One of my problems is to find the self.

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 am seeking for the bridge which leans from the visible to the invisible through reality.

Love in an animal sense is an illness, but a necessity which one has to overcome.

One of my problems is to find the self.

I think only of objects: of a leg or an arm, of the wonderful sense of foreshortening, breaking through the plane, of the division of space, of the combination of straight lines in relation to curved ones.

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.