... there is a skeleton (or death) that flees terrified in the face of my will to live.

I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

It was worthwhile to come here only to see why Europe is rottening, why all this people - good for nothing - are the cause of all the Hitlers and Mussolinis.

I leave you my portrait so that you will have my presence all the days and nights that I am away from you.

I paint flowers to prevent them from dying

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s - my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.

Surrealism is the magical surprise of finding a lion in a wardrobe, where you were 'sure' of finding shirts.