“In the soul of an artist there is an eternal, unrelenting autumn. As if, with great effort, he can imagine that there is joyful sparkle of sunlight, a blue sky, alluring half-light of night. He suffers, knowing that all this exists—but it is hopelessly far away. The memories are dull and lifeless, as if he is looking at them through fogged glass. Only sometimes, suddenly, a fragment of an image flashes vividly in his memory—some ‘green leaf, bright, with veins, and the sun is shining,’—and his heart tightens with longing for the distant and unattainable…”