* 
The mortal forms of love dance on this side of eternity, and 
the name of nature sums up their accursed discipline. 
♦ 
♦ ♦ 
The flame is the symbol of painting, and the three plastic 
virtues radiate in burning. 
The flame is of a purity which tolerates nothing alien, and 
cruelly transforms in its own image that which it touches. 
The flame has a magic unity—if it is divided, each spark is 
like unto the single flame. 
It has, finally, the sublime truth of its own light, which nobody 
can deny. 
♦ 
♦ ♦ 
In spite of natural forces the virtuous artist painters of this 
occidental epoch contemplate their purity. 
It is forgetfulness after study. And, if a pure artist should 
ever die it would be necessary that all those of the past ages 
should not have existed. 
In the Occident, painting purifies itself with this ideal logic 
which the old painters have transmitted to the new as if they had 
given them life. 
And that is all. 
One lives in delight, another in pain; some devour their 
heritage, others become rich, and still others have nothing but 
life. 
And fhat is all. 
No one can carry his father’s body about everywhere with 
him. He abandons it to the company of the other dead. And 
he remembers it, regrets it, speaks of it with admiration. And, 
if he becomes a father himself, he must not expect any of his 
children to multiply themselves for the life of his corpse. 
But, it is in vain that our feet detach themselves from the soil 
which holds the dead. 
To contemplate purity is to baptise instinct, to humanize art, 
and to deify personality. 
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