
The Scream
Munch said an infinite scream was passing through nature, and put two figures on the bridge behind who walk on without noticing.

Munch said an infinite scream was passing through nature, and put two figures on the bridge behind who walk on without noticing.

Cézanne used local farmhands as models and painted several versions, stripping the old tavern subject down until only two men and a bottle remain.

Marlow steams up the Congo to retrieve an ivory agent gone strange upriver. Conrad found empire hollow, and the novelist Achebe's charge of racism has kept the book under argument ever since.

A lion sniffs at a sleeper in the desert without waking her. Rousseau was a customs officer who never took a lesson.

Zarathustra comes down from his mountain to announce that God is dead and man is something to be overcome. Nietzsche wrote it as scripture rather than argument, and readers take it personally.

Gauguin thought he was dying and meant this to be his last work, reading right to left from a sleeping infant to an old woman.

Cézanne painted his local mountain over and over, less to record it than to rebuild it out of flat patches of green, ochre and blue.

Tess, a poor farm girl, is sent to claim kinship with rich relatives, and what happens there decides the rest of her life. Hardy called her a pure woman and Victorian England erupted.

Wilde gives two idle men imaginary people, a wicked brother and an invalid friend, to escape their obligations, then sets them courting women who will marry no one but a man named Ernest.
Truth is the most valuable thing we have. Let us economize it.

Three paths run into the wheat and none of them go anywhere. Painted at Auvers in his last weeks, and read too neatly ever since.

The doctor who was caring for him leans his head on one hand, a sprig of foxglove on the table, the background rippling blue.

Monet dug the pond himself at Giverny, built the Japanese bridge over it, and then painted the place for the rest of his life.

Every dream is a disguised wish, Freud claims, and the mind disguises it by condensation and displacement. Psychoanalysis rests on this book, and the dreams it dissects are mostly Freud's own.

Monet painted the same stacks near his house at every hour and season, so that what changes from canvas to canvas is only the light.

A woman washes a child's feet in a basin, seen from above, the wallpaper and rug pushing everything flat as a Japanese print.

He painted it for his brother's newborn son, named Vincent after him, and cropped the boughs against the sky like a Japanese print.