Vincent van Gogh. The letters to brother Theo.
How strange these past few months were for me - unprecedented moral torments sometimes replaced by those moments when the curtain of time would open a little and overpowering circumstances would reveal themselves.
For many days now I've been sitting in solitary confinement under lock and the watch of attendants, though my insanity has not been confirmed, and cannot, in fact, be confirmed.
A person feels the need for the something big, for infinity and wonder, and sets forth in due manner when he is not satisfied with less, and he does not feel at home in the world as long as this demand is not satisfied.
It was just that my life had changed - then it had been less difficult, and the future did not appear to be so bleak. As far as my inner being, my way of seeing and thinking goes, this has remained the same. The only change, if a change has actually occurred, is that now I contemplate, believe and love deeper than heretofore when I contemplated, believed and loved.
I want to say that within me is some kind of inexplicable causeless alarm, which brought me to this state.
Ah I almost believe that I was again entering a period of enlightenment.