Thus I was painting once more, I was mixing colours and dipping brushes in them, drinking in again with enchantment all that endless magic: the bright, happy sound of cinnabar, the full, clear note of yellow, the deep, moving tone of blue, and the music of their mixture out to the furthest, palest grey. Happy as a child, I carried on this game of creation and so painted the landscape on tile wall of my cell. This landscape contained almost everything that had given me pleasure in life: rivers and mountains, sea and clouds, peasants at harvest time, and a crowd of other beautiful things in which I had taken joy. But in the middle of the picture there ran a very small railroad train. It was going straight toward the mountain and its head was already buried in it like a worm in an apple, the locomotive had already entered a little tunnel out of whose dark mouth sooty smoke was pouring.


Never before had my play enchanted me as it did this time. In my return to art I forgot not only that I was a prisoner, an accused man with little prospect of ending my life anywhere save in a penitentiary - I even frequently forgot my magical exercises and seemed to myself magical enough when I created with my thin brush a tiny tree, a small bright cloud.