“I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.”

When I look at nature I feel as if I’ll be able to paint it all, note it all down, and then you might as well forget it once you’re working.

Without the fog, London would not be a beautiful city. It is fog that gives it its magnificent amplitude its regular and massive blocks become grandiose in that mysterious mantle.

It took me time to understand my water lilies. I had planted them for the pleasure of it; I grew them without ever thinking of painting them.

I would like to paint the way a bird sings.

The real subject of every painting is light.

For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at any moment.

My work is always better when I am alone and follow my own impressions.

When I work I forget all the rest.

Nature won’t be summoned to order and won’t be kept waiting. It must be caught, well caught.

I am very depressed and deeply disgusted with painting. It is really a continual torture.

I say that whoever claims to have finished a canvas is terribly arrogant.

I will bring lots of studies back with me so I can work on some big things at home.

While adding the finishing touches to a painting might appear insignificant, it is much harder to do than one might suppose.

Every day I discover more and more beautiful things. It’s enough to drive one mad. I have such a desire to do everything, my head is bursting with it.

I’ve been working so hard that I’m exhausted… I feel I won’t be able to do without a few weeks’ rest, so I’m going off to see the sea.

The point is to know how to use the colours, the choice of which is, when all’s said and done, a matter of habit.