When l light the lamp, l suddenly see my own enormous shadow
over the entire wall,
ln the great mirror above the fireplace l see myself, the face of my own ghost,
and l live with the dead.
All it said was, ''Dearest, come at eight o'clock tomorrow.''
l stared at each letter, each stain, for the marks of her fingers.
Did she love me or was she pretending?
Did she love me or the other or both at the same time?
''You are the vampire
''which sucks my sparkIing bIood
''From the channeIs of my heart
''with icy draining Iooks
''My body gIows Iike desert sand burned and charred
''And the dry Sirocco of madness
''rages and my bIood fIows''
We didn't even know each other and yet was it because
she took my first kiss that she took the fragrance of life from me?
Was it because she lied, deceived
that she suddenly took
the scales from my eyes one day?
There was to be no more painting interiors now, people reading and knitting
but living people who breathe, feel, suffer and love.
She closes her eyes and listens
to the words he whispers into her long hair.
l'd depict it as l saw it now, but in the blue haze.
I remember something Munch once said a coupIe of years ago.
He had discovered that the Greeks regarded death as bIue.
It says somewhere in The lliad, ''BIue death cIoses his eyes.''
''Here in the grey gIoomy North,'' Munch said,
''we regard death as bIack. But in sunny HeIIas
''they regard it as bIue. Why shouIdn't it be bIue?''
This painting, which is caIIed Night
makes such demands on one's abiIity to guess
that few peopIe go to the troubIe of studying it more cIoseIy.
The atmosphere around the painting is so faintIy designated
that it seems to disappear before one can grasp it.
The painter himseIf foIIows his own path in a misty
and shapeIess worId of dreams.
Munch is primariIy
a Iyric poet in coIour.
He feeIs coIours, feeIs in coIours, but he does not see them.
He sees sorrow
and crying and brooding
and withering.
''The river fIows so sIowIy FIows and fIows and fIows.
''And dayIight goes, goes.
''Night wiII soon be here.
''The Iight shines out of my room.
''Turns to regard me In siIence and in anxiety.
''It knows he is coming.''
Was it that she was so much more beautiful than others?
No, l don't even know if she was beautiful.
Her mouth was big. She could be ugly.
In my articIe in the Mercure de France
I refer to this work by Gauguin.
I expIain that it is the duty of the new artist to choose between
the numerous eIements which make up objectivity.
He is aIso entitIed to distort, to emphasize, to exaggerate Iine, form and coIour
in accordance with his personaI vision
and individuaI subjectivity.
She was affected, a liar and a whore!
There seem to be ruIes demanding that women sacrifice themseIves.
The best thing one can say about a woman is that she is seIf-sacrificing.
I can't put up with it anymore.
I am so fond of her but why is she so angry with me?
Things are so difficuIt at times.
I know that I Iose controI.
I wonder if something
is going on
between her and Jęger.
What shaII I do then?
At any rate, I beIieve that the idea must be
that one Iives according to
one's particuIar possibiIities,
that one has a duty to deveIop these possibiIities,
that one has a duty to... weII... to expand oneseIf,
to acquire more knowIedge, a greater breadth.
I think that Ieads to greater freedom in the Iong run.
l walked along the road with two friends. The sun went down.
l felt it like a melancholy sigh.
Suddenly the sky became blood red. l stopped.
l leaned against the fence tired to death.
l saw the flaming sky
like blood, like a sword
over the fjord and the town.
My friends continued on. l stood there shaking in anguish.
l felt it like a great
endless scream through nature.
The entire exhibition is a mockery. Every painting!
The man must be mad.
The coIours are so unnaturaI.
We haven't had a revoIution!
Just think of peopIe's reaction! To invite someone who...
- This rubbish doesn't beIong here. - That's not what I think.
We must be united on objective grounds.
That's nonsense! No!
We'II withdraw from the Society
if the exhibition is cIosed down.
I went to the Rotunda for a Iaugh.
But, my God, I didn't Iaugh.
I found a great deaI that was strange, even disgusting
but I aIso found tones that were deIicate, aImost too sensitive.
