I know dock leaves pretty well, but I should not attempt to introduce them into a picture without having them before me.
My art flatters nobody by imitation; it courts nobody by smoothness, tickles nobody by petiteness... there is no finish in nature.
The sound of water escaping from mill dams, etc., willows, old rotten planks, slimy posts, and brickwork, I love such things.
All my indispositions have their source in my mind. It is when I am restless and unhappy that I become susceptible of cold, damp, heats, and such nonsense.
Whatever may be thought of my art, it is my own; and I would rather possess a freehold, though but a cottage, than live in a palace belonging to another.
