Historical Figures: Vincent Van Gogh and Girolamo Savonarola

Vincent Van Gogh

"Everything we do faces infinity." —Vincent Van Gogh

Vincent van Gogh was born on March 30, 1853, the same day that, a year earlier, his mother had seen her first and most desired newborn son, named Vincent, die.

The mother, inconsolable from such a profound loss, gave the same name, Vincent, to her second son. She was not a mother of explicit rejection, nor did she fail in her nurturing role, but she struggled to recognize the individual need for the second Vincent's existence. As a result, his life did not evolve as a value in itself but was perceived as a replacement for the lost child.

The granting of the name registers the individual in a family lineage, yet it primarily reflects the power of the other's desire, enabling this individual to have the right to exist in their own particularity. Vincent, bearing the name of his deceased brother, seems to enter the world under the shadow of an impoverished sense of life and being desired.

Vincent’s existence is tasked with replacing that of another, whose loss tragically lends itself to idealization. The parents, unable to process the loss of their first son swiftly, find a real substitute in the second Vincent. As with any replacement, the second Vincent is doomed to show his insufficiency: he bears the name of another and can only appear as an unworthy substitute, never quite enough. Thus, Vincent will always be the second-rate stand-in, a rejected figure, a narcissistic wound that never fully heals. The fundamental feeling of unworthiness and melancholy that plagued him throughout his life became the underlying reason for his deep unhappiness and difficulty in living.

Vincent died in July 1890, at the age of thirty-seven, after a day of agony, in the arms of his beloved brother Theo, following an attempted suicide by gunshot. He had shot himself in a field. He said shortly before his death: "I wish I could go like this." A few months earlier, Theo’s son, named after his painter uncle, was born. Theo's marriage had also taken place, severely compromising the partnership between the brothers. These events likely contributed to the irreversible deterioration of Vincent’s mental health, which had first manifested on Christmas Eve of 1888, after Paul Gauguin had abandoned the project of a communal artist’s colony that Vincent had envisioned. Again, the theme of substitution, expulsion, uprooting, and rejection plays out. Vincent felt as though there was no place for him in the world, his existence seemingly inconsequential and like a waste of space.

Vincent’s father was a Protestant pastor, whom Vincent described as nurturing but embodying uncompromising moral rigor. His mother, on the other hand, was tenderly evoked. Her maternal desire appeared to only exist as the living shadow of her lost son. Vincent’s so-called originality, which manifested in eccentricities and resistance to family principles, thus began to emerge as a premonition of the inevitable divergence from the idealized child they had hoped for.

Throughout his short and intense life, Vincent developed an interest in literature, spoke four languages, and wrote extraordinary letters — true works of art — which served as a testament to his artistic evolution and spiritual transformation.

Emile Bernard left us a description of Vincent: "Red hair, goatee, scruffy mustache, shaven nape, eagle gaze, and sharp lips almost speaking. Lively gesture, animated in speech, attentive to explain and develop ideas, little inclined to controversy. And how many dreams!"

His sister described him as follows: "He had a rather robust complexion, with a slightly curved back from his habit of always looking down. He kept to himself, away from the other children, isolating himself in nature. He knew all the places where the strangest flowers grew and collected nests of different birds. One of these nests, he gave to his nephew, who was brought to Auvers by his brother Theo and his wife Johanna on a Sunday, where Vincent was cared for." Her description gives us a glimpse of his introverted, melancholic character, with the nest symbolizing his desire for privacy and belonging.

Vincent’s existence was governed by a strict and austere discipline. He ate simply and sparingly, often just bread soaked in beer. His luxuries were his pipe, alcohol, and occasional visits to a brothel. Pleasure and fun were not part of his life’s code; it was a point of pride for him not to indulge in what he considered distractions.

In March 1886, after his mother left Nuenen, Vincent’s canvases, paints, and brushes were boxed up and entrusted to a carpenter from Breda by his mother, who was uninterested in his work. Much of this material would later be lost.

However, one essential figure in Vincent's life was his brother Theo. Theo deeply loved him throughout his short life and shared his passion for art. Theo was a support for Vincent, a kind of mirror that reinforced and sustained his fragile, narcissistic identity. This relationship, according to psychoanalysts, could be seen as an "imaginary crutch" compensating for an absent Oedipal figure.

It is no coincidence that the dramatic epilogue of Vincent’s life coincided with Theo's marriage and the birth of his nephew Vincent. Theo’s new role in life and his expanding family shattered Vincent’s fragile psychological balance. Shortly after his brother’s death, Theo also fell into mental collapse, even attempting to kill his wife and son. Some accounts of Theo's decline include dramatic episodes of madness and violence.

The Relationships

According to Lacan, the relationship between Vincent and Theo represents a typical model of an "imaginary crutch," a substitution for the absent Oedipus. Their bond became the only family relationship in which Vincent could exist as a subject, though this bond, rooted in narcissistic, specular identification, was incapable of providing Vincent with true existential meaning. Therefore, Vincent tried desperately to convince Theo to pursue painting, sharing his passion, but always in distress. When Theo married and had a child, thus establishing his place in the world, Vincent’s psychic stability began to deteriorate irreversibly.

Even Vincent’s significant affective relationships were marked by a need for fusion and presence that excluded the other person’s individuality. His romantic failures echoed the same patterns: unrelenting passion, a lack of limits, and a mirrored intimacy. With every failure, Vincent demanded greater sacrifice from himself, forging a stoic character that endured physical hardships, aspiring toward non-human perfection free from emotional and material dependencies.

His bond with Gauguin, in particular, was crucial to Vincent’s psychosis. He saw Gauguin as the ideal person who would share his unreserved passion for art, a passion that he had been unable to share with Theo. Vincent’s dream was to create a community of artists united by their shared devotion to painting, ultimately achieving financial and material independence. But when Gauguin rejected this dream, the first major psychotic crisis erupted on Christmas Eve in 1888. After an argument, Vincent severed his ear, delivered it to a prostitute in a brothel, and later succumbed to delusions and hallucinations. He was hospitalized in Arles following this breakdown.

The symbolism of Christmas Eve, linked to birth and rebirth, cannot be overlooked. Vincent's own birth had occurred without the desire of the other, and his relationships with women were dominated by a similar need for presence and fusion. Any separation, even in platonic relationships, led to deep depressive falls, with drastic changes in Vincent’s life following each break.

