One Of My Problems Is

The Metaphysics Of Substance. The Strange Feeling Which Comes Over Us When We Sense: This Is Skin - This Is Bone - All In A Single Vision That Is Completely Unearthly. The Dreaminess Of Our Existence Mixed At The Same Time With The Indescribably Sweet Illusion Of Reality.

Art Is Creative For The Sake Of Realization, Not For Amusement... For Transfiguration, Not For The Sake Of Play.

Colour, As The Strange And Magnificent Expression Of The Inscrutable Spectrum Of Eternity, Is Beautiful And Important To Me As A Painter; I Use It To Enrich The Canvas And To Probe More Deeply Into The Object. Colour Also Decided, To A Certain Extent, My Spiritual Outlook, But It Is Subordinated To Life, And Above All, To The Treatment Of Form. Too Much Emphasis On Colour At The Expense Of Form And Space Would Make A Double Manifestation Of Itself On The Canvas, And This Would Verge On Craft Work.

I Went Across The Fields To Avoid The Straight Highways, Along The Firing Lines Where People Were Shooting At A Small Wooded Hill, Which Is Now Covered With Wooden Crosses And Lines Of Graves Instead Of Spring Flowers.

I Do Not Weep: I Loathe Tears, For They Are A Sign Of Slavery.