Winter was made for hard earnest working; spring was made for love-making; summer for play time; while autumn, was for romance.
One expects at any moment in a wind like this to see the dissolving heaven part and reveals to us some of the secrets of this life. What is in the wind?
The season has arrived when it is my custom to finish up pictures and frame them for the Fall season in New York. No sooner do I start to turn my mind to the many problems arising from this activity, than at once I am filled with regret, for the scenes and natural events pertaining to the September season which I must necessarily forego.
The beauty of Thoreau’s thoughts increases for me every time I open the book. I anticipate reading his Spring, Summer + Winter almost as much as I anticipate an early morning walk in the Dutchman’s.
Nature, having given us a sip of her perfect weather, is now brewing for us a draught that will not perhaps be so pleasing but without which the former would not be so pleasing.
And so do my impressions of childhood evade me. Of late there have been rare instances when childhood impressions would flash across my mind—it is not that I wish to go back, or mourn for the past. I only wish I might look at nature new as I did then, with a mind steeped in fairy tales and illusions
Finally I abandon my poster and make a sketch! I got much more than the sketch. I realized that is what I loved—this seeking to put down my impression of things.
...I said I wanted to paint scenes, expecting a storm. She said, “Then you’re going to be an artist?” I said “yes.” She said, “Here I thought you were going to be a designer,”
To be alive – to be a member of the human race –
Dream at dawn: Out in the country by an abandoned house. Suddenly in the north appeared a great flock of eagles...