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[[strikethrough]] ? words [[/strikethrough]] strong language when nonsense is voiced. There are few who admire her who have not been scathed by her, as her enemies are continually. Hypocricy and any kind of limiting prejudice or provincialism [[strikethrough]] infuriate [[/strikethrough]] affront her. For some other women artists she has little regard: their roads to success were easy compared to hers and she names and dissects them with sarcasm. "But there are not many men I'm chummy with either." But then when the storm passes, the same life-force drives Krasner on to a new agreement, a motherly [[strikethrough]] ? [[/strikethrough]] feast tendered to a batch of amiables, for example, or a [[strikethrough]] ruminative [[/strikethrough]] pursuit of thoughts with a friend, sitting on the [[strikethrough]] back [[/strikethrough]] porch of her Easthampton house looking out over the [[strikethrough]] passable [[/strikethrough]] marshes. At such times, one feels the [[strikethrough]] rage [[/strikethrough]] anger that has so recently boiled up in her is no irrational reaction but instead a voicing of desolation that things so frequently fall apart, that the center–of art, friendship, the community of artists–has failed again to hold. It is a matter of passionate need with Krasner that certain forms created by human beings be held together or reforged when they fail or self-destruct. Therefore, not to give up the past, to carry it along whether it is a burden or a light, is a fundamental of [[strikethrough]] what is really a ? [[/strikethrough]] the belief [[strikethrough]] with her [[/strikethrough]] which amounts to a religion with [[strikethrough]] her [[/strikethrough]] Krasner in continuity.

Continuity is the living rule in [[strikethrough]] the house she lives in [[/strikethrough]] her house in Easthampton. There is the Victorian clapboard house in a small field backing up to the marshes and then the bay. Mimosa [[strikethrough]] trees [[/strikethrough]] saplings planted when she and Jackson Pollock bought the place are full-grown now, and in July the lawn beneath is covered with their yellow-fringed, mauve brushes. On a sight-line from the back steps to the marsh is a clump of boulders Pollock hauled there to create a middle distance; wildflowers spindle from between them. There are differences from what used to be however: indoors, hanging in the shadowy living room, around the