Vincent lived love with idealistic fury, as though it were the only and irreplaceable bond. He was unable to tolerate the disparity between his idealized view of a relationship and its reality, with the resulting frustration. His inability to cope with the gap between his yearning for fusion and the real otherness of the other person led him to avoid proper mourning after each separation. Instead, he made sudden, drastic changes in his life, as if action could replace emotional work. This temperament, rooted in a deep need for love, ultimately led him to withdraw from love itself, believing that only he could fulfill this desire.

Loneliness and Melancholy

The biography of Vincent van Gogh reveals a life marked by implacable loneliness, a sense of being different, and a deep feeling of melancholy. He always felt persecuted by a cruel fate, with an overwhelming and nameless restlessness that he could never escape. Feeling different became his strength, while his capacity to renounce was both his pride and his shame.

Between 1873 and 1876, Vincent worked as an art dealer for his uncle's gallery, first in Paris and later in London. The job's instability revealed a deep sense of inadequacy in Vincent regarding practical life and social ties. Bourgeois conformism was unbearable to him, making any professional commitment impossible.

He strongly felt that he lacked roots, destined for a life without meaning, and in constant disorder. This feeling, paired with the constant sense of being misunderstood, led him to strengthen his connection with Christianity. From 1876 to 1878, he threw himself into the evangelical experience, believing that Christianity could offer a solution to his meaningless existence. He devoted himself passionately to spreading the mystical experience of Christ. Unfortunately, this mission also failed when he was denied the preaching position he had long desired. This rejection led him to travel to Belgium, to the mining areas, where he lived alongside the poorest, continuing his Christian mission by advocating for the rights of the dispossessed.

Later, the dramatic story of his unrequited love for Kee pushed him with increasing conviction to devote his life to painting. And that he did, until the end of his short life.

In 1885, his father died. This loss was followed by a period of serious disorders, fevers, weakness, and apathy, marking a state of depression that became continuous. In 1886, he moved to Paris with his brother Theo, who was a gallery owner working mainly with the Impressionists, to whom Vincent first turned his attention. Shortly after, he aligned himself with the latest experiments in color, engaging with the leading figures of Post-Impressionism.

Vincent left Paris in 1888, in a precarious condition due to his irregular lifestyle, which included the abuse of alcohol and tobacco. He himself wrote: "My brain was almost ruined." In the spring, he moved to Arles, where he planned to create a community of artists who would gather at his home. He prepared his humble abode with great passion and care, despite his limited financial resources.

In the construction of his home, one can see a strong need for a nest, coupled with an intense aesthetic sense. In Gauguin's room, Vincent created a series of works that would become his greatest masterpieces: the sunflowers. Gauguin, whom Vincent admired both as an artist and for his strong personality, was the first artist he invited. Unfortunately, the

problematic coexistence between the two lasted only a few months, from autumn until Christmas Eve. The dream of the artist community was shattered by Gauguin's departure.

Perhaps Vincent was drawn to the same egoism that allowed Gauguin to embrace life so fully. At the same time, he knew his friend was experiencing financial difficulties. Vincent, who often acted as a mother hen, also needed someone to care for him—a person willing to sacrifice more than they already had to keep him close. His empathic and nurturing nature drove him to make great sacrifices for others, trying to please them so they wouldn't abandon him, while seeking recognition.

The definitive break between the two caused Vincent's first serious psychotic crisis on Christmas Eve 1888, leading to aggressive and self-destructive behavior. He was admitted to the hospital in Arles. Afterward, the entire town became aware of his condition. Every gesture, even the most trivial, seemed to confirm his danger. People described him as having a "crazy" look; he always appeared to want to flee but didn't dare to look at anyone. This marks the onset of what would later manifest as social phobia and persecutory anxiety. The townspeople persecuted him to the point of requesting his internment in an asylum. During his relapses from insomnia and hallucinations, he feared the Arlesians, saying: "In any case, I have not harmed anyone."

In 1889, he accepted hospitalization at Saint Rémy after being denounced by his neighbors for disturbing the peace. He hoped to find containment for his crises, as he had experienced, to some extent, in the Arles hospital. One factor driving him was the fact that his brother Theo was engaged, and Vincent feared losing the financial support he relied on. The asylum provided a resolution to his daily problems.

His desire to work remained so strong that he declared to Theo, "If I were left without your support, they would let me commit suicide without remorse." And, "Although I am vile, I would end up leaving." It was after this alarming letter that Theo decided to pay for his stay at the asylum. However, Vincent continued to paint with fervor and despair. He had the ability to inspire guilt in others and often presented himself as a victim. It's striking how he poured his frustrations onto the only affectionate figure in his life, now afraid of losing that support.

In Saint Rémy, Vincent experienced a new form of loneliness and lack of understanding. Yet, he navigated his crises without being crushed by them, finding solace in painting, which became his true support.

Later, in Auvers, in the last months of his life, local boys made fun of him for his eccentric clothing.

In the final year of his life, Vincent alternated between moments of relative tranquility and moments of crisis. His artistic output during these years was extraordinary.

Image and Existential Sense

As Winnicott pointed out, the response of a mother's face allows a child to develop a positive self-image. Only through the mother’s gaze can the child recognize and feel loved enough by another to form a sense of self.

According to Lacan, the human experience of the body is never naturally harmonious but begins as an experience of disunion. When a child is not sufficiently cared for by parents, as in Vincent's case, the experience of existence can become difficult, ugly, and exhausting. This is at the heart of melancholia.

The story of the other is necessary to build a complete, integrated self.

Thus, we can say that the poor image Vincent had of himself was a direct result of the introjection of a rejecting parental figure.

Existential Guilt

In melancholia, guilt is deliriously intensified, not in relation to desire and its vicissitudes, but in relation to existence itself. The subject feels an irremediable guilt simply for existing.

The experience of existence as mere life—a discardable, inferior existence—compelled Vincent into a continuous struggle to achieve the impossible. His life was one without a home, without the possibility of being desired, a life spent wandering, adrift, uprooted.

Freud noted that this delusion of guilt is a true moral delusion: the subject feels subjugated by an infinite sense of unworthiness, believing they have no right to exist. Their fundamental fault is that they have not inscribed themselves into the desire of the other. Reduced to an object of rejection, the subject separates from this unbearable identification by turning to the resolving act—the literal act of leaving the world. Lacan referred to this as the melancholic suicide of the object.

