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134 Monet’s “Winter on the Seine, Lavacourt” These blues were never in the world. He would have had to let his palette find this benign freeze, this landscape still as a stoic’s paradise. The ice must have lain beneath his frayed gray gloves as he thrust his brush stiff across the canvas. His red spreads from the sun. Nothing else moves. In this infinity of cold, this pitiless lucidity of fading light, the dead walk across the river into town. ...

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