His letters ... have been like fine cold water when you are terribly thirsty.

One day a hummingbird flew in-- It fluttered against the window til I got it down where I could reach it with an open umbrella-- --When I had it in my hand it was so small I couldn't believe I had it--but I could feel the intense life--so intense and so tiny-- ...You were like the humming bird to me... And I am rather inclined to feel that you and I know the best part of one another without spending much time together-- --It is not that I fear the knowing-- It is that I am at this moment willing to let you be what you are to me--it is beautiful and pure and very intensely alive.

There's something about black. You feel hidden away in it.

A flower is relatively small... Still in a way-nobody sees a flower-so I said to myself-I'll paint it big.

War is killing the individual in it unless he has learned livingness - if he had it he wouldn't be a good soldier.

Happiness goes like the wind, but what is interesting stays.

I decided I was a very stupid fool not to at least paint as I wanted to.