“If only the weather would improve, there’d be hope of some work, but every day brings rain.”

Impressionism is only direct sensation. All great painters were less or more impressionists. It is mainly a question of instinct, and much simpler than [John Singer] Sargent thinks.

I still don’t know where I am going to sleep tomorrow.

When I look at nature I feel as if I’ll be able to paint it all, note it all down, and then you might as well forget it once you’re working.

Without the fog, London would not be a beautiful city. It is fog that gives it its magnificent amplitude its regular and massive blocks become grandiose in that mysterious mantle.

It took me time to understand my water lilies. I had planted them for the pleasure of it; I grew them without ever thinking of painting them.

I would like to paint the way a bird sings.

The real subject of every painting is light.

For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at any moment.

My work is always better when I am alone and follow my own impressions.

When I work I forget all the rest.

Nature won’t be summoned to order and won’t be kept waiting. It must be caught, well caught.

I am very depressed and deeply disgusted with painting. It is really a continual torture.

I say that whoever claims to have finished a canvas is terribly arrogant.

I will bring lots of studies back with me so I can work on some big things at home.

While adding the finishing touches to a painting might appear insignificant, it is much harder to do than one might suppose.

Every day I discover more and more beautiful things. It’s enough to drive one mad. I have such a desire to do everything, my head is bursting with it.

O tender yearning, sweet hoping! The golden time of first love! The eye sees the open heaven, The heart is intoxicated with bliss; O that the beautiful time of young love Could remain green forever.

By the year 2000 we will, I hope, raise our children to believe in human potential, not God.

Hope is a very unruly emotion.

Each say following another, either hastening or putting off our death–what pleasure does it bring? I count that man worthless whois cheered by empty hopes. No, a noble man must either live or die well.

Hope is an expensive commodity. It makes better sense to be prepared.

Love is only known by him who hopelessly persists in love.

Tell me, what is hope if not a sweet, sweet companion?

He returns years later, has no demands. He wants only one, most precious thing: To see, purely and simply, without name, Without expectations, fears, or hopes, At the edge where there is no I or not-I.