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212 pages, Paperback
Published April 4, 2008
“There is no Sandman, dear child,” replied my mother. “When I say the Sandman's coming, I only mean that you're sleepy and can't keep your eyes open – just as if sand had been sprinkled into them.”
And now Nathaniel saw that a pair of eyes lay upon the ground, staring at him; these Spalanzani caught up, with his unwounded hand, and flung into his bosom. Then madness seized Nathaniel in its burning claws, and clutched his very soul, destroying his every sense and thought.
The painter turned round to us, but immediately proceeded with his work, saying in an indistinct, and almost inaudible voice: ‘Great deal of trouble – crooked, confused stuff – no rule to make use of – beasts – apes – human faces – human faces – miserable fool that I am!’
These last words he cried aloud in a voice, that nothing but the deepest agony working in the soul could produce. I felt strangely affected; – these words, the expression of face, the glance which he had previously cast at the professor, brought before my eyes the whole struggling life of an unfortunate artist. The man could have been scarcely more than forty years old; his form, though disfigured by the unseemly, dirty costume of a painter, had something in it indescribably noble, and deep grief could only discolour his face, but could not extinguish the fire that sparkled in his black eyes.