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Holding the white ceramic cup in his hands,

Vincent enjoyed the precious moments

when his nostrils were filled with the sweet

aroma of roasted beans.

Vincent remembered the indescribable aura of so- too much coffee.” Jean grimaced at the unrestrained
lemnity around her homely features and coarse hands, chromatic contrasts in the painting, and secretly decided
as if she were an honorable high priestess who was giving that only a fool would purchase it.
holy water away to heal those who were suffering in the Vincent did not say a word. Speculatively, he walked
earthly world. For Vincent, the serene beauty of this to the open window facing the night street to get more
respectable peasant woman was by no means secondary fresh air. The outdoor scene of the night cafe looked even
to that of an elegant lady holding an afternoon tea party. more desolate in the cool air of early autumn. He raised
It was considered as the best work he had ever done, his gaze from the slanted yellow awning over the cafe
and from which he knew clearly where his art would go: terrace towards the infinity of the night sky where sev-
he wished to trace, as his peculiar habit of coffee drink- eral shiny stars were exerting their extraordinary lumi-
ing, the sweetness out of the bitterness of human life. So, nance with all forces. He was mesmerized, like a lost
he painted the most neglected aspects of life, and en- shepherd seeing the bright star in the velvet night sky of
dowed them, using the most expressive brushstrokes and Bethlehem in the wasteland, by the strong radiance of
unshaded colors, with a sense of dignity and immortal those distant scintillating celestial bodies. He uncontrol-
vigorousness. He embraced this bitter and imperfect lably reached out his arms, the pleasant breeze passing
world, like a determined martyr, with his undiminished through his paint-stained fingers, as if wanting to touch
love and natural affinity with the poor people, despite those stars, since they seemed to be welcoming him to
the bloody cuts he received from its thorns. Uncondi- join them in a place enchantingly far from where he was
tionally, he loved this ugly world, firmly believing that stuck.
the taste of sweetness would eventually come after the A whiff of familiar aroma of roasted coffee beans
enduring bitterness. reached his nostrils, which temporarily pulled him out
“I want to touch people with my art. I want them to of the indulgence in the most beautiful starry night that
say ‘he feels deeply, he feels tenderly’. ” he had ever seen. He turned around, only to find a refilled
The old clock hanging over the counter stroke cup of hot coffee and a plate of biscuits, and Jean was
three times. nowhere to be seen.
The “artistic revenge” named The Night Cafe was The still darkness in the cup seemed to be mysteri-
finally completed as Vincent triumphantly signed his ously animated in the eyes of Vincent, for it started to
name at the lower right corner of the painting. gleefully swirl, resembling the shiny stars swirling in the
Emerging from the half-curtained quarters, Jean night sky, as the steamy smoke was spiraling upward.
returned to refill the cups of customers. The rattling “A full cup of bitter dark night”, he was contempla-
sound of the coffee pot against the copper buttons of his tively staring at his rough features being reflected with-
coat turned into a rhythmic tune as he was approaching in the circular frame, “rising a wisp of sweet steam…that
Vincent and his easel. makes you think of…” His words faded away on this
“It looks like a work painted by a madman who drank starry, starry night.

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