“I’m knocked out, I’ve never felt so physically and mentally exhausted, I’m quite stupid with it and long only for bed; but I am happy.”

When it is dark, it seems to me as if I were dying, and I can’t think any more.

I despise the opinion of the press and the so-called critics.

I’ve said it before and can only repeat that I owe everything to Boudin and I attribute my success to him. I came to be fascinated by his studies, the products of what I call instantaneity.

I would advise young artists to paint as they can, as long as they can, without being afraid of painting badly.

What I need most of all is color, always, always.

My heart is forever in Giverny.

I do what I can to convey what I experience before nature and most often, in order to succeed in conveying what I feel, I totally forget the most elementary rules of painting, if they exist that is.

I’m never finished with my paintings; the further I get, the more I seek the impossible and the more powerless I feel.

Nothing in the whole world is of interest to me but my painting and my flowers.

Perhaps it’s true that I’m very hard on myself, but that’s better than exhibiting mediocre work… too few were satisfactory enough to trouble the public with.

I’ve only myself to blame for it, my impotence most of all and my weakness. If I do any good work now it will be only by chance.

I didn’t become an impressionist. As long as I can remember I always have been one.

I’m in fine fettle and fired with a desire to paint.

These landscapes of water and reflection have become an obsession.

Lots of people will protest that it’s quite unreal and that I’m out of my mind, but that’s just too bad.

I’m enjoying the most perfect tranquillity, free from all worries, and in consequence would like to stay this way forever, in a peaceful corner of the countryside like this.

Everyday is a new fresh start. To go straight back to bed.

We laid in bed with our hands tied, talked about love and clear, summer skies.

There is nothing wrong with going to bed with someone of your own sex. People should be very free with sex, they should draw the line at goats.

You can find shame in every house, burning in an ashtray, hanging framed upon a wall, covering a bed. But nobody notices it any more.

Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die.

And so she remained a mystery, something to dream about on rainy days staring at the dark holly clouds passing by. – in a bed of flowers.

And here I am, dying in my bed, like cattle die. May the eyes of cowards never sleep.

Don’t take tomorrow to bed with you.