The greatest mystery of all is reality.

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

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

What matters is real love for things of the world outside us and for the deep secrets within us.

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 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.

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