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.

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

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

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

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.

One of my problems is to find the self.

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