Mother and Child

Mother and Child
My Sweet Rose painting
Naiade oil painting
Nighthawks Hopper
'But why?' I asked, partly in horror, partly out of curiosity. ¡¡¡¡Again his mouth framed the twisted smile, as he said: ¡¡¡¡'Oh, just to be alive, to be living and doing, to be the biggest big of the ferment to the end- to eat you. But to die this way-' ¡¡¡¡He shrugged his shoulders, or attempted to shrug them, rather, for the left shoulder alone moved. Like the smile, the shrug was twisted. ¡¡¡¡'But how can you account for it?' I asked. 'Where is the seat of trouble?' ¡¡¡¡'The brain,' he said at once. 'It was those cursed headaches brought it on.' ¡¡¡¡
oil painting'Symptoms,' I said. ¡¡¡¡He nodded his head. 'There is no accounting for it. I was never sick in my life. Something's gone wrong with my brain. A cancer or tumor or something of that nature- a thing that devours and destroys. It's attacking my nerve centers, eating them up, bit by bit, cell by cell- from the pain.'