Death Is Pitch-dark, But Colors Are Light.

I Sense A Scream Passing Through Nature. I Painted ... The Clouds As Actual Blood. The Colour Shrieked.

A Work Of Art Comes Only From Inside A Human Being.

I Have Been Given A Unique Role To Play On This Earth: Given To Me By A Life Filled With Sickness, Ill-starred Circumstances And My Profession As An Artist. It Is A Life That Contains Nothing That Resembles Happiness, And Moreover Does Not Even Desire Happiness.

Through My Art I Have Tried To Explain My Life And Its Meaning. I Have Also Intended To Help Others To Clarify Their Lives.

The Rich Man Who Gives, Steals Twice Over. First He Steals The Money And Then The Hearts Of Men.