"Anyway, Henri Conscience may not be a perfect writer by any means, but no two ways about it, what a painter! And what loving-kindness in what he said and hoped for. There's a preface in one of his books on my mind all the time (the one to Le conscrit), where he writes that he has been very ill, and says that during his illness, despite all his efforts, he felt his affection for mankind draining away, but that his feelings of love returned on long walks in the countryside."
(pages 451, from THE LETTERS OF VINCENT VAN GOGH, translated by Arnold Pomerans. This is from a letter of September 1889, written to his brother, Theo.)
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