All this time, he saw so many years still ahead. Assuredly, everything had flown, fallen into the abyss, shattered. That sky, like a hole. Although what tormented him was that all his daubing had not died, every painting down to the last brushstroke. And would not die, because somewhere it was hanging, decorating something, belonging to someone. It tormented him that he could not destroy everything he had ever done. He could not free himself, do as he wished, for heaven’s sake. They had been able to, but now he could not, because it was not in his power. How many of them had there been? How many had been sold? He could not remember a single one of them. It was the most murderous sense of helplessness, when you have lost the right to free yourself of what you yourself created. She had seen
