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"Levitan loved nature in a special way. It was not even love, but a kind of love ... Did Levitan loved his art? In this, of course, can not be in doubt. If he loved anything in life with all the fiber of his being, it was art. He loved it somehow reverently and touchingly. Art was even sacred to him. Did he believe in himself? Of course, yes, although it did not prevent him from doubting forever, forever tormented, forever be dissatisfied with himself. Levitan knew that he was on the right track, believed in this path, believed that he sees in the native nature of new beauty, but at the same time, he always felt that he does not pass and a fraction of all found, all that lived in his soul
Chekhova M.P./
/ I.I.Levitan
"...But what can I do, I can't be at least a little happy, peaceful, well, in a word, I do not understand myself outside of painting. I have never loved nature so much, never been so sensitive to it, never before have I felt so strongly this divine something, poured into everything, but which not everyone sees, which even can not be called because it does not lend itself to reason, to analysis, but is comprehended by love. Without this feeling there can be no true artist. Many will not understand, they will probably call it romantic nonsense - let them! They are prudence... But this epiphany is for me a source of deep suffering. Can there be anything more tragic than to feel the infinite beauty of the surroundings, to notice the innermost mystery, to see God in everything and not be able, conscious of their impotence, to express these great sensations ..."
From a letter to A.P. Chekhov?
spring 1887
Chekhova M.P./
/ I.I.Levitan
"...But what can I do, I can't be at least a little happy, peaceful, well, in a word, I do not understand myself outside of painting. I have never loved nature so much, never been so sensitive to it, never before have I felt so strongly this divine something, poured into everything, but which not everyone sees, which even can not be called because it does not lend itself to reason, to analysis, but is comprehended by love. Without this feeling there can be no true artist. Many will not understand, they will probably call it romantic nonsense - let them! They are prudence... But this epiphany is for me a source of deep suffering. Can there be anything more tragic than to feel the infinite beauty of the surroundings, to notice the innermost mystery, to see God in everything and not be able, conscious of their impotence, to express these great sensations ..."
From a letter to A.P. Chekhov?
spring 1887
