I feel a certain calm. There is safety in the midst of danger. What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?

What I need is courage, and this often fails me. And it is also a fact that since my disease, when I am in the fields I am overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness to such a horrible extent that I shy away from going out. But this will change all the same as time goes on. Only when I stand a painting before my easel do I feel somewhat alive. Never mind, this is going to change too, for now my health is so good that I suppose the physical part of me will gain the victory.

If one keeps loving faithfully what is really worth loving, and does not waste one's love on insignificant and unworthy and meaningless things, one will get more light by and by and grow stronger.

The only thing to do is to go one's own way, to try one's best, to make the thing live.

Just slap something on it when you see a blank canvas staring at you with a sort of imbecility.

If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.

But after all I find in my work an echo of what struck me. I see that nature has told me something, has spoken to me, and that I have put it down in shorthand. In my shorthand there may be words that cannot be deciphered. There may be mistakes or gap