I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.
I confess I do not know why, but looking at the stars always makes me dream.
For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.
I don't know anything with certainty, but seeing the stars makes me dream.
I experience a period of frightening clarity in those moments when nature is so beautiful. I am no longer sure of myself, and the paintings appear as in a dream.
You can feel the stars and the infinity of the sky since life, in spite of everything, is like a dream.
For myself, I declare I don't know anything about it. But the sight of the stars always makes me dream.
I always dream a painting like that, with a group of lively figures of the pals.
...to look at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots of a map representing towns and villages. Why, I ask myself, should the shining dots of the sky not be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?
The sight of stars always sets me dreaming just as naively as those black dots on a map set me dreaming of towns and villages. Why should these points of light in the firmament, I wonder, be less accessible than the dark ones on the map of France? We take a train to go to Torascon or Roven and we take death to a star.
The sight of stars makes me dream.
The best pictures are always those one dreams of when one is smoking a pipe in bed, but which never get done. But still one ought to try, however incompetent one may feel before the unspeakable perfection and radiant splendour of nature.
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