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?

It is only too true that a lot of artists are mentally ill - it's a life which, to put it mildly, makes one an outsider. I'm all right when I completely immerse myself in work, but I'll always remain half crazy.

The more you love, the more you suffer.

If you work with love and intelligence, you develop a kind of armour against people's opinions, just because of the sincerity of your love for nature and art. Nature is also severe and, to put it that way, hard, but never deceives and always helps you to move forward.

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.

And in a picture I want to say something comforting, as music is comforting.

To express a marriage of two complementary colors, their mingling and their opposition, the mysterious vibrations of kindred tones.