When spiritual, metaphysical, material, or immaterial events come into my life, I can only fix them by way of painting.

The stronger and more intense my desire becomes to capture and record that which is unsayable, the more tightly my mouth stays shut.

I passed blindly many things which belong to real and political life.

The greatest mystery of all is reality.

I went across the fields to avoid the straight highways, along the firing lines where people were shooting at a small wooded hill, which is now covered with wooden crosses and lines of graves instead of spring flowers.

I hardly need to abstract things, for each object is unreal enough already, so unreal that I can only make it real by means of painting.

My heart beats more for a raw, average vulgar art, which doesn't live between sleepy fairy-tale moods and poetry but rather concedes a direct entrance to the fearful, commonplace, splendid and the average grotesque banality in life.