I Do Not Weep: I Loathe Tears,

My Figures Come And Go, Suggested By Fortune Or Misfortune. I Try To Fix Them Divested Of Their Apparent Accidental Quality.

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.

Politics Is A Subordinate Matter; Its Form Of Appearance Constantly Changes Depending On The Needs Of The Masses, The Same Way Cocottes Adjust To The Needs Of Men By Transforming And Masking Themselves. Because Of That It Is Not Fundamental. That Is About What Endures, What Is Unique, What Is In The Stream Of Illusions - What Is Eliminated From The Workings Of The Shadows.

Painting Constantly Appeared To Me As The One And Only Possible Achievement.

I Believe The Reason I Love Painting So Much Is That It Forces One To Be Objective.