I Criticise By Creation, Not By Finding

Love Lent Me Wings; My Path Was Like A Stair; A Lamp Unto My Feet, That Sun Was Given; And Death Was Safety And Great Joy To Find; But Dying Now, I Shall Not Climb To Heaven.

Painting And Sculpture, Labour And Good Faith, Have Been My Ruin And I Continually Go From Bad To Worse. Better It Would Have Been For Me If I Had Set Myself To Making Matches In My Youth. I Should Not Be In Such Distress Of Mind.

I Am A Poor Man And Of Little Worth, Who Is Laboring In That Art That God Has Given Me In Order To Extend My Life As Long As Possible.

If People Knew How Hard I Worked At My Art, They Would Not Consider Me A Genius.

The Greatest Artist Has No Conception Which A Single Block Of White Marble Does Not Potentially Contain Within Its Mass, But Only A Hand Obedient To The Mind Can Penetrate To This Image.