While riding his bike when he was twenty his spine was fractured when he was struck by a car. In the thirteen years that remained for him he suffered and he wrote and he painted. One of his self-portraits hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London. His books gained a cult following; this cult lives on. Here, picked at random from his journal, is a sample of his prose; he's writing about a picnic he'd been on with a friend:
"We both felt, then, I think, how doomed we were, how doomed everyone was, we saw very clearly the plain tragedy of our lives and of everybody's. A year after a year after a year passes, and then you look back and your sadness pierces you. We were very sad from the drink ... we got up to go, leaving the egg-shells on the ground. I think of those terribly sad egg-shells lying in the wood now. I feel that I shall go back to visit them."
And, no doubt, weep at the sight of them.