Oh yes! He loved yellow, did good Vincent...When the two of us were together in Arles, both of us insane, and constantly at war over beautiful colors, I adored red; where could I find a perfect vermilion?

There are two sorts of beauty; one is the result of instinct, the other of study. A combination of the two, with the resulting modifications, brings with it a very complicated richness, which the art critic ought to try to discover.

There is always a heavy demand for fresh mediocrity. In every generation the least cultivated taste has the largest appetite.

But I owe something to Vincent, and that is, in the consciousness of having been useful to him, the confirmation of my own original ideas about painting. And also, at difficult moments, the remembrance that one finds others unhappier than oneself.

Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.

Machines have come, art has fled, and I am far from thinking photography can help us.

Nothing so resembles a daub as a masterpiece.