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A small patch of yellow wall.


But as one critic wrote that in

Vermeer's View of Delft (lent by the museum in The Hague for an exhibition of Dutch painting), under che'egli loved it and wanted to know to perfection, a small patch of yellow wall (which he did not remember) was painted so well you'd think if you looked isolation, a precious work of Chinese art, of a beauty that was enough in itself, Bergotte ate some 'potatoes, left the house and went to the show. Since the first steps he had to go up, he was seized with vertigo. He passed several pictures and had the impression of dryness, and futility of a painting so artificial, it was not worth the currents of air and sun of a palace in Venice or as easy as point of a house by the sea. Eventually, he got to the Vermeer which he remembered as bright, more different from everything familiar, but in which, for the article of the critic, noted for the first time the small characters in blue and the sand was pink, and - finally - the valuable on the tiny patch of yellow wall. The soaring, he did not take his eyes, like a child by a yellow butterfly that wants to capture, from the precious little patch of wall. "That's how I should write, he thought. My last books are too dry, I should draw more layers of color, make my sentence valuable in itself, as that little patch of yellow wall." However, the severity of vertigo not escaped him. In a heavenly balance appeared to him, piled up one of the two plates, and his own life, while the other contained a small patch of wall so well painted in yellow. He felt he had given, recklessly, the first for the second. "I would not still be, they said, The salient fact of this exhibition for the evening papers. "As he repeated:" little patch of yellow wall with roof, little patch of yellow wall ", collapsed on a sofa circular no less abruptly stopped thinking that was at stake his life and, returning to optimism reflected: "It's a simple indigestion, because of those potatoes not cooked enough, it's nothing." A new shot killing, rolled off the couch to the floor, run by all the visitors and attendants . He was dead. Dead forever? Who knows?



Marcel Proust