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Your profession is not what brings home your weekly paycheck, your profession is what you're put here on earth to do, with such passion and such intensity that it becomes spiritual in calling.
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Love always brings difficulties, that is true, but the good side of it is that it gives energy.
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Someday death will take us to another star.
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We must not judge God from this world. It's just a study that didn't come off. It's only a master who could make such a blunder.
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In the fullness of artistic life there is, and remains, and will always come back at times, that homesick longing for the truly ideal life that can never come true.
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Let us keep courage and try to be patient and gentle. And let us not mind being eccentric, and make distinction between good and evil.
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What am I in most people's eyes? A nonentity or an eccentric and disagreeable man... I should want my work to show what is in the heart of such an eccentric, of such a nobody.
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A good painting should be the equivalent of a good deed.
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Conscience is a man's compass, and though the needle sometimes deviates, though one often perceives irregularities in directing one's course by it, still one must try to follow its direction.
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Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But whenever affection is revived, there life revives.
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Art, although produced by man's hands, is something not created by hands alone, but something which wells up from a deeper source out of our soul.....My sympathies in the literary as well as in the artistic field are drawn most strongly to those artists in whom I see most the working of the soul.
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I think that I still have it in my heart someday to paint a bookshop with the front yellow and pink in the evening...like a light in the midst of the darkness.
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We have very beautiful bad weather here at present - rain, wind, thunder - but with splendid effects; that's why I like it.
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To suffer without complaint is the only lesson we have to learn in this life
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I've just kept on ceaselessly painting in order to learn painting.
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I would like to leave this world and never return. I severed my ear, but how I wish that I had severed my heart. I shall never amount to anything.
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I do not know myself how I paint it. I sit down with a white board before the spot that strikes me. I look at what is before my eyes, and say to myself, that white board must become something.
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That I was not suited to commerce or academic study in no way proves that I should also be unfit to be a painter.
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We feel lonely now and then and long for friends and think we should be quite different and happier if we found a friend of whom we might say: βHe is the one.β But you, too, will begin to learn that there is much self-deception behind this longing; if we yielded too much to it, it would lead us from the road.
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Ah, Manet has come very, very close to it and Courbet - the marrying of form and colour.
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Perhaps someday everyone will have neurosis.
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I shouldn't precisely have chosen madness if there had been any choice, but once such a thing has taken hold of you, you can't very well get out of it.
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I am a man of passions, capable of and subject to doing more or less foolish things- which I happen to regret, more or less, afterwards.
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In the end we shall have had enough of cynicism, skepticism and humbug, and we shall want to live more musically.