I was walking along a road one evening – on one side lay the city, and below me was the fjord. The sun went down – the clouds were stained red, as if with blood. I felt as though the whole of nature was screaming – it seemed as though I could hear a scream. I painted that picture, painting the clouds like real blood. The colours screamed.

I felt as if there were invisible threads connecting us - I felt the invisible strands of her hair still winding around me - and thus as she disappeared completely beyond the sea - I still felt it, felt the pain where my heart was bleeding - because the threads could not be severed.

Without fear and disease, my life would be like a boat without oars.

Without anxiety and illness I would have been like a ship without a rudder.

A person himself believes that all the other portraits are good likenesses except the one of himself.

I should have considered it wrong to have finished the Frieze before the room for its accommodation and the funds for its completion were available.

Some colors reconcile themselves to one another, others just clash.