They go postal. They shoot the messenger, themselves. They go as mad as Van Gogh. The sequence of the paintings is interesting. Roulin starts out looking equally like a man in a uniform and ends up mainly as a head.
Fact expands to dream.
The postman becomes cosmic, and yet is still a man who is neither embittered nor sad nor perfect nor happy nor always irreproachably just. He sorts our mail. He's everything to us. I'm Roger Rosenblatt. All Rights Reserved.