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| Edvard Munch, The Scream, 1893 |
I
was walking along a path with two friends—the sun was setting—suddenly the sky
turned blood red—I paused, feeling exhausted, and leaned on the fence—there was
blood and tongues of fire above the blue-black fjord and the city—my friends
walked on, and I stood there trembling with anxiety—and I sensed an infinite
scream passing through nature.
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