There Are Occasions When The General Belief

You Worthy Critics, Or Whatever You May Call Yourselves, Are Ashamed Or Afraid Of The Momentary And Passing Madness Which Is Found In All Real Creators, The Longer Or Shorter Duration Of Which Distinguishes The Thinking Artist From The Dreamer. Hence Your Complaints Of Unfruitfulness, For You Reject Too Soon And Discriminate Too Severely.

Utility Is The Great Idol Of The Age, To Which All Powers Must Do Service And All Talents Swear Allegiance. In This Great Balance Of Utility, The Spiritual Service Of Art Has No Weight, And, Deprived Of All Encouragement, It Vanishes From The Noisy Vanity Fair Of Our Time.

There Are Evil Spirits Who Suddenly Fix Their Abode In Man's Unguarded Breast, Causing Us To Commit Devilish Deeds, And Then, Hurrying Back To Their Native Hell, Leave Behind The Stings Of Remorse In The Poisoned Bosom.

Stern Is The Visage Of Necessity.

No Doubt The Artist Is The Child Of His Time; But Woe To Him If He Is Also Its Disciple, Or Even Its Favorite.