I Am Working Here (in Amsterdam) On

Painting Is A Very Difficult Thing. It Absorbs The Whole Man, Body And Soul, Thus Have I Passed Blindly Many Things Which Belong To Real And Political Life.

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.

I Have Never, God Or Whatever Knows, Prostrated Myself To Be Famous, But I Would Meander Through All The Sewers Of The World, Through All Degradations And Humiliations, In Order To Paint. I Have To Do This. Until The Last Drop Every Vision That Exists In My Being Must Be Purged; Then It Will Be A Pleasure For Me To Be Rid Of This Damned Torture

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!

One Of My Problems Is To Find The Ego, Which Has Only One Form And Is Immortal - To Find It In Animals And Men, In The Heaven And In The Hell Which Together Form The World In Which We Live.