Jesteśmy społecznością, która kocha książki

So one goes on to the end, imagining... Lucky that's the way it is" Edgar Degas (1891).

Paul Valery remembered him in his final years: Still his hands went in search of forms. He groped his way around objects; the sense of tou...

Paul Valery remembered him in his final years: Still his hands went in search of forms. He groped his way around objects; the sense of touch increasingly predominated, he preferred to describe things in terms of how they felt to his hands; he praised a picture by declaring: "It's flat like good painting," and the gestures of his hand represented that flatness which enchanted him. With the palm and the back of his hand, in alternation, he would endlessly caress an ideal plane, smoothing it as though with a soft brush. When one of his old friends died, he had himself led to the bedside and sought to palp the familiar face with his own fingers. The eyes which had laboured so long good for nothing; the mind lost between absence and despair; the tics and repetitions multiplied; terrible silences which ended with a dreadful: "I think of nothing but death" - nothing could be sadder than the degradation of so noble an existence by great age. A frightful tete-a-tete obsessed him, occupied him, substituted in him for the lively diversity of the great artist's ideas, desires, projects... . Degas had always felt alone, and had been so in all the modes solitude can assume. Solitary by character; solitary by his very distinction and the particularity of his nature; solitary by the pride of his rigor, by the inflexibility of his principles and of his judgments; solitary by his art, which is to say; by what he demanded of himself.