A Work Of Art Comes Only From

Without Anxiety And Illness I Would Have Been Like A Ship Without A Rudder.

I Sense A Scream Passing Through Nature. I Painted ... The Clouds As Actual Blood. The Colour Shrieked.

What Is Art? Art Grows From Joy And Sorrow, But Mostly From Sorrow. It Grows From Human Lives.

I Was Walking Along A Path With Two Friends - The Sun Was Setting - Suddenly The Sky Turned Blood Red - I Paused, Feeling Exhausted, And Leaned On The Fence - There Was Blood And Tongues Of Fire Above The Blue-black Fjord And The City - My Friends Walked On, And I Stood There Trembling With Anxiety - And I Sensed An Infinite Scream Passing Through Nature.

Your Face Encompasses The Beauty Of The Whole Earth. Your Lips, As Red As Ripening Fruit, Gently Part As If In Pain. It Is The Smile Of A Corpse. Now The Hand Of Death Touches Life. The Chain Is Forged That Links The Thousand Families That Are Dead To The Thousand Generations To Come.