Letter 9, page 1

My dear Bernard—

I don't know what I stuck into my letter of yesterday instead of the enclosed sheet on the subject of
your last sonnet. The fact is that I am so worn out by work that in the evening—although writing
is restful for me—I'm like a broken-down machine, so much has the day in the full sun tired me
otherwise. And that's why I stuck another sheet into your letter instead of this one.

On rereading yesterday's sheet—well, I'm sending you it as it is; on rereading it, it seems legible
to me and so I'm sending you it.

Another hard day's work today.

If you saw my canvases, what would you say about them—you wouldn't find Cézanne's almost
diffident and conscientious brushstroke there.

But since at present I am painting the same countryside of La Crau and the Camargue—although in a slightly different place—nevertheless, certain color relationships could remain. What
do I know about it—from time to time I couldn't help thinking of Cézanne, particularly when I
realized that his touch is so clumsy in certain studies—disregard the word clumsy—seeing that he
probably executed those studies when the mistral was blowing.

Having to deal with the same difficulty half the time, I can explain why Cézanne's touch is
sometimes so sure and sometimes seems awkward. It's his easel that's wobbling.

I have sometimes worked excessively fast; is that a fault? I can't help it.

For example I've painted a no. 30 canvas—the summer evening—at a single sitting.

It's not possible to rework it; to destroy it—why, because I deliberately went outside to make it, out
in the mistral.

Isn't it rather intensity of thought than calmness of touch that we're looking for—and in the given
circumstances of impulsive work on the spot and from life, is a calm and controlled touch always possible?
Well—it seems to me—no more than fencing moves during an attack.

© 2007 Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam