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

The thing has already taken form in my mind before I start it. The first attempts are absolutely unbearable. I say this because I want you to know that if you see something worthwhile in what I am doing, it is not by accident but because of real direction and purpose.

It seems to me it's a painter's duty to try to put an idea into his work.

I use color in a completely arbitrary way in order to express myself powerfully.

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.

Bookstores always remind me that there are good things in this world.

But for one's health as you say, it is very necessary to work in the garden and see the flowers growing.