It was always disappointing to see that what I could really master in terms of form boiled down to so little.

I see something, find it marvelous, want to try and do it. Whether it fails or whether it comes off in the end becomes secondary. . . . So long as I've learned something about why.

If only someone else could paint what I see, it would be marvellous, because then I wouldnt have to paint at all.

I don't know if I work in order to do something, or in order to know why I can't do what I want to do.

The one thing that fills me with enthusiasm is to try, despite everything, to get nearer to those visions that seem so hard to express.

The human face is as strange to me as a countenance, which, the more one looks at it, the more it closes itself off and escapes by the steps of unknown stairways.

The older I grow, the more I find myself alone.