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How lovely yellow is! It stands for the sun.
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Life itself, too, is forever turning an infinitely vacant, dispiriting blank side towards man on which nothing appears, any more than it does on a blank canvas. But no matter how vacant and vain, how dead life may appear to be, the man of faith, of energy, of warmth, who knows something, will not be put off so easily.
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So let us go forward quietly, each on his own path, forever making for the light.
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There is a sun, a light that for want of another word I can only call yellow, pale sulphur yellow, pale golden citron. How lovely yellow is!
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As a painter I shall never signify anything of importance. I feel it Absolutely.
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Do you know that drawing with words is also an art... ?
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There was a sentence in your letter that struck me, “I wish I were far away from everything, I am the cause of all, and bring only sorrow to everybody, I alone have brought all this misery on myself and others.” These words struck me because that same feeling, just the same, not more nor less, is also on my conscience.
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One must learn to read, just as one must learn to see and learn to live.
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As practice makes perfect, I cannot but make progress; each drawing one makes, each study one paints, is a step forward.
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It is the painting that makes me so happy these days.
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Here everything is so wholly what I consider beautiful. In other words, there is peace here.
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One must spoil as many canvases as one succeeds with.
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I myself am quite absorbed by the delicate yellow, delicate soft green, delicate violet of a ploughed and weeded piece of soil.
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What preys on my mind is simply this one question: what am I good for, could I not be of service or use in some way?
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I am a fanatic! I feel a power within me...a fire that I may not quench, but must keep ablaze.
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If you end up falling in love with someone, it's because of them. If you end up hating someone, it's because of you.
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To do good work one must eat well, be well housed, have one's fling from time to time, smoke one's pipe, and drink one's coffee in peace
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I feel the need of relations and friendship, of affection, of friendly intercourse.... I cannot miss these things without feeling, as does any other intelligent man, a void and a deep need.
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You can feel the stars and the infinity of the sky since life, in spite of everything, is like a dream.
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Occasionally, in times of worry, I've longed to be stylish, but on second thought I say no-just let me be myself-and express rough, yet true things with rough workmanship.
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To try to understand the real significance of what the great artists, the serious masters, tell us in their masterpieces, that leads to God; one man wrote or told it in a book; another, in a picture.
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I believe that one thinks much more soundly if the thoughts arise from direct contact with things, than if one looks at things with the aim of finding this or that in them.
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For great things do not done just happen by impulse but are a succession of small things linked together.
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We are surrounded by poetry on all sides.