My soul is illuminated with unearthly joy, like these wonderful spring mornings, which I enjoy with all my heart. I am all alone and blissful in this land, as if created for people like me. I am so happy, my friend, so intoxicated by the feeling of peace, that my art suffers from it.
I am so happy, my friend, so intoxicated with the feeling of peace, that my art suffers from it. I could not have done a single stroke, and I have never been such a great artist as in these moments. When steam rises from my sweet valley and the half-day sun stands over the impenetrable thicket of the dark forest and only a rare ray slips into its holy of holies, and I lie in the tall grass by a fast stream and, clinging to the ground, I see thousands of all kinds of blades of grass and feel how close my heart is a tiny little world that flutters between the stalks, I observe these innumerable, incomprehensible varieties of worms and midges and feel the closeness of the almighty who created us in his own image, the spirit of the all-loving, who judged us to soar in eternal bliss when my gaze fogs up and everything around me and the sky above me are imprinted in my soul, like the image of a beloved, - then, dear friend, I am often tormented by the thought: "Ah! How to express, how to breathe into a drawing that which lives so fully, so anxiously in me, to capture the reflection of my soul like d