Why is it ever valid to make a distinction between auto biography, auto fiction and fiction? What fiction does not contain a deep reflection of the authors perspective and memory and sense of the world?
How did he see all those colours, how did his vision probe so far beyond the obvious, the layers, the shock of a sudden violet light ? How his brother must have loved him. I imagine him reading his letters in that famous painted room, his only real friend on whom he could always count.Perhaps he could buy the blue cobalt he needed with the few franc notes he had slipped inside the letter?
How strange I am to feel such tender compassion for this tortured old man. His loneliness touches me and yet I rejoice in the endless discovery in each painting. Renoir was a genius of his art, many, endless past and present stun with flawless and astounding skill of execution but my dear Vincent, I just want to thank you for being.
Joyce Carol Oates decided to revisit her childhood in her
novel Paysage Perdu. In an interview for Paris Match
she comments on how in her generation and that of her
parents we were all so much more discreet. Now everyone
wants to tell their story. To recount the most intimate and
banal details of their lives. Secrets that were not considered
topics for discussion in hers and my generation are now all
up there on face book pages in the current culture of promoting
I, like her know little about the life of my grandmother, her parents
even my own mother and fathers lives let alone their secrets.
To make a story interesting or worth recounting it may be better
to explore the things unsaid.