For As Long As I Can Remember

To Die Is As If One's Eyes Had Been Put Out And One Cannot See Anything Any More. Perhaps It Is Like Being Shut In A Cellar. One Is Abandoned By All. They Have Slammed The Door And Are Gone. One Does Not See Anything And Notices Only The Damp Smell Of Putrefaction.

What Is Art? Art Grows From Joy And Sorrow, But Mostly From Sorrow. It Grows From Human Lives.

In My Childhood I Always Felt That I Was Treated Unjustly, Without A Mother, Sick, And With The Threat Of Punishment In Hell Hanging Over My Head

This Kind Of Painting With Its Large Frames Is A Bourgeois Drawing-room Art. It Is An Art Dealer's Art-and That Came In After The Civil Wars Following The French Revolution.

But Can They [great Works] Get Rid Of The Worm That Lies Gnawing At The Roots Of My Heart? No, Never.