The feeling of unworthiness that accompanied Vincent’s life was always intertwined with a desperate will to live. In Van Gogh, this led to a clear distinction between two forms of melancholia: one marked by abandonment, death, and stagnation, and another, which Vincent himself called "active melancholy," characterized by a vital energy that aspires to

and seeks life. This active melancholy is not a manic denial of the melancholic wound but rather an effort to resist succumbing to it. As he wrote: "The desolation of what is called the feeling of emptiness is the first thing to combat so that it does not become a chronic disease."

It was through his art that Vincent expressed his active melancholy. He arrived at painting after a long process of internal exploration, developing the extraordinary ability to transform reality directly onto canvas—moving from perception to gesture without mediation. His work, liberated from the constraints of color and form, became one of the great pillars of modern art. His artistic practice transformed his existential pain into a positive force, confronting his drive toward death with the possibility of life.

Compensation for Psychosis

In Van Gogh, psychosis first manifested clearly during the winter of 1888, at Christmas, when Gauguin left. Prior to that, no hallucinations or delusions had appeared, indicating that Vincent had found ways to prevent them from occurring—through intense experiences, relationships, and compensatory actions. His relationships with Theo, his unrequited love for Kee, and his brief bond with Sien all served as compensations for the voids in his life. These efforts provided meaning to his existence and strengthened his vocations for both Christianity and the practice of art. He even went so far as to inflict pain on himself in acts of self-sacrifice.

The Mystical Impulse: Becoming a Christian

For Vincent, encountering the evangelical message provided a sense of purpose for his life. Unlike the love of his parents, God's love did not exclude him. To become a good Christian meant striving to rescue life from its inherent insignificance. As he wrote to Theo: "The Lord has taken me as I am, with my defects." Without the closeness of God's love, Vincent felt his life would have been meaningless.

Vincent's father, according to his son, lived his mission as a Protestant pastor as a victim of conformism to the canon. He lacked the absolute and unreserved dedication that the evangelical word demands. In contrast, the painter embraced his religious option as a radical break from any aestheticizing conception of life, rejecting all those ritual customs that end up neutralizing the authentic message of Christ. Choosing Christ, for Vincent, is a leap into the void, a commitment to love without conditions. The most important element in the Christian experience is the symbol of the cross, representing the capacity to surrender

to the Other, who knows how to transcend the sterile confines of the self, ultimately provoking its own dissolution. It is a surrender of oneself, annulling all attachment to one’s own ego.

In Van Gogh's eyes, Christ is not the Lord, but the poor, the beggar, the one who agrees to lose everything. The Christ to whom the painter prays is not the Christ of the Resurrection, of Glory, but rather the son of man—the Christ of the Passion and the Cross. For Van Gogh, God is not the God of philosophers or theologians, but is the one who is realized only in his human incarnation. The center of the Christian experience is not the manifestation of God's power that defeats death, but the mystery of the incarnation, the kenosis, the lowering, the humanization of God.

Christianity, in this sense, is an experience of renouncing earthly goods, asceticism, and practicing poverty—becoming abandoned among the abandoned, being a castaway. Evangelical life and preaching are presented to him as an active way of caring for the misfits, the poor, and the homeless. The experience of Christ speaks to him of his most intimate truth.

In a letter to Theo, he writes: "The race of miners is the race of the last, the most despised," to whom Vincent feels he belongs—strangers on the face of the earth, excluded from the world stage. God's infinite love compensates for what he has never received, and his presence restores meaning to a world that seemed devoid of it. The mystical impulse, the tension toward the infinite, does not end with the fall of religious aspirations. On the contrary, the transition from Christian preacher to painter is the fruit of Christian love for the mystery of nature, God's love for his creatures, which is amplified in art. For Van Gogh, painting will always be sacred; it will be the painting of the absolute.

Becoming a Painter as a Path of Transformation | Pain Can Become an Element of Beauty

Vincent lucidly defines the practice of art as "the only remedy for your melancholy, without which one collapses." In this way, he finds in psychosis not only its inherent suffering but also a creative possibility—a force searching for form.

Van Gogh affirms that the most sensitive task of painting is to capture the mystery of nature, which, for him, is equivalent to the mystery of life's pain. As Merleau-Ponty reminds us, every painter knows that things are not simply represented by paint; they are touched, affected, and observed from the painter's own side of the world. Painting, for Van Gogh, arises precisely from this gaze that is produced in the Other. Nature is not simply what is in front of him; it emerges as something that looks at him. The painter feels affected and says:

"Really, for me, the drama of the storm in nature and the pain of life is what affects me the most."

The strength of his work lies above all in the power of color, which draws him to the south of France and its distinctive light—different from the light of the north, where he spent his early years. His time in Arles and Saint-Rémy allowed him to conquer new expressive horizons, laying the foundation for modern art, both in terms of color composition and the autonomous maturation of sign language, whose rapidity would become legendary—"full of errors and gaps."

The heart of nature remains "that pain of life." To be caught in it carries great danger. Indeed, in his last letter to Theo, he says: "In my work I always risk my life."

In his letters, Vincent describes himself as suspended in a zone of oscillation between creation and destruction. This is why painting is a limited state for him.

Van Gogh's constant self-doubt and the call to art

Van Gogh always doubted his own talent. He looked at Gauguin with admiration, and his search was obstinate and tenacious. It was not only his skills that led him to art, but art itself that called him, forcing him to expose himself. This call echoes the other—one from the crucified Christ, to whom the young painter had ardently approached. His commitment and constant rigor in his investigations do not contrast with this call from elsewhere. By becoming a painter, Van Gogh gave account of a life devoid of defenses, exposed to the unknown, devoid of refuge, bringing him closer to the "pain of existing."

Feeling Called by Destiny | Art as an Eclipse of the Name

In Van Gogh, painting is dedicated to the search for the absolute, seeking to identify with the power of nature.

Van Gogh's artwork can be seen as an invocation of the absolute, a prayer. For this reason, it can only be sacred. In art, there is no ego—only God.

Identification with the Christ of the Passion remains crucial throughout his career. This is evident in one of his last works, the Pietà, painted in September 1889, where he portrays Christ taken down from the cross, attributing his own face to the figure.

