The Greatest Mystery Of All Is Reality.

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.

It Was So Wonderful Outside That Even The Wild Senselessness Of This Enormous Death, Whose Music I Hear Again And Again, Could Not Disturb Me From My Great Enjoyment!

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

One Of My Problems Is To Find The Self.

We Will Enjoy Ourselves With The Forms That Are Given Us: A Human Face, A Hand, The Breast Of A Woman Or The Body Of A Man, A Glad Or Sorrowful Expression, The Infinite Seas, The Wild Rocks, The Melancholy Language Of The Black Trees In The Snow, The Wild Strength Of Spring Flowers And The Heavy Lethargy Of A Hot Summer Day When Pan, Our Old Friend, Sleeps And The Ghosts Of Midday Whisper. This Alone Is Enough To Make Us Forget The Grief Of The World, Or To Give It Form.