ABSTRACT
In the century since Munch painted this famous image, man has gassed and bombed and tortured his fellow man. He has lived in inhuman, fevered, frenetic ways: in Kafka’s castle; in 1984; in those places where it is dark at noon. Munch’s screamer, like T. S. Eliot’s Tiresias, has fore suffered all. It is the screaming pain of knowledge, the knowledge that never again will man be at ease in the world with the ways he has created.
