imagination. When we were children time passed so slow with us that we seemed to have time for everything.

And the deeds that ye do upon this earth, it is for fellowship's sake that ye do them.

Death have we hated, knowing not what it meant; Life we have loved, through green leaf and through sere, Though still the less we knew of its intent.

My work is the embodiment of dreams in one form or another.

Another thing much too commonly seen, is an aberration of the human mind which otherwise I should have been ashamed to warn you of. It is technically called carpet-gardening. Need I explain it further? I had rather not, for when I think of it, even when I am quite alone, I blush with shame at the thought.

I have said as much as that the aim of art was to destroy the curse of labour by making work the pleasurable satisfaction of our impulse towards energy, and giving to that energy hope of producing something worth its exercise.

No pattern should be without some sort of meaning.