Vincent demands self-sacrifice like the Christian religion—his own psychological erasure, his own annihilation. In this sense, it is an eclipse of the proper name. This is why Jaspers,

when discussing Vincent Van Gogh's painting, says that in it, the creator ultimately consumes himself in the work.

When the young art critic Albert Aurier wrote an article in January 1890 titled "The Isolated: Vincent Van Gogh," in which he sensed the greatness of Vincent's genius, Vincent felt ashamed. In a letter to his brother, he expressed discomfort with being seen as a model in modern painting. He did not believe he deserved it and shied away from the compliments he received.

His sense of unworthiness was so overwhelming that he could not accept recognition; there was no place for him.

The need to eclipse himself prevails over the desire to assert his own ego. This realization occurs through art, transforming his melancholic identification into an active melancholy, one capable of giving shape and forcing the strength of painting to transcend its own name. His art is only interested in the absolute—only in God, the God of the cross, of art, and of nature.

In this gesture, Vincent transcends his Self-Preservation 4 character. Instead of living in self-hatred and passive melancholy, through the experience of art, he prolongs the Christian experience of love as an experience of surrender.

The Sacredness and Absoluteness of Art Wear Vincent Down

While art serves as a counterpoison to his psychosis and melancholic tendencies, his complete immersion in the power of nature ultimately burns him out—"burning his brain."

Abandonment

Van Gogh’s passion for art sustains him through his separation from all social ties, to the point of realizing his existence as an abandoned being.

He expresses a deep force—an energy that turns against the institutions of power, including his patriarchal family, the Church, theology, the Academy, and the success of the Impressionist movement. In his letters, a critical tone emerges, along with a sense of redemption. Vincent repeatedly asserts that his work will be a contribution to future painters, that his dedication will not be in vain.

The theme of abandonment, of being last or discarded, runs throughout his work. The motif of shoes, in particular, is insistent in his production. In all his works, shoes appear unadorned, worn, abandoned.

With those shoes, Vincent set out, making the journey his destination. By starting this journey, he has shown a way. He has made his individual experience one that resonates with others who recognize themselves in the hero's journey. These are not fetishistic objects, for consumption or fashion—they are lived-in shoes, used daily, therefore old. The title is telling: A Pair of Shoes, 1886. Van Gogh's abandoned shoes do not propose an ideal version of beauty, but rather indicate that moment of transition from life to death.

Japanese art was, for him, the most accomplished form of art, the art of light that exists. He was not so much interested in grand concepts or universal speculations, but in the study of a single blade of grass, the most modest and smallest form of life, because the infinite is also contained in this form and expressed within it. To study the blade of grass is to study the whole world. This leads the painter to identify with all the plants, the seasons, the animals, and the human figure.

The great Japanese innovation is to reduce the practice of painting to the practice of drawing, therefore essential, without mediation, directly from the tube. Achieving the simplicity of the line, of the breath, of the act without thought, requires strict discipline—almost a new asceticism. The monastic order of Japanese life must inspire his life as a painter.

Artaud defines Van Gogh's work as the unleashing and enchantment of the primary elements, thus forming an ambivalent connection with nature, an unleashing of its power, and a feeling of being drawn toward it without being able to escape. The power of the sun in his works appears inhuman and indifferent. It is not the sun that warms the earth and life, nor is it the sun that illuminates the scene of the world. Rather, it is the real, as impossible as it may seem, that emerges traumatically from the bottom of the canvas.

It is no coincidence that after the onset of psychosis, Van Gogh's "tremendous desire to see his friends and the countryside again" appeared from the north, experienced as a real need to overcome the disease. He wrote to his brother in the last year of his life, stating that his illness was "typical of the South," and that returning home, to the familiar, could put an end to the hallucinations. Returning to the North is presented as the only therapeutic strategy to push back the disease that consumes him. Always present in Van Gogh's painting, in an always unstable balance, is the force that tends to break boundaries.

The chromatic force that Van Gogh extracts from his vision of nature never devastates the painting; rather, it nourishes it, making it alive and throbbing. It is the manifestation not of a meaning, but of an untranslatable realization—the elevation of the object to a sacred dimension. The painting is subjected to strong seismic waves, but these never compromise the work. It is Vincent who ceases to govern what governs the painting, and he is inexorably consumed by it.

Girolamo Savonarola Family, Childhood, and Youth (1452-1475)

Girolamo Savonarola was born in Ferrara on September 21, 1452, the son of Nicholas and Elena Bonaccorsi, from Mantua.

As the third son, all the hopes of his family were pinned on him. Still a child, he had been chosen to carry on the family traditions and add luster to a name made famous by his grandfather, Miguel Savonarola.

His grandfather, in fact, had obtained a professorship at the University of Ferrara for his notoriety as a doctor and man of letters, in addition to being appointed private physician to Niccolò d'Este. When he retired, he secured a pension, a noble title, and many honors. His son, Niccolò, a simple and pious man, suffered from his father's fame and was eclipsed by it. Of his grandchildren, only Girolamo exhibited an intelligence that his grandfather attached himself to with the tenacity of someone who sees his life's work jeopardized by the mediocrity of his descendants.

For this reason, Girolamo left his parents' home at an early age and grew up in his grandfather's house, under his protection, until he was sixteen.

Girolamo, shy, melancholic, studious, and self-sufficient, grew up among books, showing a lively sense of responsibility.

He had a disposition for philosophy and dialectic, which was encouraged by his success. His grandfather wanted to perfect him by instilling in him his own cult of religion, based on contempt for the world.

At the age when children typically play at imitating life, Girolamo's objects of diversion were the altars. Later, his favorite book became the Bible, and by sixteen, the model boy—whose rectitude was exemplary—was already scandalized by the frivolity of his generation. He joined his laments to those of his grandfather. Serious and fond of solitude, he avoided hobbies and company typical of his age. The promiscuity of youth, the manly

code of the street, or frivolous pastimes repulsed him. He was more likely to be found in church, in the solitude of a dark nave, or taking long, solitary walks along the embankment of the Po.

After the death of his grandfather, he continued his studies with his father for two years, and then he was sent to the university. He was eighteen years old, and that was his first contact with the world. His impression was one of revolt, shame, and dismay. The professors seemed concerned only with "putting on a show of virtuosity," great ideals destroyed, authority discredited, and youth corrupted. During academic disputes at the university, he defended himself with a skill that impressed his opponents and a manner that disarmed them, even though inwardly he was torn between protesting and disgust.

