I painted the picture, and in the colors the rhythm of the music quivers. I painted the colors I saw.

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.

The notes I have made are not a diary in the ordinary sense, but partly lengthy records of my spiritual experiences, and partly poems in prose.

I was walking down the road with two friends when the sun set; suddenly, the sky turned as red as blood. I stopped and leaned against the fence, feeling unspeakably tired. Tongues of fire and blood stretched over the bluish black fjord. My friends went on walking, while I lagged behind, shivering with fear. Then I heard the enormous infinite scream of nature.

When I paint, I never think of selling. People simply fail to understand that we paint in order to experiment and to develop ourselves as we strive for greater heights.

One can easily tell that the creator of the paintings in the Sistine Chapel was above all a sculptor

I sense a scream passing through nature. I painted ... the clouds as actual blood. The colour shrieked.