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V E R Y F A R B A C K I N T H I S L I F E Rublev, the great painter of icons, is buried under one of his own churches; infinity stretches in all directions. Under the bricks, he hears the carriages move. Visitors from countries stand in the square; below their feet, the demons pass back & forth between the worlds . . . The icon watches as they are struck dumb by the brown facility of paint. Color has lost its innocence. Russia is an enormous plain over which wild energy rides. Christ looks sickly & helpful, raising two fingers. His eyes have apostrophes, cloves of garlic. An artist is never your enemy. How to interpret the painting through circles of violence that made it. It moves much more slowly than you do; it always has something to conceal. A painting shows you how to breathe. History is still: it’s the wood horse burning on its side. A dome sacrifices itself to a bell; its ringing swells & falls, a maybe yes & maybe no that follows you— 6 1 ...

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