The effort to impose himself and resist the university environment ruined his health, and he had to interrupt his studies. He returned home convinced that the world and its wisdom had little to teach him. His family tried to convince him to go to the Estensi court, but he felt lost in that splendid atmosphere of play and sensuality. He did not know the game, he could not compete with the young, strong, and virile men. He felt clumsy, ridiculous, inferior, and inadequate, even for his social position.

He came back from court, like from the university, disgusted by the world. However, at that moment, he did not think of abandoning it. Instead, he began to believe that he could have been a doctor, like his grandfather, and care for the poor with selfless generosity.

It was also at this time that he fell in love with a young woman who came to live near his home, the natural daughter of a Florentine exile from the illustrious Strozzi family. But his disappointment at the girl's rejection—she dismissed him with a shrug, telling him that "blood and the illustrious Strozzi family could not admit such a union"—blocked his emotional development, freezing him. A bitter struggle arose within him, and bitterness and melancholy slowly found their way into his heart. He saw everywhere in the world the faults of the girl: vanity, cruelty, pride, and frivolity. He began to write a treatise entitled Contempt for the World, and resumed reading the classics and the Bible (Sodom and Gomorrah fed his imagination). His virtues were his only superiority, and the world mocked and trampled on them. He wrote then: “To be considered a man, one must dirty one's tongue with the dirtiest and most savage blasphemies, incite others to murder, and provoke discord and contention. If you live chaste and modest, they say you are a fool. If you are pious, they say you are dishonest. If you believe in God, they say you are stupid. If you are pious, they say you are effeminate...”

Days, months, and years passed, and this friction turned into exasperation. What began as a normal adolescent crisis became a deepening conviction within him.

He writes: “I began to reflect on what it is to strive for useless ends and how we neglect what is useful and necessary. And considering how fast death is moving, I decided to abandon everything else, to keep in mind only the end of man and prepare for it with all my might. By the grace of God, I began to despise all earthly things. An irresistible longing for the heavenly homeland burned in my heart, and I decided to serve only Jesus Christ, my Lord.”

The only thing holding him back from his decision was the knowledge of the pain he would cause his parents. In addition, the economic conditions afflicting the family were far from prosperous. His father was in financial difficulties, and his sisters had no dowry. His mother left upon learning of his decision. One day, while he was playing the lute, his mother sensed that the decision had been made and said to him: "Son, I feel that you are leaving." He didn't dare look into her eyes, and they said goodbye in silence.

The next day, while the family was out among the crowds gathered for the Jubilee feast, he disappeared. The following day, he sent them a letter from Bologna. It was April 1475.

Entry into the Dominican Order and Conquest of Eloquence (1475-1489)

On April 26, 1475, Girolamo entered the convent of San Domenico in Bologna. His novitiate year was long and bitter, marked by a constant struggle to control himself. He was tormented by the complaints of his inconsolable parents, whom he had to scold harshly. To tame his intense emotions, he mortified himself with such excessive zeal that his superiors had to intervene and calm him down. With the same fervor, he worked as a novice. Nothing frightened him—not even the humblest tasks or the intellectual strain. Serving at the table, washing feet, and cleaning the convent were considered privileges. Not being allowed to read more than the rules of the Order and the lives of the saints was a special favor. And when, at the end of the year, he returned to his studies, he regretted leaving the convent’s sacred life behind. "I have not come to the convent," he wrote, "to exchange mundane Aristotle for a cloistered one." Yet, he submitted to the discipline.

Student life did offer privileges, but Jeronimo allowed himself no rest. His mortifications were continuous, and his superiors tried in vain to moderate him. He practiced the slightest privations in secret: he slept only four hours a night, saved paper for writing, and even deprived himself of a crucifix. His superiors made him realize that the duty of a Dominican was to preach eloquently and study, and he began to wonder if he had chosen the wrong Order. He observed that the dominant concern among the superiors was to increase the influence, wealth, and culture of the convent. Their “lukewarmness,” in comparison to the lives of the saints, dismayed him. His confessor found no fault in him—not even a venial sin.

He was perfect, and in this human satisfaction, he found peace. This peace lasted for six years.

Jeronimo knew that the mission of the Order was to preach, and he felt deeply called to this task. For this, he had been born and had suffered: to transform himself from victim to scourge—to rebuke, subdue, exhort, and reform the world that had outraged him.

He prepared ardently for the mission, but his first efforts were unsuccessful. He had a weak voice, spoke clumsily, and was overly severe. Something was missing. He strove to overcome these shortcomings. He received lessons in oratory and rhetoric, but his progress seemed to worsen, and he became less capable of persuading others with studied, hypocritical gestures. He reread the most iridescent passages of the Old Testament, which awakened in him an eloquence expressed in writing. The revelations he received from the horrors unfolding in Rome made his blood boil, but the pulpit stifled him, and his sermons left the public indifferent. It seemed to him that the mission of his life was to conquer eloquence.

In 1481, he was sent to Florence to the convent of San Marco. Leaving Ferrara, with its many failed oratorical attempts, was a great relief. In Florence, Girolamo was highly indignant at the luxurious and licentious life there. But when he was sent to preach at San Lorenzo, the result was disastrous. The audience was reduced to only twenty-five people. He had "no voice, no movement," no grace, and no goodness in a city steeped in art. He was advised to stop preaching, which he did, retreating into deep reflection. He began to despise the sensationalism of mass sermons, which corresponded to a soft, corrupt age. He felt that only a divine scourge could punish the Church.

He began preaching in the provinces, moving from city to city for seven years. There, his candor and spontaneity produced a profound effect. He increased his austerities, fasting and even bloodletting. In 1489, he was called to Florence by Lorenzo de' Medici at the suggestion of Pico della Mirandola, who was undergoing a personal spiritual crisis. He resumed preaching with new inner emotion, and for the first time, he succeeded in touching the hearts of his audience. His sermons became a triumph.

Relationship with Lorenzo de' Medici (1489-1492)

From San Marco, Savonarola began to preach in the Duomo, before an audience of ten thousand people. He became dramatic and theatrical, bursting into sobs and sighs. To mock him, his followers were called Piagnoni. He preached against the sins disturbing the family—drunkenness, impiety, gambling, and debauchery—becoming an ally of women

against the free and irresponsible man. This earned him accusations of madness and charlatanism, particularly due to his constant visions.

