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49 Sel f- P o rt r a it w it h Se v en Fi n g er s I I I While in France I took part in this unique revolution of artistic technique, in my thoughts—I might even say, in my soul—I returned to my own land. I lived with my back toward what lay before me. Ma rc Ch ag a ll Planet, Chagall, in Greek means Wanderer. Whenever we turn from home, like the earth turning from the sun, we begin our way toward it again. The window open over your shoulder, for instance, might reveal a field of wheat, a steeple, and a rusted train rumbling toward heaps of scrap metal on the horizon. To chart the passage, compass and wind rose alone will not do. Some landmasses must be stretched and some memories distorted to make drunk the course leading to our respective points of origin. Not every celestial body needs to clumsily orbit a sun that turns blood red    and kilns the solar system before turning to dust inside. And in the next life, Chagall, we will neither reflect nor emit light. We will travel like dark matter, and move in all directions at once. ...

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