I Will Not Live Without

As Long As Autumn Lasts, I Shall Not Have Hands, Canvas And Colors Enough To Paint The Beautiful Things I See.

The More I Think About It, The More I Realize There Is Nothing More Artistic Than To Love Others.

But After All I Find In My Work An Echo Of What Struck Me. I See That Nature Has Told Me Something, Has Spoken To Me, And That I Have Put It Down In Shorthand. In My Shorthand There May Be Words That Cannot Be Deciphered. There May Be Mistakes Or Gap

As A Painter I Shall Never Signify Anything Of Importance. I Feel It Absolutely.

If Boyhood And Youth Are But Vanity, Must It Not Be Our Ambition To Become Men?