Poor Artist! You Gave Away

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

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.

I Am Entering Into The Truth, Into Nature.

Poor Artist! You Gave Away Part Of Your Soul When You Painted The Picture Which You Are Now Trying To Dispose Of.

I Plunged Eagerly And Passionately Into The Wilderness, As If In The Hope Of Thus Penetrating Into The Very Heart Of This Nature, Powerful And Maternal, There To Blend With Her Living Elements.