Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well.
It is better to be high-spirited even though one makes more mistakes, than to be narrow-minded and all to prudent.
It is not the language of painters but the language of nature which one should listen to. . . . The feeling for the things themselves, for reality, is more important than the feeling for pictures.
But I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.
Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.
I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people
I put my heart and my soul into my work, and have lost my mind in the process.
I wish they would only take me as I am.
In spite of everything I shall rise again: I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing
As we advance in life, it becomes more and more difficult, but in fighting the difficulties, the inmost strength of the heart is developed.
Happiness: it lies in the joy of achievement, in the thrill of creative effort.
I can very well do without God both in my life and in my painting, but I cannot, suffering as I am, do without something which is greater than I, which is my life - the power to create
I cannot help it that my pictures do not sell. Nevertheless the time will come when people will see that they are worth more than the price of the paint.
I dream my painting, and then I paint my dream
If one is master of one thing and understands one thing well, one has at the same time, insight into and understanding of many things
Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map. Why, I ask myself, shouldn't the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?
Love is something eternal; the aspect may change, but not the essence.
One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever come to sit by it. Passersby see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on the way
There is the same difference in a person before and after he is in love as between an unlighted lamp and one that is burning. The lamp was there and it was a good lamp, but now it sheds light, too, and that is its real function. And love makes one more calm about many things, and so one is more fit for one's work.
Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...
neka nije ljubiasto @goran05, Vinsent je u svim bojama....
ne znam da li postoji ijedan drugi slikar, da ne idem sire na umetnike, koji je toliko beskompromisno i bez obzira na to sto od slikanja nije mogao da zivi, ipak na svakom oslikanom platnu ostavljao deo svoje duse.
imala sam srece da vidim dosta njegovih radova 'uzivo' i stvarno je osecaj kao da ih je krvlju slikao.
I ja sam takodje,imala srece da mnogo njegovih radova vidim ''uzivo''.
Pre mnogo godina procitala sam knjigu ''Zudnja za zivotom''i tada se definitivno zaljubila u Van Goga.Par sati posmatranja njegovih dela bilo mi je ispunjenje bar jednog zivotnog sna.
Evo par mojih omiljenih...
има и других,и то доста.ХАИМ СУТИН нпр.
а винсента је брат издржавао,и наравно да није тачно да је продао само једну слику.то пише смо у романсираним биогрфијама,а у њима се увек мало -претерује- !!!!!!!!
(могао је да буде оптичар као спиноза(који је скоро апсолутно био изопштен из друштва),или нешто друго)
znam da ima i drugih, ali mi je vinsent bas prirastao za srce.
nisam citala samo njegovu biografiju, nego i pisma i jos svasta nesto. jeste ga brat izdrzavao ali od toga nije mogao da zivi i da se razbacuje
zasto bi bio opticar, kad mu je polje stvaranja bilo upravo slikanje?
..i uvek mi je:brrrr... 
