Since visiting the abatoirs of S. France I have stopped eating meat.

I see drawings and pictures in the poorest huts, in the dirtiest corner. And my mind is drawn toward these things by an irresistible force.

The great isn't something accidental; it must be willed.

I feel a certain calm. There is safety in the midst of danger. What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?

I want to get to the point where people say of my work, that man feels deeply.

Christ alone, of all the philosophers, magicians, etc., has affirmed eternal life as the most important certainty, the infinity of time, the futility of death, the necessity and purpose of serenity and devotion. He lived serenely, as an artist greater than all other artists, scorning marble and clay and paint, working in the living flesh. In other words, this peerless artist, scarcely conceivable with the blunt instrument of our modern, nervous and obtuse brains, made neither statues nor paintings nor books. He maintained in no uncertain terms that he made ... living men, immortals.

I know for sure that I have an instinct for color, and that it will come to me more and more, that painting is in the very marrow of my bones.