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75 xxxvi The Urge to Paint As a man perhaps wretched, but how fortunate the artist who is torn by desire! I burn to paint her whom I glimpsed so briefly, who fled so soon, like a thing of beauty the traveler regrettably leaves behind in the night. So long ago she is gone! Beautiful, more than beautiful: stunning. She is rich in black—all her inspirations are nocturnal and deep. Her eyes are two caverns in which mystery flickers vaguely and her gaze flashes like lightning, an explosion in the dark. I would liken her to a black sun, were it possible to conceive of dark stars pouring forth light and happiness. But she makes me think rather of the moon, which surely marked her with its formidable influence; not the white moon of idylls, which resembles a frigid bride, but the moon sinister and intoxicating, hung in the depth of a stormy night and assaulted by moving clouds; not the peaceable discreet moon visiting the sleep of the pure, but the moon vanquished and rebellious, ripped from the sky and pressed by Thessalonian sorceresses to dance on terrified grasslands. In her narrow brow live tenacious will and the love of prey. At the same time, in her disquieting face, where quivering nostrils breathe in the unknown and the impossible, a laugh bursts with inexpressible grace from the grand mouth, red and white and delightful, suggesting the miracle of a superb flower opening in volcanic soil. There are women who inspire the need to master and enjoy them; but she kindles the desire to die slowly, with her watching. ...

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