...to look at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots of a map representing towns and villages. Why, I ask myself, should the shining dots of the sky not be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?

Paintings have a life of their own that derives from the painter's soul.

For me work is an absolute necessity, indeed I can't really drag it out, I take no more pleasure in anything than in work, that's to say, pleasure in other things stops immediately and I become melancholy if I can't get on with the work.

How rich art is, if one can only remember what one has seen, one is never empty of thoughts or truly lonely, never alone.

In trees, I see expression and soul

And when I read, and really I do not read so much, only a few authors, - a few men that I discovered by accident - I do this because they look at things in a broader, milder and more affectionate way than I do, and because they know life better, so that I can learn from them.

For myself, I declare I don't know anything about it. But the sight of the stars always makes me dream.