Reader

Byron refused to act in a manner befitting a gentleman about to get his afternoon shave. I gave up and spurted some cream on his face, clumsily spreading it around like a creepy toddler finger-painting in the Twilight Zone.

La plupart du temps, c’était à croire que l’œuvre était pleinement formée dans son esprit. Il n’était pas du genre à improviser. Il s’agissait plutôt pour lui d’exécuter quelque chose qu’il avait vu dans un flash. Comme il passait ses journées dans le silence, il ne demandait qu’à entendre mes anecdotes sur les clients excentriques de la librairie

“Why don’t you write yourself?” she inquired in a letter. “I have a feeling you could write so much better than most of the people who do write.” Perkins delivered his response when they met next. She recalled, “Max just stared at me for a long time and said, ‘Because I’m an editor.’

He had the most incredible memory. He could quote reams of poetry, opera, street songs, minute details on the most complex of subjects. He played the fool and when people treated him as one he stunned them to silence with his brilliance.