“Pain, pleasure and death are no more than a process for existence. The revolutionary struggle in this process is a doorway open to intelligence.”

I don’t know how to write love letters.

Of the opposite sex, I have the moustache and, in general, the face.

Painting completed my life. I lost three children and a series of other things that would have fulfilled my horrible life. My painting took the place of all of this. I think work is the best.

I love you more than my own skin.

Painting completed my life.

To paint is the most terrific thing that there is, but to do it well is very difficult.

Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic.

I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.

Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?

I want to be inside your darkest everything.

My toys were those of a boy: skates, bicycles.

Mankind owns its destiny, and its destiny is the earth. We are destroying it until we have no destiny.

I do not know whether my paintings are surrealist or not, but I do know that they are the frankest expression of myself.

I paint flowers so they will not die.

I find that Americans completely lack sensibility and good taste. They are boring, and they all have faces like unbaked rolls.

I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.

Because a woman brought death a bright Maiden overcame it, and so the highest blessing in all of creation lies in the form of a woman, since God has become man in a sweet and blessed Virgin.

The journey to limit crony capitalism: It’s a journey, it’s not a destination. Slowly but surely, in India, crony capitalism has died and governance is what brings about real growth.

I agree that faith is essential to success in life, but I do not accept your definition of faith, i.e. belief in life after death.

How strange when an illusion dies. It’s as though you’ve lost a child.

We must create our own world or we will die from inaction.

Dying without actually fully living, without waking up to our lives while we have the chance, is an ongoing and significant risk.

Men are born soft and supple; dead, they are stiff and hard. Plants are born tender and pliant; dead, they are brittle and dry. Thus whoever is stiff and inflexible is a disciple of death.

The things a man has to have are hope and confidence in himself against odds. And he must be ready to choose death before dishonor without making too much song and dance about it.