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8 Va N g o g H ’ s D r aW i N g s (Metropolitan Museum of Art, December 2005) 1 a fit of sun broke off, somehow got in his blood, banged inside his skull. you can see it: in 1889 he drew it like a gong working wheat to climax. Black chalk, brown ink, pink paper, no one could survive this sun, but for a year he did: seventy-five paintings, fifty drawings, and then too bright, too loud, too close, the world demanded to be brought to an end.  i move right to left countering wont of words, their murmurous readers, studying his reed strokes. so it’s been, upstream to spawn unlikely ideas, but why him to show me my contrarian spite? 9 The sane envy the blind: if you see that, the ozone vanishes and the sun beats your brains out. ...

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