“Leaving Van Gogh” was tragic to read from the first words. Knowing the artist’s fate made every word, every description of a painting seems colored with grief. From the perspective of a doctor that knows him briefly and is unable to alter the path of Vincent’s life, this story is beautifully heartbreaking.

“Vincent turned his head to smile at Theo. I never saw that expression again on his face. It was pure happiness and affection. I wish that some of the many, many portraits Vincent had made of himself had showed that side of him to the world, but the mood was fleeting. It was as if, from the shell of the stoical man I was getting to know, peered for an instant the tenderest creature, full of hope and delight.”

A story about an artist that lived to paint, lived to capture the brilliant colors of the world would be empty without descriptions of his paintings. Carol Wallace does a masterful job at describing not only the settings of the novel (a small village in France, an asylum, the streets of Paris), but of the art created by this amazing talent.

“My footsteps crackled as I trudged through one of the fields. No human figure emerged from the sea of grain. Vincent must have gone in a different direction. As I traversed the long field to reach the westbound path, I thought I might as well be in one of his paintings. The golden field with its infinite tones of ocher and yellow was set off by the brilliant blue sky, provided by nature to carry out Vincent’s own theory of complementary colors. Each made the other more intense. I merely crept along the seam between them, feeling very small.”

Other than the amazing visuals, the two aspects of the book that were the most powerful were the doctor’s anguish and guilt regarding the death of his wife, and Vincent’s description of his mental illness. Both men are unable to change this aspect of themselves that bring them such pain, yet without these elements of their character, they would not be who they are. Both themes dealt with such depth of emotion, such despair and anguish that it was hard to let those feelings go when I put the book down.

“He (Vincent) smiled wistfully. “All of your dealings with the mad have not taught you the important point, have they? Once the thoughts get too dreadful, we are no longer ourselves. I might no longer be Vincent. I will probably become the dreaded madman, and then I cannot find you, though I might wish to.”

This was a brilliant story, one with a depth of color and emotion, brought to life with care, and one I shall not soon forget.