In response, Savonarola moved from oracles to reality, addressing political abuses in his sermons. The terrain became more treacherous as he spoke of the exploitation of workers and unjust taxes—taxes paid by the poor, not the rich. Gradually, a current of political opinion formed around him, linking him with discontent about the Medici regime. He began to be seen as someone close to the plebs. Despite advice to renounce politics and prophecy, he could no longer retreat because his power and popularity were rooted in these very impulses. Savonarola spoke of an inner conflict between two parts of himself, but he felt he could no longer stop, even at the cost of self-destruction.

He continued denouncing the corruption of the clergy, the oppression of the poor, the tyranny, the greed of the rich, and the debauchery of his generation.

He was invited to preach at the palace, and his sermon was an indirect and somewhat gratuitous attack on Lorenzo de' Medici. Lorenzo initially ignored him, magnanimous and magnificent.

In July 1491, Savonarola was elected prior of San Marco. It was customary for the new prior to pay a tribute visit to the head of the Medici family. However, Girolamo refused and was categorical: "Only to God do I owe my choice, and only to him do I incline." Lorenzo saw it as a matter of form, not principles. He perceived the prior's obstinacy as a challenge to his own charm, tolerance, and generosity. Lorenzo cherished the sympathy and respect of the people, so he tried to create casual encounters, even offering money in an attempt to buy the convent. Despite these efforts, the dispute between them remained latent. They were two incompatible personalities: Savonarola was all principles, while Lorenzo was all expediency and worldly wisdom.

Lorenzo's lack of principles was a constant provocation to the friar’s morale, and Savonarola attributed all the ills of Florence to him. Completely lacking in political realism, Savonarola reduced Florence’s political issues to moral problems, viewing Lorenzo's ambition as the root cause of the city's troubles.

Their last meeting took place on Lorenzo’s deathbed. Just before dying, Lorenzo did not want just any priest by his side—he wanted Savonarola. Initially, Savonarola refused, but Lorenzo rebelled against this refusal and insisted, calling him again because he was "the only honest friar he knew." This time, Savonarola went. What followed is unknown. Poliziano claimed that Lorenzo confessed and Savonarola urged him to pray with him. Another version suggests that Savonarola imposed three conditions before accepting the confession: faith in God's mercy, the return of the Medici family's embezzled assets, and the

return of freedom to Florence. According to this account, Lorenzo turned to face the wall and died that same night.

The Monastic Reforms (1492-1494)

Savonarola’s prestige grew enormously after Lorenzo’s death. Almost simultaneously, Pope Innocent VIII died, and Borgia Pope Alexander VI was elected. It was rumored that his election had been bought, and simony, immorality, corruption, nepotism, and general depravity ravaged the Church.

Savonarola’s sermons were celebrated, yet his prophecies were ignored, seeming increasingly vain. He began to feel that it was time to move from proud and desperate protests "to deeds and examples, which speak louder than words." He decided to reform the small community at the Convent of San Marco. His first step was to propose abandoning the convent itself, with its precious library, frescoed cells by Beato Angelico, cloisters adorned with coats of arms, and gardens full of naked pagan statues—too mundane in his eyes.

He decided to retire to a hermitage with his closest disciples. A new convent of primitive simplicity was planned, but the project was boycotted by the older friars when they realized the severity imposed on them. Savonarola realized that simplicity had to be achieved through new monastic rules, conquering the human nature of the monks with sweetness and joy. This was a great sacrifice for him, but when the demon of melancholy assaulted him, he tamed it in the pulpit, where he unleashed his emotions.

He created a community where serenity, simplicity, and happiness reigned. Though indulgent with others, he was incredibly strict with himself. No one surpassed his austerities. He only slept four hours a night. He ate the oldest bread, leaving the freshest for the sick and elderly, and refrained from eating meat. Over time, he completely lost his sense of taste. He preached austerity by living it.

He insisted on cleanliness, performing even the most menial tasks expected of novices. He was never irritable except in the pulpit.

In private life, Savonarola revealed a kind, submissive, and courteous character. He would take his monks for walks in the hills, dance the ronda, or discuss theological matters among butterflies. However, it was not enough to win over the monks. A political decision was necessary to apply his monastic reform, which depended on his Lombard superiors. Eventually, he became head of an autonomous congregation and was able to apply his reform. The rule of poverty was strictly enforced. Food and clothing were restricted. The reformed Dominicans could be recognized by their shorter, looser cassocks that barely

covered their knees and by their patched sandals. The clothes they carried were considered not their property, and books and cells were changed periodically. All possessions were seen as temporary loans, reminding the monks of life's transience. Savonarola wanted to combat all forms of property, breaking down individual ownership in favor of the community. Monks worked for their living, and the convent's possessions were sold. Those who had a trade contributed their earnings to the support of the community, leaving others free for spiritual pursuits.

The reform was carried out amid many internal conflicts. The health of the friars suffered due to excessive fasting and fatigue; it is said that several fell ill and could barely stand. During the initial efforts to achieve perfection, the temptations of the devil were frequent. According to Savonarola, the convent was even invaded by a cloud of demons that polluted the air. Every night, he chased them away by sprinkling the cells with holy water and singing hymns. The new rule appealed to refined minds, those noble and daring individuals connected to the ideal of simple living and high thinking. In that moment, Savonarola displayed a battling joy, a tone of satisfaction. Discouragement had finally turned into action.

However, we must remember that the moralist's ambition, no matter how holy and disinterested it may seem, is still an affirmation of himself. It is a powerful elixir that operates not so much on material things but on the individual, imposing his ideals and passions on himself and imprinting his image on others. For Savonarola, this ambition represented the reaction of his entire life—a final revenge against a world that had rejected him.

Savonarola recognized that the uncertain political situation in Florence and Italy presented a good opportunity for a religious revival. The growing public alarm gave new vigor to his sermons, and everywhere, reality seemed to respond to the friar's visions. In 1494, the French under Charles VIII were at the gates of Florence, and on March 17, Savonarola was preaching in the cathedral before a large crowd: "Behold, I will cause the waters to come upon the earth. Repent!"

