Letter 0/13/1883

Today I walked behind the men plowing a potato field, with the women walking behind to pick up any potatoes left behind.

This was quite a different field from the one I sketched for you yesterday, but there is something curious here: it is always exactly the same and yet it varies in the same

way as paintings of the same subjects by masters who work in the same genre and yet differ. Oh, it is so special here and so quiet, so peaceful. I can think of no better word than peace. Talk about it a lot or a little, it is all the same, there is nothing to add or take away.

It is a question of wanting something completely new, undertaking a kind of recreation of yourself, coolly getting rid of the idee fix, fa ira - we'll manage it,