It astonishes me already when I compare my condition today with what it was a month ago. Before that I knew well enough one could fracture one's legs and arms and recover afterward, but I did not know that you could fracture the brain in your head and recover from that too.

Well, I dare not allow myself any illusions, and I am afraid it may never happen that Father and Mother will really appreciate my art. It is not their fault; we do not see the same things with the same eyes, or have the same thoughts raised in us by them. They will never be able to understand what painting is.

Be clearly aware of the stars and infinity on high. Then life seems almost enchanted after all.

My brushwork is quite unsystematic. I slam the paint on in all sorts of ways and leave each result to take care of itself.

If I succeed in putting some warmth and love into the work, then it will find friends. Carrying on working is the

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.

I never get tired of the blue sky.