“After tea it’s back to painting – a large poplar at dusk with a gathering storm. From time to time instead of this evening painting session I go bowling in one of the neighbouring villages, but not very often.”

Art is a line around your thoughts.

Even when I have to write a simple letter I’m scared stiff as if faced with looming seasickness.

There is no self-portrait of me.

There is nothing that special to see when looking at me. I’m a painter who paints day in day out, from morning till evening – figure pictures and landscapes, more rarely portraits.

True relaxation, which would do me the world of good, does not exist for me.

There is nothing that special to see when looking at me.

There is always hope, as long as the canvases are empty.

Although even when I am being idle I have plenty of food for thought both early and late – thoughts both about and not about art.

On my first days here I did not start work immediately but, as planned, I took it easy for a few days – flicked through books, studied Japanese art a little.

I can paint and draw. I believe this myself and a few other people say that they believe this too. But I’m not certain of whether it’s true.

Whoever wants to know something about me – as an artist which alone is significant – they should look attentively at my pictures and there seek to recognise what I am and what I want.

Sometimes I miss out the morning’s painting session and instead study my Japanese books in the open.

Well, well, he said. Five days a week isnt enough of me? Had to give me an evening, too?

A fellow ought to save a few of the long evenings he spends with his girl till after they’re married.

That evening she glowed. She gave off a vibration of energy that he suspected only he could detect.

The world gets better every day – then worse again in the evening.

The beauty of the morning and the radiance of noon are good, but it would be a very silly person who drew the curtains and turned on the light in order to shut out the tranquillity of the evening. Old age has its pleasures, which, though different, are not less than the pleasures of youth.

Illuminating and making glad again the dark clouds of life. It is the morning and the evening star, that in glad refulgence, there on the awed horizon, call Nature’s hearts to an uplifted rejoicing in God’s marvelous firmament!

Being human, she suffered from this lack and did what she could to make up for it. If she passed the evening bent over a table in the library and later declared that she had spent that time playing cards, it was as though she had managed to do both those things.

There are three reasons for becoming a writer: the first is that you need the money; the second that you have something to say that you think the world should know; the third is that you can’t think what to do with the long winter evenings.