My sketchbook is a witness of what I am experiencing, scribbling things whenever they happen.

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

Great things are not something accidental, but must certainly be willed.

We are having wind and rain here, and I am very glad not to be alone. I work from memory on bad days, and that would not do if I were alone.

The uglier, older, meaner, iller, poorer I get, the more I wish to take my revenge by doing brilliant color, well arranged, resplendent.

The diseases that we civilized people labor under most are melancholy and pessimism.

I shouldn't precisely have chosen madness if there had been any choice, but once such a thing has taken hold of you, you can't very well get out of it.