By Marco Albertario

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He uses the poison gas of talk to attack while I use it for defense. He implores the opposition with a storm of words which wrap him in a staggering head of steam of lyric poison gas, of spitting little gas grenades which explode in the opponent’s ears and  18 the private journals of edvard munch eyes like an almost lifeless mass he sets like a snake his poisonous fang in the lifeless prey— thus he can swallow it whole—or he he uses the choking nitrogen gas of malice— the clear oxygen of reason and gaseous goodness  Life—angst has raved inside me ever since I caught the idea—like an illness—since I was born—doubly inherited.

Jenson Jell At the big final exhibition/Sonderbund Cologne  the painter  (who two years later died in the war) We carry you on our shield. The Germans have carried me on their shield Here at home—squeezed I am between shields and I feel envy’s and malice’s cold shoulder There is no atmosphere about me which carries me onward and stimulates me to work surely it was better when I felt before 22 the private journals of edvard munch the storm against me That worked my powers up. A young German painter  who died in the war wrote to me: We bear you on our shields— Here in Norway no one bears me on his shield They crush me between shields A young German painter Macke who died in the war wrote to me: We bear you on our shields— Here in Norway no one bears me on his shield They crush me between shields  One evening we sat together at a café she says suddenly, “You remember you talked about dreaming that you kissed me and that your kiss devoured Death’s cold lips” Yes I say You know you—there was maybe something in that 23 we are flames which pour out of the earth So I say tensely yes she says—you have taken note of my deep coughing seizure—it happens I often spit blood in the morning there goes through me a feeling like— like that  I am like the sleepwalker who walks on the ridge of a roof— sure-footed and calm he walks without seeing without hearing— Oh someone shouts at him—louder and louder—he wakes up and he falls off of the roof—down from his dreams— Don’t do that to me—that —I walk calmly in my dreams which are my life— —only like that can I live  The water lay bluish violet out over smooth and still expanse went almost over in the air out on the horizon.

When I am talking I tax anyone I am with, as if I’ve taken him prisoner. Henrik Sørensen talks with force in order to make people carry out his plans. He uses the poison gas of talk to attack while I use it for defense. He implores the opposition with a storm of words which wrap him in a staggering head of steam of lyric poison gas, of spitting little gas grenades which explode in the opponent’s ears and  18 the private journals of edvard munch eyes like an almost lifeless mass he sets like a snake his poisonous fang in the lifeless prey— thus he can swallow it whole—or he he uses the choking nitrogen gas of malice— the clear oxygen of reason and gaseous goodness  Life—angst has raved inside me ever since I caught the idea—like an illness—since I was born—doubly inherited.

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