Space, and space again, is the infinite deity which surrounds us and in which we are ourselves contained.
Max BeckmannAbout author
- Author's profession: Artist
- Nationality: deutsch
- Born: February 12, 1884
- Died: December 28, 1950
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It was said that one of them, either the actor or the history teacher, was superfluous in this world, but you weren't, you weren't superfluous, there is no duplicate of you to come and replace you at your mother's side, you were unique, just as every ordinary person is unique, truly unique.
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Crimson flames tied through my ears. Rollin' high and mighty traps. Pounced with fire on flaming roads. Using ideas as my maps"We'll meet on edges, soon," said IProud 'neath heated brow. Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now. Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth"Rip down all hate," I screamed. Lies that life is black and white. Spoke from my skull. I dreamed. Romantic facts of musketeers. Foundationed deep, somehow. Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that...
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Most women had the one thing in common: they had great pain when they gave birth to their children. This should make a bond that held them all together; it should make them love and protect each other against the man-world. But it was not so. It seemed like their great birth pains shrank their hearts and their souls. They stuck together for only one thing: to trample on some other woman... whether it was by throwing stones or by mean gossip. It was the only kind of loyalty they seemed...
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