Each of us has his own alphabet with which to create poetry.

He had always loved God. In his darkest hours he cried out, "God did not create us to abandon us.

...and rout the magical mystical moonlight with fierce proof of its own greater power to light, to heat, to make everything known.

Our secret thoughts - do they ever show up? The small flame of our soul can be burning hot, but no one comes to its warmth. Passersby see only a small whiff going through the chimney. Don't we need to take care of that flame, cherish it and patiently wait until someone will come and sit at it, do we?

He who loves lives, he who lives works, and he who works has bread.

Reading has always been the largest and most irreplaceable pleasure for Vincent; reading about other people's successes and failures, joys and sufferings seemed to bury his own failures.

To be an artist is first to be a manual laborer.