Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment. To such an extent indeed that one day, finding myself at the deathbed of a woman who had been and still was very dear to me, I caught myself in the act of focusing on her temples and automatically analyzing the succession of appropriately graded colors which death was imposing on her motionless face.

I work at my garden all the time and with love. What I need most are flowers, always. My heart is forever in Giverny.

The light constantly changes, and that alters the atmosphere and beauty of things every minute.

I am very depressed and deeply disgusted with painting. It is really a continual torture.

To see we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at.

Colors pursue me like a constant worry. They even worry me in my sleep.

As for myself, I met with as much success as I ever could have wanted. In other words, I was enthusiastically run-down by every critic of the period.