Political Reforms (1494-1495)

For his efforts as a moral peacemaker against the French invasion, Savonarola was seen by the people as a patriot. As a sign of recognition, he was invited to collaborate in the reorganization of the new city government. Savonarola sensed the dangers of embarking on a political career, abandoning his freedom, and facing the risks of life and death (from the beginning, he had a premonition of imminent martyrdom). But it also represented a brilliant opportunity to finalize his work and put the reforms initiated in the convent to the test at a

higher level. Political reform, however, was for him merely a means to a higher end—moral reform: the power to punish vice by law and to sanction morality through regulation. This was the realization of all his dreams, the reward for all his efforts, and he was prepared for the challenge.

Once the French had left, a provisional government was elected in Florence, and it had to decide which political form to choose. Savonarola, for political reasons, supported democracy. His proposal was approved. In the following three months, although Savonarola did not hold any official position, he was, in fact, the inspirer or, at least, the instigator of several important reforms: fiscal changes, the institution of the Monte de Piedad (against "the false Jewish sect, the enemy of God"—the usurers), and legal reforms. Naturally, this greatly increased his enemies and adversaries: the Angry, the oligarchs, the Bigi (supporters of the Medici), the Whites (the skeptics within his party), and his fellow friars, who were envious of his influence.

The attacks against him and his followers, called the Piagnoni (but also mocked as the "choked ones," "giraffes," "paternostri chewers," and other vulgar nicknames), combined with the fatigue of those months and his tireless activity in all fields, eventually undermined the health of the friar, who fell ill. At night, he was tormented by demons and mockery, and from the pulpit, it was evident that he was not only sick but also anguished and depressed.

His precarious state of health had soured him, much as in his younger days, and at the threat of seeing his reforms compromised, he became verbally violent, recommending severe punishments for every offense—"cutting off heads, confiscating property, inciting violent revolt." His invectives grew more and more violent: "Take him out and say: 'He deserves death.' Otherwise, the city will be ruined. Leave the dances and games, and close the taverns... It is time to cry, not to party."

He then retired to his cell, seeking the peace of his sickbed.

Moral Reforms (1495-1496)

By temporarily halting his political activity, Savonarola was able to focus on moral reforms. Fueled by the prestige of his political work, his exhortations gained more weight. When trade stopped, merchants read the Bible; merchants returned dishonest gains, and women gave up their whims to give alms. But according to Savonarola, the obstinacy of the inert masses could only be tackled with legislative power and coercion—terrible sentences for sodomy and blasphemy. This served to stifle the wickedness of human nature, to suppress the anarchy of unbridled life, and to call the Universe back to goodness, reshaping it in the

image of the Creator—or even in his own image, as he was now convinced that he was a representative of God on Earth.

During this period, many of his external enemies attempted to convince the Pope to intervene, accusing Savonarola of "taking advantage of the changes in Italy to make people believe he was inspired by God, without proving it with miracles or special revelations from Scripture, as canon law required."

The Pope delayed, not intervening with excommunication, but did order Savonarola to refrain from preaching, both publicly and privately. Savonarola accepted this mandate for silence as a truce, but it was short-lived.

At the Carnival of 1496, Savonarola, with impressive fervor, adapted all the licentious habits of Florentine youth during the Carnival to his moral agenda, substituting Christian practices for pagan ones. Religious processions were organized, sacred hymns were composed, and about twenty days before Carnival, the friar instructed all the young men from good families and divided them into district teams with captains. They were organized like soldiers. Little beggars armed with sticks stopped passersby to ask for money for alms. Each team carried a banner of Christ and the Virgin. In the Piazza Duomo, groups of men and women added jewelry and personal adornments to the money already raised for the poor. In short, the boys became a moral police force. They had their own tasks—wearing simple clothes, avoiding lascivious poets and immoral readings, dances, fencing, and music schools, and cutting their hair down to their ears.

There were the Pacieri, the Correttori (who established punishments), the Inquisitori (who discovered abuses), and the Spazzini (who ensured hygiene and civic cleanliness). They encouraged the other boys to make the same sacrifices, becoming a greater scourge than before. With the authorization of the government and the friar, they took it upon themselves to severely reform everyone else. The "boys of the friars" attacked confectioneries during Lent and broke into taverns to scare the players. Savonarola had found fervent allies in these boys.

Meanwhile, the government had asked Rome for permission for the friar to preach during Lent, and the Pope agreed, but imposed a trusted Dominican to observe him. Savonarola's preaching grew bolder, and at a time when strategic restraint might have been advised, his sermons became increasingly incendiary. Lent was filled with more and more sermons, accompanied by violent invectives against Rome, driven by visions of desolation and universal depravity.

The Excommunication (1496-1497)

The summer of 1496 marked a period of severe economic crisis and desolation in Florence. The government ordered public prayers and processions. Savonarola resumed preaching, realizing that this was an opportune moment to carry out his reform after several months. "My brothers," the friar exhorted, "we are only in this world to learn how to die," using all his eloquence to convince them of the vanity of fleeting life.

He urged the government to enforce edicts against vice: taverns were closed, races suspended, and gamblers threatened with torture. Prostitutes were expelled from the city, dances were prohibited—even in the countryside, as "it was not a time to dance and sing, but to weep and do penance." Fasts were strictly observed, and luxury goods vendors went out of business. The state, inspired by Savonarola, became increasingly theocratic.

Meanwhile, Pope Alexander VI sought to find a painless way to curb the friar's influence, placing the convent of San Marco under the jurisdiction of a vicar. Savonarola opposed this, and the Pope responded with excommunication, although he was not fully convinced.

The Great Council became more numerous and was largely made up of young people, mostly arrabbiati, who were enemies of Savonarola. The arrabbiati decided to restore the Carnival of 1497 with the old games to raise the morale of the people. Savonarola reacted with the famous burning of the "vanities." His friars had collected masks, paintings, statues of nudes, mirrors, and copies of works by Boccaccio and Pulci's Morgante from homes across the city. They built a massive heap in the square, poured flammable liquids over it, and topped it with the devilish image of the King of Carnival. On the appointed day, when the arrabbiati tried to prevent the act, the Piazza della Signoria was invaded by choirs of children, and at a signal, the trumpets sounded, and the bells rang, accompanying the burning of the Vanities.

