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

All art is a memory of age-old things, dark things, whose fragments live on in the artist.

A line is a dot that went for a walk.

The artist of today is more than an improved camera, he is more complex, richer, and wider. He is a creature on the earth and a creature within the whole, that is, a creature on a star among stars.

You adapt yourself to the contents of the paintbox.

To emphasize only the beautiful seems to me to be like a mathematical system that only concerns itself with positive numbers.

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