a field of wheat, an expanse of ears…
“Living was the image of a wheat field swaying in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. To live was an earth-jar full of water in the dust of threshing, with wheat thrown into the air and chaff flying”
“What do you know about a cornfield,
poetry of a profane love,
the fear of being taken by the hand, how do you know…”
“What else can be done, thinking of all the things whose reason is not understood, except to lose sight of the wheat fields.
Their history is ours, because we, who live on bread, are not we wheat in large part?”
(Vincent Van Gogh)