I could tell he was a painter from the smears he wore proudly on his rags. He recommended the house brew to me before launching into a delightfully one-sided conversation. He was surpsingly garrulous for an artiste.
He said he learned to paint in France because he couldn't speak French. They tied his tongue but freed his hands. As he rambled on like a lumbering locomotive, I couldn't possibly comprehend how Paris kept him quiet. But then it didn't.
Book Review: Travails With The Alien
2 weeks ago