Vincent van Gogh
1890 - Auvers-sur-Oise
I am thirty-seven years old and the mornings here in Auvers open like pale wounds that at once become doors, the white of the sky before sunrise so thin it is almost not there, and then suddenly all the wheat, the roofs, the paths, the cypresses farther off, the church tower, the chalk of the roads, even the black crows when they rise late and violently as if shaken out of the fields by some hand under the earth, all of it begins to burn without flame and then there is only one possible answer to that kind of light, which is work, work at once, work before the pressure changes its colour, before the afternoon comes with its pushing, with the inward crowding that is not merely in the head but in the whole air around the head, as if the day itself had leaned too close.
Open this life
