yer of thick yellow and black. He painted the yellow wheat, the black crows, below a dirt path leading to a dead end, somewhere among the field, and above a furious sky, venting his anger upon every unlucky blossoming plant. Gjikondi 7He loved life. He loved it passionately, madly, he loved it to insanity but it was time for him to leave. He pulled out a revolver from his pocket and aimed it in his stomach. A deafening noise disrupted the silence of the wheat field and the finished canvas rolled on the ground together with the body. Vincent was dead.Gjikondi 8Works CitedStone, Irving. Lust for life . New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1934.Van Gogh, Vincent. A self-portrait. New York: E.P. Dutton & Co., Inc, 1963....
