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825 pages, Paperback
First published October 1, 2022
…I’d started painting, with the two lines, one purple and one brown, he says and I feel myself not wanting to talk about it, I’ve never liked talking about a picture I’m working on, or about any picture I’ve finished either for that matter, never, once a picture is finished the picture says whatever it can say, no more no less, the picture says in its silent way whatever can be said…
…I say that the cross is already a paradox, with those two lines that cross, the vertical and the horizontal, as they say, and that Christ, yes, God himself, died and then rose again to conquer death, he who came down to earth when people were separate from God because of what they call original sin, when evil, yes, devils took control of this world, as it says in the Bible, yes, it’s impossible to understand that, I say, and I say that evil, sin, death, all of it came into the world, yes, into the universe, it all exists because God said yes but there was also someone who said no, if you can put it that way, I say, because otherwise there would be neither time nor space, yes, everything that exists in time and space has its opposite, like good and evil, I say, and everything that’s in time and space will someday pass away, in fact most things, almost everything that there’s ever been in time and space is already gone, almost every last thing is outside of time and space, it isn’t anywhere, it just is, the way God isn’t anywhere but just is…
…ever since Asle was admitted to The Hospital and they didn’t let me see him I’ve had no more desire to paint, and the bad picture, the one with the two lines that cross, luckily it’s not on the easel anymore, I’ve put it away, put it at the front of the stack of the unfinished paintings, with the stretcher facing out, I think and I think that it’s probably going to be morning soon, I think and I close my eyes…
And I see myself standing and looking at the picture with the two lines that cross in the middle, one purple line, one brown line it's a painting wider than it is high and I see that I've painted the lines slowly, the paint is thick, two long wide lines, and they've dripped, where the brown line and purple line cross the colours blend beautifully and drip and I'm thinking this isn't a picture but suddenly the picture is the way it's supposed to be, it's done, there's nothing more to do to it. (p.3)
... I can't look at this picture anymore, it's been sitting on the easel for a long time now, a couple of weeks maybe, so now I either have to paint over it in white or else put it up in the attic, in the crates where I keep the pictures I don't want to sell, but I've already thought that thought day after day, I think and then I take hold of the stretcher and let go of it again and I realise that I, who have spent my whole life painting, oil paint on canvas, yes, ever since I was a boy, I don't want to paint anymore, ever, all the pleasure I used to take in painting is gone... (p.551)