I want to be as though new-born, knowing nothing, absolutely nothing about Europe.

Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off. My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.

I want to be as though new-born, knowing nothing, absolutely nothing. Then I want to do something modest; to work out by myself a tiny, formal motive, one that my pencil will be able to hold without technique.

Everything vanishes round me and good works rise from me of their own accord.

A line comes into being. It goes out for a walk, so to speak, aimlessly for the sake of the walk.

Art should be like a holiday: something to give a man the opportunity to see things differently and to change his point of view.

Nature is garrulous to the point of confusion, let the artist be truly taciturn.