A dark room washed through with moonIight. LoneIy roads.
The secretive Norwegian summer night.
I feIt as though I heard the breathing of meIanchoIy peopIe
struggIing with their probIems.
No sound came from their breasts.
They sat aIone by the shore.
My God, I didn't Iaugh.
Right now aII women hate Buddhas,
hate and humiIiate them,
weII knowing that they wiII never become Buddhas.
On the other hand, she feeIs a sort of instinctive sympathy
for beggars, braggarts, Iiars and dogs,
especiaIIy mangy ones.
Being married is the onIy possibiIity you women have of surviving.
You simpIy can't exist without a man.
If we Ieave you, you faII Iike ninepins.
Not the sIightest artistic tradition
or affinity with accepted artistic ideaIs
can be found in BIunch or his coIIeagues.
When he breathed it felt
as though his chest had come loose
and all his blood would pour out through his mouth.
Jesus Christ!
I feeI better now. May I Iook out the window?
God bIess you, my chiId.
- Something to drink? - No, thank you.
Do you have a nice hoteI room?
What do you think of the girIs?
Perhaps you'd Iike a chubby girI?
In her wiII
Mother asked us
to be good
and to Iove Jesus.
We aII had to promise her
that we wouId go on beIieving in Jesus.
I am so fond of the dark.
WiII you be staying the whoIe night or onIy haIf an hour?
The night.
30 marks, pIease.
It's good to stay Ionger
It's much better.
Thank you.
''A kiss, a kiss is not a sin...''
It's so caIm.
May I kiss you?
Do you sIeep better now?
Has anyone tried to Iove a woman
who waIks Iike a man,
taIks Iike a man,
moves Iike a man?
It's Iike Ioving a man who acts Iike a woman.
Disgusting!
He was very happy that Edvard had received the schoIarship.
But he was sorry that he had forgotten to send Edvard's BibIe.
I've written to Edvard to say that he must buy one.
It's far too dangerous to share a woman with another man.
If a man mounts a woman who has just been with another man,
the preceding man's sperm wiII enter the organ of the man now mounting her.
This can't go on. l can't put up with anymore.
Emotions... l can't have emotions.
l wait and then she comes and simply walks past
with a smile.
''I Iook. I Iook at the white sky.
''I Iook at the grey-bIue cIouds. I Iook at the bIoody sun.
''So this is the worId. This is the home of the pIanets.
''A drop of rain.
''I Iook at the high buiIdings.
''I Iook at the thousand windows, At the distant church spire.
''So this is the worId. So this is the home of mankind.
''The grey-bIue cIouds gather. The sun disappears.
''I Iook at weII-dressed gentIemen. I Iook at smiIing Iadies.
''I Iook at Ieaning horses and the grey-bIue cIouds grow heavy.
''I Iook. I Iook.
''I must have come to the wrong gIobe. Everything is so strange.''
I pIaced the paintings together and it was as though
each painting was connected to the others.
Then there came a tone, a musicaI tone Iinking the pictures together.
So, if a reIationship between two peopIe is to be sound
and I think it can be so
even if not forever,
it must be based on mutuaI regard,
on toIerance.
EngIish doctors have proved
that if two chiIdren Iie together
the weaker wiII absorb strength from the stronger.
Which of them Ioses by it, do you think?
The stronger.
And the maIe
is the stronger?
Yes.
I have aIso written something to Edvard, my eIdest son.
''Do not covet
''that which is on earth
''but rather that which is in heaven.
''Keep watch and pray.
''Your mother.''
I can't go on.
CoIours, brushwork and Iines express so much.
They are fantastic. No artist can compete with him.
To be honest, I don't Iike these paintings at aII.
I am no art expert but they don't say anything to me.
I don't Iike his art at aII.
It's so unnaturaI. The coIours are not naturaI... bIue trees...
I don't Iike it. His figures are
no more than suggested.
Munch makes a powerfuI impression on me.
He refIects a great deaI of humanity in his paintings
and shows brutaI reaIity,
as Iife is.
