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

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.

Sometimes art seems to be something very sublime, and, as you say, something sacred.

Even the knowledge of my own fallibility cannot keep me from making mistakes. Only when I fall do I get up again.

Those Dutchmen had hardly any imagination or fantasy, but their good taste and their scientific knowledge of composition were enormous.

There is a sun, a light that for want of another word I can only call yellow, pale sulphur yellow, pale golden citron. How lovely yellow is!

The Mediterranean has the color of mackerel, changeable I mean. You don't always know if it is green or violet, you can't even say it's blue, because the next moment the changing reflection has taken on a tint of rose or gray.