Edvard Munch. He seems to grow right out of the womb of the 19th century. Freud. Jung. And later. Auschwitz. Its as if his paintings reflected the madness, the pain, the confusion and loss of faith of the 20th century. Is the madness peculiar to Munch’s own life? Or his Norwegian upbringing? The Germanic soul. Is it the West’s loss of confidence? It is certainly romantic. To think that society is dieing. A kind of wonderful opera.