. . . colors like a flourish of trumpets or pianissimo on the violin, great, calm, oscillating, splintered surgances . . . . Is this not form?

Inspiration is an awakening, a quickening of all man's faculties, and it is manifested in all high artistic achievements.

Art is a kind of illness.

Inspiration is an awakening, a quickening of all man's faculties, and it is manifested in all high artistic achievements.

Cold calculation, random spots of color, mathematically exact construction (clearly shown or concealed), drawing that is now silent and now strident . . . . Is this not form?

The reader of these Memoirs will discover that I never had any fixed aim before my eyes, and that my system, if it can be called a system, has been to glide away unconcernedly on the stream of life, trusting to the wind wherever it led.