His letters convey the artist’s personal ideas and emotions in such a compelling way that they attain the universality of all great literature. He showed his vulnerability by asserting ideals, by getting into arguments, and by sharing with the reader his outrage, his melancholy, and later his mental illness. The letters tell the story of his eventful life, detailing his close ties with his brother Theo, and the evolution of his artistic skills. It is the insight they give us into the development of a ground-breaking artist–a man who did not hesitate to show his most human side–that make these letters so fascinating.

With hindsight it can be said that he developed as an artist with amazing speed: it took him only ten years to draw and paint the extensive oeuvre that would make him world-famous.

Vincent had green eyes, a red beard and freckles; his hair was ginger-coloured like that of his brother Theo, his junior by four years. He had a facial tic, and his hands seemed to be in constant motion.

Don’t imagine that I think myself perfect–or that I believe it isn’t my fault that many people find me a disagreeable character. I’m often terribly and cantankerously melancholic, irritable–yearning for sympathy as if with a kind of hunger and thirst–I become indifferent, sharp, and sometimes even pour oil on the flames if I don’t get sympathy. I don’t enjoy company, and dealing with people, talking to them, is often painful and difficult for me. But do you know where a great deal if not all of this comes from? Simply from nervousness–I who am terribly sensitive, both physically and morally, only really acquired it in the years when I was deeply miserable. (244)

Theo supported Vincent through life’s difficulties and acted as a buffer between him and the ‘hostile world’ (406).

After a stay of two years, Van Gogh needed to escape his life in Paris: the artistic quarrels of the city’s avant-garde circles, his often strained relationship with Theo, and the bohemian lifestyle that was damaging his already fragile state of health.

Whenever Van Gogh moved, his first letters give a vivid impression of his new surroundings, and Arles was no exception. He thought the landscape and the inhabitants exceedingly picturesque, but life was not going to be as inexpensive as he had hoped.

any praise or sign of recognition caused him to retreat, as though he were afraid of falling into a trap and losing his independence.

Vincent meanwhile had rented a small house on place Lamartine in Arles. At first he used his ‘yellow house’ only as a studio, but he began to see it as a means of realizing his dream of working together with Paul Gauguin in Arles. In this Studio of the South they would be able to strike out on the path to the future of painting: collaboration and solidarity.

Van Gogh began his preparations in a spirit of hope. He furnished his house as their living quarters–which put considerable strain on Theo’s budget–and decided to decorate it with paintings, turning it into a true artists’ house. In these very months–the summer and autumn of 1888–Vincent created a series of works, which are now icons of modern art: sunflowers in a vase, a café at night, numerous portraits, park views and his bedroom. He was at the height of his powers, and he knew it. This demanded the utmost of him, both physically and mentally.

During a spell of bad weather, they worked together in the small studio in the Yellow House, where Van Gogh, who always based his works on reality, obeyed Gauguin’s mantra to work from memory and the imagination. They also discussed art and literature, of course, and the fundamental differences in their artistic notions became increasingly clear. The low point came on the evening of 23 December, exactly two months after Gauguin’s arrival. In the Yellow House, Van Gogh cut off his ear, which he brought to a prostitute in the nearby red-light district. He was taken to a hospital the next morning. Theo, who learned of the incident from a telegram sent by Gauguin, set off that same evening for Arles to be with Vincent. One day later–on Christmas Day–Theo returned to Paris with Gauguin. The dream of a shared studio, which had briefly come true, was now shattered.

I’m also convinced that it’s precisely through a long stay here that I’ll bring out my personality. (referring to the south of France)

the effects colours produce through their harmonies or discords should be boldly exaggerated. It’s the same as in drawing—the precise drawing, the right colour—is not perhaps the essential element we should look for—because the reflection of reality in the mirror, if it was possible to fix it with colour and everything—would in no way be a painting, any more than a photograph.

Painters—to speak only of them—being dead and buried, speak to a following generation or to several following generations through their works. Is that all, or is there more, even? In the life of the painter, death may perhaps not be the most difficult thing. For myself, I declare I don’t know anything about it. But the sight of the stars always makes me dream