Claude Monet on His Cataracts

I no longer perceived colours with the same intensity, I no longer painted light with the same accuracy.  Reds appeared muddy to me, pinks insipid, and the intermediate or lower tones escaped me.  As for forms, they always appeared clear and I rendered them with the same decision.  At first I tried to be stubborn.  How many times … have I stayed for hours under the harshest sun sitting on my campstool, in the shade of my parasol, forcing myself to resume my interrupted task and recapture the freshness that had disappeared from my palette!  Wasted efforts.  What I painted was more and more dark, more and more like an ‘old picture’, and when the attempt was over I compared it to former works, I would be seized by a frantic rage and slash all my canvases with my penknife.