Color is the fruit of life.

We cannot carry our father's corpse with us everywhere we go.

I hate artists who are not of their time.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.

Paint with whatever material you please -- with pipes, postage stamps, postcards or playing cards, painted paper, or newspapers.

II
I'm no longer myself in here
I know
I'm number fifteen in the eleventh
Row.

Come to the edge.' 'We can't. We're afraid.' 'Come to the edge.' 'We can't. We will fall!' 'Come to the edge.' And they came. And he pushed them. And they flew.

Joy always came after pain.

Matisse renovates rather than innovates.

The plastic virtues: purity, unity, and truth, keep nature in subjection.

To insist on purity is to baptize instinct, to humanize art, and to deify personality.

Without artists, the sublime idea men have of the universe would collapse with dizzying speed.

Six mirrors keep staring at one another

(Monday rue Christine).

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death.

O my youth abandoned
Like a withered garland
Here comes the season
Of regret and reason.

Oh Paris

From red to green all the yellow dies away

Paris Vancouver Hyeres Maintenon New York and the Antilles

The window opens like an orange

The beautiful fruit of light

(Windows).

One can't carry one's father's corpse about everywhere.

People quickly grow accustomed to being the slaves of mystery.

It's raining womens voices as if they were dead even in memory.