We will enjoy ourselves with the forms that are given us: a human face, a hand, the breast of a woman or the body of a man, a glad or sorrowful expression, the infinite seas, the wild rocks, the melancholy language of the black trees in the snow, the wild strength of spring flowers and the heavy lethargy of a hot summer day when Pan, our old friend, sleeps and the ghosts of midday whisper. This alone is enough to make us forget the grief of the world, or to give it form.

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

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

Painting constantly appeared to me as the one and only possible achievement.

The greatest mystery of all is reality.

What I want to show in my work is the idea which hides itself behind so-called reality.