discipline of maturity they may yet reveal themselves as unpolished jewels.” He somehow makes the prospect seem ugly.
I don't respond, and he turns to face me. “I remember the manuscripts you used to write at university. And if I remember rightly they were completely unselfconscious, so untainted by worldliness. Their insights were very acute.”
I don't know if I should thank him, but feel frightened to risk an emotional reaction if I do. As he looks up, smiling, I recoil a little as his gaze meets mine. His eyes appear covered in a thick white paste. It's unsettling to remember that the man who's leafing through these books struggles to read a word of them.
“Forgot didn't you?” he whispers, smiling with the corners of his mouth. He looks right at me, and I struggle to connect his words as my eyes fix upon the white sheen. “People always forget. They assume I'm normal .”
“You are normal. It's just that I temporarily forgot.”
“I never have that luxury. We were talking about the past,” he says, his leafing starting afresh. “Reminding me of the boy I was then. Useful, vigorous. Blessed with focus.”
“I've seen your recent work. In many ways they possess more focus than your earliest paintings.”
“If I hadn't known you as long, that comment could have caused great offence,” he says, with a gradual, sickly smile. As his head tips back to consider a new row it is garishly lit by the light above him. I notice his skin is starting to perspire, that the sharp cut of his profile has remained unchanged over the years. That slightly keen, flattened forehead, on top of an overlong body. As I glance at him again I imagine him, pale and impassioned, clattering amongst paint pots in his frozen house.
“Do you have any writing that I'm yet to see then Vincent?”
I feel somehow threatened by this recourse to my past. “There is this one piece,” I say. “But I haven't been able to recapture the urgency with which I started it at university. The more I add to it, the more I let it cool.” I realise I am reflecting the patterns of his speech now, the halting, forced rhythms of his words. “The newspaper has me on standby through the week, so it's hard to lose myself in any new work.”
“You wanted to write novels originally, didn't you? Both of us seem to have ended up compromising a little. Not achieving what we set out to? Both of us must be familiar with that clammy, indulgent grief then.”
I nod, wanting to agree more, but wonder if pursuing a connection with him is such a good idea. “I wonder how I'll deal with it as it gets worse. Because it will.”
There is something otherworldly about him; he appears so pale and drawn as he flickers through books he can hardly read. For a moment I wonder if he is a figment of my imagination. I feel a compulsion to leave, but don't want to appear rude. There's also something compelling about the way he relentlessly flips through every book on the shelf. The obsessive manner in which he considers each in turn, looking for a brief passage we once discussed in our twenties, is ridiculous and yet entrancing. Though I feel a distinct urge to leave him, one that's almost impossible to quell, I'm also intrigued to find out what he wants from me.
“I can read you know,” he says, snapping his gaze at me. “I'm not blind .” He spits the word out. “Cerebral achromatopsia, that's what it's called. I see everything in grey.” I wonder if I should finish my glass. I catch a view of him from the side, wondering if he knows. What a terrible affliction for an artist. How did –
“You're wondering how it happened, aren't you?” he says, turning to me with those pale eyes, before pronouncing each word as though he's said them a thousand times.
“How on earth do you know that?”
He straightens a little, as if offended by my directness. “It's not difficult to work out. A period of silence, as you leant slightly into my body. With my condition you learn
I don't respond, and he turns to face me. “I remember the manuscripts you used to write at university. And if I remember rightly they were completely unselfconscious, so untainted by worldliness. Their insights were very acute.”
I don't know if I should thank him, but feel frightened to risk an emotional reaction if I do. As he looks up, smiling, I recoil a little as his gaze meets mine. His eyes appear covered in a thick white paste. It's unsettling to remember that the man who's leafing through these books struggles to read a word of them.
“Forgot didn't you?” he whispers, smiling with the corners of his mouth. He looks right at me, and I struggle to connect his words as my eyes fix upon the white sheen. “People always forget. They assume I'm normal .”
“You are normal. It's just that I temporarily forgot.”
“I never have that luxury. We were talking about the past,” he says, his leafing starting afresh. “Reminding me of the boy I was then. Useful, vigorous. Blessed with focus.”
“I've seen your recent work. In many ways they possess more focus than your earliest paintings.”
“If I hadn't known you as long, that comment could have caused great offence,” he says, with a gradual, sickly smile. As his head tips back to consider a new row it is garishly lit by the light above him. I notice his skin is starting to perspire, that the sharp cut of his profile has remained unchanged over the years. That slightly keen, flattened forehead, on top of an overlong body. As I glance at him again I imagine him, pale and impassioned, clattering amongst paint pots in his frozen house.
“Do you have any writing that I'm yet to see then Vincent?”
I feel somehow threatened by this recourse to my past. “There is this one piece,” I say. “But I haven't been able to recapture the urgency with which I started it at university. The more I add to it, the more I let it cool.” I realise I am reflecting the patterns of his speech now, the halting, forced rhythms of his words. “The newspaper has me on standby through the week, so it's hard to lose myself in any new work.”
“You wanted to write novels originally, didn't you? Both of us seem to have ended up compromising a little. Not achieving what we set out to? Both of us must be familiar with that clammy, indulgent grief then.”
I nod, wanting to agree more, but wonder if pursuing a connection with him is such a good idea. “I wonder how I'll deal with it as it gets worse. Because it will.”
There is something otherworldly about him; he appears so pale and drawn as he flickers through books he can hardly read. For a moment I wonder if he is a figment of my imagination. I feel a compulsion to leave, but don't want to appear rude. There's also something compelling about the way he relentlessly flips through every book on the shelf. The obsessive manner in which he considers each in turn, looking for a brief passage we once discussed in our twenties, is ridiculous and yet entrancing. Though I feel a distinct urge to leave him, one that's almost impossible to quell, I'm also intrigued to find out what he wants from me.
“I can read you know,” he says, snapping his gaze at me. “I'm not blind .” He spits the word out. “Cerebral achromatopsia, that's what it's called. I see everything in grey.” I wonder if I should finish my glass. I catch a view of him from the side, wondering if he knows. What a terrible affliction for an artist. How did –
“You're wondering how it happened, aren't you?” he says, turning to me with those pale eyes, before pronouncing each word as though he's said them a thousand times.
“How on earth do you know that?”
He straightens a little, as if offended by my directness. “It's not difficult to work out. A period of silence, as you leant slightly into my body. With my condition you learn
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