It was not such an ordeal as it had been, Margaret told me, She, except when I was in hospital, went to him each day. In fact, when we called at tea-time, passing by the picture-hung walls, he was able to meet us at his study door and return to his armchair without help or distress, though he waited to get his breath before he spoke. In the study, strangely dark, as it always seemed, for a connoisseur of visual art, the only picture I could make out hung above his chair. I thought I had not seen it before: a Moore drawing? The December night was already setting in, the reading lamp beside Davidson lit up nothing but our faces. He looked at me from under his eyebrows: from the cheekbones, the flesh fell translucently away. His eyes, opaque, sepia, bird-bright, had, however, a glint in them. “I’m sorry about your catastrophe,” he said. “It’s all over,” I replied. “You notice that I used the word catastrophe?” “Yes,” I said. “Old men get a remarkable amount of satisfaction out of the physical afflictions of their juniors.”
What do You think about The Sleep Of Reason (2012)?
