“It’s the hardest thing to be alone in being satisfied with what one’s done.”

A good impression is lost so quickly.

My only desire is an intimate infusion with nature, and the only fate I wish is to have worked and lived in harmony with her laws.

All of a sudden I had the revelation of how enchanting my pond was.

The only merit I have is to have painted directly from nature with the aim of conveying my impressions in front of the most fugitive effects.

The light constantly changes, and that alters the atmosphere and beauty of things every minute.

I sometimes feel ashamed that I am devoting myself to artistic pursuits while so many of our people are suffering and dying for us. It’s true that fretting never did any good.

I’m in a foul mood as I’m making stupid mistakes… This morning I lost beyond repair a painting with which I had been happy, having done about twenty sessions on it; it had to be thoroughly scraped away… what a rage I was in!

I’ve done what I could as a painter and that seems to me to be sufficient. I don’t want to be compared to the great masters of the past, and my painting is open to criticism; that’s enough.

No one is an artist unless he carries his picture in his head before painting it, and is sure of his method and composition.

I am good at only two things, and those are gardening and painting.

Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.

I am enslaved to my work, always wanting the impossible, and never, I believe, have I been less favoured by the endlessly changeable weather.

To see we must forget the name of the thing we are looking at.

I can only draw what I see.

Pictures aren’t made out of doctrines. Since the appearance of impressionism, the official salons, which used to be brown, have become blue, green, and red…But peppermint or chocolate, they are still confections.

I must have flowers, always, and always.

Don’t you see? That I kiss you a little harder. That I hug you a little harder. I want you to heal me.

I love the little things in life but when it comes to me, why do I find those little things about myself hard to love? I am everything I need.

The simple truth is that truth is hard to come by, and that once found may easily be lost again.

The hard work you put in will never fail you.

Truth is so hard to tell, it sometimes needs fiction to make it plausible.

The softest hearts love the hardest.

Don’t push away your emotions too hard, remember they can push back if held for too long.

It’s hard to connect with someone whose soul has such shitty WiFi