I can paint and draw. I believe this myself and a few other people say that they believe this too. But I'm not certain of whether it's true.

I have the gift of neither the spoken nor the written word, especially if I have to say something about myself or my work. Whoever wants to know something about me -as an artist, the only notable thing- ought to look carefully at my pictures and try and see in them what I am and what I want to do.

Even when I have to write a simple letter I'm scared stiff as if faced with looming seasickness.

True relaxation, which would do me the world of good, does not exist for me.

Although even when I am being idle I have plenty of food for thought both early and late - thoughts both about and not about art.

There is always hope, as long as the canvases are empty.

After tea it's back to painting - a large poplar at dusk with a gathering storm. From time to time instead of this evening painting session I go bowling in one of the neighbouring villages, but not very often.