It was a very clear picture of Van Gogh, a head of red butcher faces, examine and looked at us, with their eyes look a glaring we. I know, not a psychiatrist would know how to use such irresistible force carefully look at a person's face, like a knife, and analyzes its undeniable psychology.
Van Gogh's eyes is a great talent, but when I looked at him from the depths of the picture spewing out, analysis of my time, it is no longer a I feel, live in the body of the painter of genius, but one of my life can't meet the philosopher genius.
No, Socrates had no such eyes; perhaps, before Van Gogh the only one with the eyes of people, unfortunately Nietzsche: he has the same power, can be exposed out of the soul, from soul to the body, let the body naked without shelter, let the body away from the soul the gimmick. It is a kind of penetration, penetrating gaze, in a rough cut, such as a square of trees on the face. This nothingness glance, such as a meteorite bombs on us, without adjusting color stained with fill its emptiness inert. This is Van Gogh how to diagnose his disease, any more than the world's psychiatrist.
I insight, I reflect on, I examine, I insist, I open my life, died without concealment.
After all, nothing had not hurt anyone. Forced me to retreat back to itself, is constantly crossing and overwhelming my "absent", but I clearly aware of it, is very clear, even I know nothing is what.
Van Gogh is right, one can only infinite and living, and, be satisfied with infinite things; on this planet, infinite things enough to meet one thousand great genius, if Van Gogh can not be met -- so that life is full of infinite things, that is only because society consciously prohibited it. Van Gogh's the executioner will one day come, like they're on the inside, Baudelaire, Edgar Allan Poe and l'autre amon did. One day they tell him:
Now, enough is enough, Van Gogh, rest in peace, we are tired of you such a genius, as infinite, infinite belongs to us.
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