Art = A Mad Search For Individualism.

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.

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?

If You See A Tree As Blue, Then Make It Blue.

The Critics Can Say Stupid Things And We Can Enjoy Them, If We Have The Legitimate Feeling Of Superiority - The Satisfaction Of A Duty Accomplished.

Oh Mysterious World... I Have Become Better For Having Understood And Having Loved Thy Human Soul - A Flower Which Has Ceased To Bloom And Whose Fragrance No One Henceforth Will Breathe.