Only reality interests me now and I know I could spend the rest of my life in copying a chair.

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.

If we master a bit of drawing, everything else is possible.

If I see everything in gray, and in gray all the colors which I experience and which I would like to reproduce, then why should I use any other color?

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

That's the terrible thing: the more one works on a picture, the more impossible it becomes to finish it.

All I can do will only ever be a faint image of what I see and my success will always be less than my failure or perhaps equal to the failure.