Art is but imitation of nature.

I think that I still have it in my heart someday to paint a bookshop with the front yellow and pink in the evening...like a light in the midst of the darkness.

How can I be useful, of what service can I be? There is something inside me, what can it be?

Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum.

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

In an artist's life, death is perhaps not the most difficult thing.

The emotions are sometimes so strong that I work without knowing it. The strokes come like speech.