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This metaphysical anthem
to beauty and death, which is the absolute masterpiece of Arnold
Bôcklin, has instigated for more than a century an enormous
volume of pictorial comments. I have waited a long time
before tackling the problems of the "homage".
My natural melancholy, my nostalgia for an artistic golden age
and my morbid taste for the inescapable that tarnishes beauty
had already prepared my hand and my spirit. But my natural
vitality was refusing this ultimate voyage into the absolute.
So the boat which went towards the funeral and final place returned
towards us in a movement of panic because it was not yet the hour
to seek the place of rest. The island then took the brilliance
of a priceless stone to seduce, but we remained on the bank to
watch the bleeding heart from afar. |