‘Alas, what are you after all my written and painted thoughts! It was not long ago that you were still so colorful, young, and malicious, full of thorns and secret spices–you made me sneeze and laugh–and now? You have already taken off your novelty, and some of you are ready, I fear, to become truths: they already look so immortal, so pathetically decent, so dull. And has it ever been different? What things do we copy, writing and painting, we mandarins with Chinese brushes, we immortalizers of things that can be written–what are the only things we are able to paint? Alas, always only what is on the verge of withering and losing its fragrance! Alas, always only storms that are passing, exhausted, and feelings that are autumnal and yellow! Alas, always only birds that grew weary of flying and flew astray and now can be caught by our hand! We immortalize what cannot live and fly much longer–only weary and mellow things! And it is only your afternoon, you, my written and painted thoughts, for which I alone have colors, many colors perhaps, many motley browns and greens and reds: but nobody will guess from it how you looked in your morning, you sudden sparks and wonders of my solitude, you my old beloved–wicked thoughts.’