This burning led to accusations of fanaticism, even among the friar's supporters, who would have preferred the objects to be sold, with the proceeds going to charity. Savonarola grew gloomy and felt powerless. The more powerless he felt, the more he redoubled his exhortations, increasing his indignation and melancholy.

When the excommunication came (1497), the angry masses took control of the city and annulled all of the friar's measures. Taverns and gambling houses were reopened, the post office and confessionals resumed their operations. Savonarola could no longer continue preaching, but he meditated on a reaction, appealing to the general council.

Breakup (1497–March 1498)

His political supporters resumed the fight for his acquittal, but Savonarola remained intransigent, rejecting any possibility of a venal exchange or any kind of agreement. The

Vatican did not demand a sacrifice of its principles, only a formal act of submission: to go to Rome or accept the Tuscan-Roman congregation as the governing body of San Marcos. Savonarola was completely obstinate. His supporters did not know if it was due to unlimited pride or fear, but it was clear that his way of acting would lead only to destruction. Was this perhaps the solution? Was this the charm of the abyss? The intoxication of suicide? The morbid satisfaction of martyrdom? The unconscious feeling that his destiny was failure, and reconciliation a shameful temptation?

In truth, there were many inconsistencies in Savonarola's attitude at this moment. He clung to an irrational hope for the successful outcome of his uncompromising cause, while also feeling deeply exalted, seeing himself as a martyr—a lone knight battling against the Power of Darkness. He believed that God would defend his cause: "We will see who is more powerful, God or men."

In the midst of this troubled political climate, Savonarola made one last attempt to appeal to the Pope by writing a letter of submission. Failing to achieve the desired effect, the friar defiantly celebrated Mass on Christmas night in San Marcos, distributing communion to 300 of his followers. His followers became more fanatical and extremist, while the timid ones disappeared.

On the last day of Carnival, he promised to bless the people in the Plaza de San Marcos and attempted to pass off the holy host as a miracle. In the afternoon, he repeated the "burning of the vanities," though there was much less enthusiasm this time.

Savonarola’s sermons were published and began circulating throughout Europe. He received letters from Germany from enthusiastic supporters of his doctrine. The risk to the Church was that Savonarola might become the face of a wider movement against the Roman Church, potentially bypassing Rome's excommunication. However, the Pope hesitated, knowing the Church's own inconsistencies and corruption. Before acting, he sought a mediator—the Bishop of Parma—who suggested that Savonarola ask for absolution, even if only in appearance, in order to keep up the illusion. The Pope wanted to avoid violent actions and maintain appearances.

In the end, the Pope's ultimatum to the government of Florence came to light. Savonarola's political supporters fought for a political compromise, which included suspending his sermons.

The Trial by Fire (March 1498)

On the morning of March 18, 1498, Savonarola preached his last sermon. It was inevitable that he would submit, but he did so defiantly. Unable to openly admit defeat, he attempted

to mask his surrender by communicating his inner turmoil and reflections. He spoke of his direct dialogue with God, saying he would suspend his sermons, but that this would not prevent Rome's ruin: "O Rome, it will not be easy for you to break this sting! But that will sting you even harder, trust me! Italy, Italy, the Lord is with me, you can't do anything. I warn you, those who persecute me will fall by the sword and pestilence, and they will be thrown and crushed like so many ants. Their confusion will be great."

As he uttered this prophecy, he realized how powerless he had become. He admitted that he had become a "laughing stock" and that he had been tempted several times to stop preaching. However, something held him back, a force against which his will was powerless: "I couldn't contain myself anymore. The Word of God became a fire that consumed my insides. I could not suppress it. I had to speak because I felt on fire, inflamed by the Spirit of the Lord. O Spirit, you provoke persecutions and tribulations against me, you raise the waves of the sea like the wind and unleash the storms. 'Stop!' I say, but the Spirit answers: 'It can't be otherwise.'"

Suspending his sermons did not satisfy the Pope, who realized he had conceded too much by accepting a truce rather than a full submission. At that moment, a final letter from Savonarola arrived, which exhausted the Pope’s patience. In the letter, the friar portrayed himself as a victim, an unfairly treated martyr. Calmly steadfast in his rectitude, he maintained that God would inflict the deserved punishment on those who persecuted him. He said he sought not earthly glory, but eagerly awaited death, concluding by admonishing the Pope to "take care of his health."

The Pope sensed an impending attack. Savonarola secretly wrote to the rulers of France, England, Spain, Austria, and Hungary, urging them to convene a general council. While such a council could have been convened without the Pope’s consent, Savonarola thought the only way to accuse him was to claim atheism: "I affirm that he is not a Christian and does not believe in God, which exceeds the limits of all infidelity." However, the letter Savonarola attempted to send to Charles VIII was intercepted at the border of the State of Milan.

Trial and Death (April–May 1498)

On Palm Sunday, in April 1498, the arrabbiati stormed the convent of San Marcos, setting fire to the doors and roof. The siege lasted seven hours. Savonarola spoke to his friars, reaffirming the truth of his ideas, and was eventually arrested. The people, filled with hatred and cruelty, attempted to lynch him. He was then taken to the palace to be tried.

The trial was vile, petty, vindictive, and inhumane. A crude justice system, fueled by mob fury, partisan zeal, and ecclesiastical politics, carried out the trial. The deeper reason, however, lay in the enormous resentment towards Savonarola: years of aversion to his claims had built up, and now fury was unleashed. His attempt to translate his visions into a theocratic experiment only worsened the situation.

During the Renaissance, Savonarola represented the ancient, dogmatic code of medieval Christianity, standing as an obstacle to the flourishing ideals of the Renaissance, such as the spontaneity of instinct and the free search for experience. By martyring Savonarola, it felt as though one generation was martyring another.

The need to give a legal aspect to the friar's execution delayed the trial for forty days. Savonarola resisted, but only the torture broke him, forcing him to confess what the judges wanted: that he had been an impostor acting out of personal ambition. Physically worn out from years of abstinence and fatigue, he was so mentally exhausted that he needed assistance to eat. During those nights, he wrote a great deal of commentary on Psalm XXX, imagining a dialogue with a Tempter and accusing himself of cowardice and failure.

He went to his death calmly and coldly, disappointing the expectations of the crowd. On May 23, 1498, he was hanged and then roasted, alongside friars Domenico and Silvestro, in the middle of the square, surrounded by wood.