In my childhood I always felt that I was treated unjustly, without a mother, sick, and with the threat of punishment in Hell hanging over my head

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

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

I was walking along a path with two friends - the sun was setting - suddenly the sky turned blood red - I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence - there was blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city - my friends walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety - and I sensed an infinite scream passing through nature.

This kind of painting with its large frames is a bourgeois drawing-room art. It is an art dealer's art-and that came in after the civil wars following the French Revolution.

I don’t believe in an art that is not born out of man’s need to open his heart.

Death is pitch-dark, but colors are light. To be a painter, one must work with rays of light.