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Chapter 3

           Always(itwasinhernature,orinhersex,shedidnotknowwhich)beforesheexchangedthefluidityoflifefortheconcentrationofpaintingshehadafewmomentsofnakednesswhensheseemedlikeanunbornsoul,asoulreftofbody,hesitatingonsomewindypinnacleandexposedwithoutprotectiontoalltheblastsofdoubt.Whythendidshedoit?Shelookedatthecanvas,lightlyscoredwithrunninglines.Itwouldbehungintheservants’bedrooms.Itwouldberolledupandstuffedunderasofa.Whatwasthegoodofdoingitthen,andsheheardsomevoicesayingshecouldn’tpaint,sayingshecouldn’tcreate,asifshewerecaughtupinoneofthosehabitualcurrentsinwhichafteracertaintimeexperienceformsinthemind,sothatonerepeatswordswithoutbeingawareanylongerwhooriginallyspokethem.

           Can’tpaint,can’twrite,shemurmuredmonotonously,anxiouslyconsideringwhatherplanofattackshouldbe.Forthemassloomedbeforeher;itprotruded;shefeltitpressingonhereyeballs.Then,asifsomejuicenecessaryforthelubricationofherfacultieswerespontaneouslysquirted,shebeganprecariouslydippingamongthebluesandumbers,movingherbrushhitherandthither,butitwasnowheavierandwentslower,asifithadfalleninwithsomerhythmwhichwasdictatedtoher(shekeptlookingatthehedge,atthecanvas)bywhatshesaw,sothatwhileherhandquiveredwithlife,thisrhythmwasstrongenoughtobearheralongwithitonitscurrent.Certainlyshewaslosingconsciousnessofouterthings.

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