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coexistences, it is impossible to conceive of them at one and the 
same time, and death is the result of their juxtaposition, of their 
mingling, of their love. 
Each divinity creates after his own image: so too, the painters. 
And it is only photographers who manufacture reproductions of 
nature. 
♦ 
♦ ♦ 
Neither purity nor unity count without the truth, which can 
not be compared to reality, since truth is always the same, out 
side all nature, which exerts itself to hold us within the fatal 
order of things wherein we are only animals. 
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♦ 
♦ ♦ 
Above all, artists are men who wish to become inhuman. 
They seek painfully the traces of inhumanity, traces which are 
never found in nature. 
These are the real truths, and beyond them we know no reality. 
♦ 
♦ ♦ 
But reality is never discovered once and for all. The truth 
will always be new. 
Otherwise, truth would be a system even more miserable than 
nature. 
In this case, the deplorable truth, every day more distant, less 
distinct, less real, would reduce painting to a state of plastic 
writing destined simply to facilitate the relations between peo 
ples of the same race. 
In our day, a machine would quickly be invented which with 
out comprehension reproduced such signs. 
II 
Many of the new painters paint only pictures which have no 
actual subject. And the titles which one finds in the catalogues 
play merely the role of the names which designate men without 
characterising them.