Some Starry Night
Under the pale glow of a Parisian spring in 1886, two restless souls move toward the same horizon-unaware that their meeting will ignite a love as luminous and fleeting as the stars themselves.
Vincent van Gogh arrives in Paris with little more than paint-stained hands and an aching determination to create something worthy of the world. Living in the cramped apartment of his brother Theo, he struggles against poverty, doubt, and the relentless pull of his own restless mind.
Across the ocean in Amherst, Emily Dickinson receives news that changes everything. Faced with the nearness of death, the reclusive poet does the unthinkable: she leaves the quiet safety of the Homestead and sails for Paris, determined to taste life before it slips beyond her reach.
When Emily agrees to sit for Vincent's portrait, their worlds collide in a blaze of color, poetry, and dangerous intimacy. Through letters, poems, and whispered confessions, the two artists discover in one another a fierce, unguarded understanding-one that will shape their art, their faith, and the fragile hours they have left.
But love between stars is never simple. As time grows short and darkness gathers, Vincent and Emily must decide whether beauty is meant to last...or simply to burn bright enough to change the night forever.
Some Starry Night is a sweeping, lyrical imagining of the hidden story behind Vincent van Gogh's most iconic painting – an unforgettable tale of love, creativity, and the courage to live fiercely, even in the shadow of the end.
Excerpt
May 5, 1887
My dear Emily,
Forget Agostina. And forgive my careless words. In my
rush to share all I can with you, I sometimes do not
think about what effect my words will have when they
come so cold and dry on paper, and not from my
mouth.
If we were together, you would know it is not just a
portion of my heart that you occupy. My whole paint-
splattered soul is yours.
I’ve been in such a frenzy, trying to make the time
pass to the moment when we shall meet again, that I
fear I have run out of flowers. All the Paris greenhouse
keepers know me by name. Asters, dahlias, daisies,
geraniums, hollyhocks, lilacs, phlox, salvia . . . It’s a
shame I’m not a better gardener, and I only keep the
cuttings long enough to set them dancing on the canvas
in fields of blue.
I’d like to share a trick I use when painting trees or
flowers. I try to find the soul in them. Do you know
what I mean? Sometimes, a stand of willows might re-
semble a procession of weary, old men. Or I might find
a child’s face in a zinnia. It’s a special way of looking.
A poet’s way of looking.
Just a bit longer, mon petit oiseau. Every time I
read your words in your distinctive pen, it’s almost as
if the hand of God is upon my chest. The demons I
carry stop their chortling. You have that power, Emily.
Love,
Your Vincent
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Irene Latham
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