It is perhaps not that strange in these virus times, to want to hurry and read something before I die — and yet there it is — the thought arrives unbidden — and so I set it down, not knowing whether it is prescient or the result of a life-long habit of fictionalizing my existence. The book in question consists of three volumes, and contains the letters of Vincent Van Gogh. As someone who loves the gloriously unsolvable riddle of this life, I want go to my grave knowing what Vincent felt, said, and thought, and how he tried to express it to his dear brother, Theo, who lived but six months after Vincent said farewell to this world — it simply means that much to me. And isn’t it interesting that farewell in Vincent’s case so obviously meant, and still means, hello? Might it not be the same for me, and you?
March 12. Evening.
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