Vincent

  

 

T H E     S O W E R          1 8 8 8

Letters from van Gogh to his brother, Theo.

 

 I think what you say is true, that my work must get

much better still.  As to its being salable or unsalable,

that is an old file on which I do not intend to blunt

my teeth - but at the same time I will tell you frankly that

your energy to sell them might also be more sustained.

You have never sold a single one for me - neither 

for much nor for little.  In fact, you did not even try.

 When I began to work I had plenty of canvases, and

Tanguy was very good to me.  To do him justice,

he is just as good still, but his old witch of a wife

got wind of what was going on and opposed it.

All the same, he will do whatever I want of him.

 Exaggerated studies such as the 'Sower' and the 

'Night Cafe', usually seem to me atrociously ugly and bad.

The picture of the 'Night Cafe' is one of the ugliest I have

done.  It is the equivalent, though different, of the 

'Potato-Eaters'.  But when I am moved by something,

as now by a little article on Dostoyevsky, these are 

the only ones which appear to have any deep meaning. 

 There is a book of Tolstoy's called 'My Religion'.

He does not seem to believe in a resurrection either

of the body or the soul.  Above all he seems not to 

believe in heaven - he reasons just as a nihilist reasons, 

but he attaches great importance to doing whatever 

you are doing, since probably it is all there is in you.

And if he does not believe in the resurrection, he seems

to believe in the equivalent - the continuance of life,

the progress of humanity - the man and his work almost

infallibly continued by humanity in the next generation.

 Because I am always bowed down under this difficulty

of paying my landlord, who after all isn't a bad fellow,

I swore at him and told him that to revenge himself

for paying him so much money for nothing, I would

paint the whole of his rotten shanty.  Then to the 

great joy of the landlord, of the postman, of the 

visiting night-prowlers, and of myself, for three nights

running I sat up to paint and went to bed during 

the day.

 It astonishes me when I compare my condition

with what it was a month ago.  I knew that one 

could fracture one's legs and arms and recover, 

but I did not know that you could fracture the brain

in your head and recover after that too.  I still have

a sort of "What is the good of getting better?" about

me, even in the astonishment that getting well

arouses in me.  

But the unbearable hallucinations have ceased,

and have now reduced themselves to a simple 

nightmare, by dint of my taking bromide of potassium,

I think.

*  *  *  *  *

©  Tom Taylor

 

OVER   EASY

 

 

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