The good conscience of these reds, these blues, their simple truthfulness, it educates you; and you stand among them as ready as possible, you get the impression that they are doing something for you. You also notice, a little more clearly each time, how necessary it was to go beyond love, too; it's natural, after all, to love each of these things as one makes it: but if one shows this, one makes it less well; one judges it instead of saying it. One ceases to be impartial; and the best – love – stays outside the work, does not enter it, is left aside, untranslated: that's how painting of moods came about (which is in no way better than the painting of things). They'd paint: I love this here; instead of painting: here it is. In which case everyone must see for himself whether or not I loved it. This is not shown at all, and some would even insist that it has nothing to do with love. The love is so thoroughly used up in the action of making that there is no residue.