
Wheatfield with Crows
Three paths run into the wheat and none of them go anywhere. Painted at Auvers in his last weeks, and read too neatly ever since.

Three paths run into the wheat and none of them go anywhere. Painted at Auvers in his last weeks, and read too neatly ever since.

The doctor who was caring for him leans his head on one hand, a sprig of foxglove on the table, the background rippling blue.

He painted it for his brother's newborn son, named Vincent after him, and cropped the boughs against the sky like a Japanese print.

Starving in Kristiania, the city that became Oslo, a young writer gives away money he lacks and refuses food when offered. Hamsun tracks a mind sliding toward derangement, and modern fiction followed.
Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.
An act has no ethical quality whatever unless it be chosen out of several all equally possible.

Riis went into New York's tenements at night with a camera and flash powder, and brought back the room where twelve people slept. Roosevelt sought him out, and the worst blocks came down.

He stares out the window, she pokes the fire, and the dots are used here for boredom rather than sunlight.
It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.
The tragedy of old age is not that one is old, but that one is young.
There is always something ridiculous about the passions of people whom one has ceased to love.