A Person Himself Believes That All The

My Father Was Temperamentally Nervous And Obsessively Religious—to The Point Of Psychoneurosis. From Him I Inherited The Seeds Of Madness. The Angels Of Fear, Sorrow, And Death Stood By My Side Since The Day I Was Born.

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

A Person Himself Believes That All The Other Portraits Are Good Likenesses Except The One Of Himself.

I Felt As If There Were Invisible Threads Connecting Us - I Felt The Invisible Strands Of Her Hair Still Winding Around Me - And Thus As She Disappeared Completely Beyond The Sea - I Still Felt It, Felt The Pain Where My Heart Was Bleeding - Because The Threads Could Not Be Severed.

It Would Be Quite Amusing To Preach A Bit To All Those People Who For Many Years Now Have Been Looking At Our Paintings And Either Laughed Or Shook Their Heads Reproachfully. They Do Not Believe That These Impressions, These Instant Sensations, Could Contain Even The Smallest Grain Of Sanity. If A Tree Is Red Or Blue, Or A Face Is Blue Or Green, They Are Sure That Is Insanity.