we against us.
What must Munch have felt? Or Kubin? Or van Gogh? Fear drifts into other spheres. From tiny to gigantic. Even Goya’s GIANT was scared.
Turning around terrified. What’s behind me? Horrifying. Thousands of tiny blood cells seem to consist of nothing but them, sly. That which makes you plead as you perish... But for nothing in this world will you get that fucking mercy. Nothing and nobody takes pity on you when fear sloshes through you, unoiled and screeching. One can only be merciful to oneself. And worst of all, “we all infect each other”. Then the attempt to pretend to be immune. Only one thing can stand against it – art.
Dec. 5, 1993 (diary note)