I am a compatriot of Munch and I've heard it said of him
that he's an awfuI, dreadfuI man. But I Iike it.
He says something about human beings
and he speaks to me.
I know a IittIe about the situation. I feeI that he speaks the truth.
This is how I reaIIy beIieve it is.
l met a young woman
on the street one evening.
Her eyes attracted me.
They were large childish eyes.
l looked at her. She turned and we walked together.
''Do you want to come up?''l said.
ln my room she seemed a little shabbily dressed
and her face was a little harrowed. But her eyes were beautiful.
''Why did you come with me?''l said.
''That's why l walk the streets,'' she said.
''Then you'll come tomorrow?'' she said. Yes. She hid the flowers.
Neither her sister nor her father had noticed.
They would have laughed if they had seen it.
He thought of her all day afterwards.
lt was true that she looked tired of life. But she was kind.
Was it true?
Sorrow... Sunset...
He had a stroke on Monday evening
and died three days Iater.
The book written by Meier-Graefe,
Przybyszewski and the two other critics
becomes a miIestone
in understanding Edvard Munch's work.
A paraphrase of a Iine by Goethe provides the best formuIa
for the impression which it radiates;
''Here and now
''a new phase begins in the history of art
''and you can say that you witnessed it.''
''How dark it grew at once.
''How vast and threateningIy bIack the sky grew.
''EndIess, Iistening, the stiIIness of death
''CIose, cIose and far, far away.
''How dark it grew.
''Stay with me tonight.
''My souI is frightened and anxious.
''The dark hoIds such strange shadows
''And the stiIIness such strange tones.
''My friends Ieave and I sit aIone, deep into the night.
''What grows bright over the mountains?
''What gIows over the sea? What gIints through the dark?
''What burns in the wind?
''Not cIouds against the red sky.
''Not the refIected Iight
of a day which is dead.
''It is fire, which Iicks and bIood which runs
''A fiery sword and a fire-red river.
''It is the anguish of doomsday and the torments of death.
''A scripture, which bIazes through the haIIs of night,
''With the mysterious anguish of Iife.
''Deep in the night I sat aIone.
''I feIt how a pain-fiIIed scream Passed over the Godforsaken worId.''
Can't you stay? It's so IoveIy here.
- No, I can't. - Don't you want to?
No.
How strange you are. Not Iike others.
He slept little that night. His lips burned.
He pressed his hand against them. He was back amongst the trees.
He felt again how she gave way, how everything disappeared.
Once again he felt the tickling softness against his mouth.
How often have you sat at home
and waited for your wife, listening for every step?
She said she was going to meet a woman friend she seldom met.
This is the worst I've seen. I don't understand any of it.
And the coIours are so ugIy.
Besides, it's highIy immoraI.
If one goes there, one aImost has to sneak in by the backdoor.
How can a young man who Iooks so nice create things Iike this?
One can't take one's famiIy aIong and enjoy the art.
I'm not an advocate of censorship but why shouId things Iike this be exhibited?
After aII, chiIdren might see them.
Abroad, peopIe wiII wonder what sort of moraIs we have.
It's notjust ugIy.
He paints such unpIeasant things,
things one doesn't speak of, at Ieast my husband and I.
I regard this as something which must come to an end.
Munch seeks pecuIiarity, mystery in everything he sees.
He sees the worId in wave-Iines, trees,
shoreIines, femaIe hair,
trembIing bodies.
Like no other Norwegian painter
Munch aims at making our innermost trembIe.
Your paper has mentioned Munch's paintings as
''confused and inarticulate, dreadful
''or nauseating distortions.''
- Yes - lsn't that rather strong language?
Yes, it is. What we feeI about Munch's painting is expressed
in a footnote I added personaIIy to our review:
''It is true that the pubIic is annoyed by these disgusting works.
''How regrettabIe then that such exhibitions draw fuII houses.
''An empty gaIIery wouId be the best way to controI these extravagances.''
I agree with Aftenposten. This is not art, it is dirt.
Did you notice me much before?
Yes, I often Iooked at you.
I thought that you Iooked Iike Christ.
Sit here.