I still come closest to success with drawing.

I paint in order not to cry.

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

Each energy calls for its complementary energy to achieve self-contained stability based on the play of energies.

My hand is entirely the implement of a distant sphere. It is not my head that functions but something else, something higher, something somewhere remote. I must have great friends there, dark as well as bright. They are all very kind to me.

The more horrible this world (as today, for instance), the more abstract our art, whereas a happy world brings forth an art of the here and now.

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.