Stand in the small room in Sansepolcro and the first thing is the cold. Not in the air, in the picture. The light comes in low and from the left, the way it does about an hour after sunrise in winter, and it lies flat along the armour of the four soldiers slumped at the foot of the tomb. One has his hand up over his face. Another leans into a spear with a red shield against his knee. Behind them, the hill: bare trees on the left, leaves on the right, which you notice late and then can't stop noticing.
He painted it onto plaster on a wall of the town hall of the place he was born, and that's where he died too, in 1492. People talk about his geometry, and yes, he wrote books on it, the perspective and the solids. Mostly I think about whoever floated that wall smooth enough to take it.
Fabien, the magistrates sat under that Resurrection for centuries — it was the council chamber, and the risen Christ was effectively the town's own device: Sansepolcro is named for relics of the Holy Sepulchre that pilgrims were said to have brought back. So the men ruling on grain prices and roof repairs did it under their patron image, in that cold light.
Those late treatises are a strange, moving thing to hold — the perspective one, and the book on the five solids — written as his sight was failing, so the geometry had to live in his head rather than his eye. Vasari says he went blind at the end; I don't know how much to trust him, but the books read like a man packing carefully before a journey.