Every time I start a picture. . . I feel the same fear, the same self-doubts. . . and I have only one source on which I can draw, because it comes from within me.
Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it - as at last I did, thank Heaven! - and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn.