As long as autumn lasts, I shall not have hands, canvas and colors enough to paint the beautiful things I see.

I always think photographs abominable, and I don't like to have them around, particularly not those of persons I know and love. Those photographic portraits wither much sooner than we ourselves do, whereas the painted portrait is a thing which is felt, done with love.

Life is not long for anybody, and the problem is only to make something of it.

I am unable to describe exactly what is the matter with me; now and then there are horrible fits of anxiety, apparently without cause, or otherwise a feeling of emptiness and fatigue in the head.

How to achieve such anomalies, such alterations and re-fashionings of reality so what comes out of it are lies, if you like, but lies that are more than literal truth.

Both she and I have grief enough and trouble enough, but as for regrets – neither of us have any.

Exaggerate the essential, leave the obvious vague.