From day to day, the artist submits to the fatal rhythm of the impulses of the universal world that envelops him. Continuous center of sensations, ever flexible, hypnotized by the marvels of the nature that he loves, he scrutinizes; his eyes, like his soul, are in constant touch with the most fortuitous phenomena. He leans toward that communion which is sweet to him when he is a painter. How could he leave a state in which he delights and restrains himself to enter, like the scholar or the esthete, into generalization? He cannot: this action outside of himself is impossible to him. Do not ask him to be a prophet; he gives only his fruit; that is his function.