My Heart Is Forever In Giverny.

I Think Only Of My Painting, And If I Were To Drop It, I Think I'd Go Crazy.

I Do What I Can To Convey What I Experience Before Nature And Most Often, In Order To Succeed In Conveying What I Feel, I Totally Forget The Most Elementary Rules Of Painting, If They Exist That Is.

Work Is Nearly Always A Torture. If I Could Find Something Else I Would Be Much Happier, Because I Could Use This Other Interest As A Form Of Relaxation. Now I Cannot Relax.

One Is Too Taken Up With All That One Sees And Hears In Paris, However Strong One Is, And What I Do Here [in Etretat] Will At Least Have The Merit Of Being Unlike Anyone Else, At Least I Believe So, Because It Will Simply Be The Expression Of What I, And Only I, Have Felt.

When It Is Dark, It Seems To Me As If I Were Dying, And I Can't Think Any More.