she had thought of the indelible year of her birth
his hands composed a shivering binnacle for what served, on this voyage, as a compass, a glass of whisky, perilously plumb between the gimbals of his fingers.
what the fuck lol
—It’s not. It’s not, damn it, I . . . when I’m working, I . . . Do you think I do these the way all other forging has been done? Pulling the fragments of ten paintings together and making one, or taking a . . . a Dürer and reversing the composition so that the man looks to the right instead of left…
—Is it nearly done? Brown demanded, standing over them.
—Yes, it is. It’s more than finished, really, he said looking up at Brown.
—More than finished?
—Yes, I . . . you know, it’s finished, it has to be . . . damaged now.
—That must be difficult, Basil Valentine said.
—It is, it’s t…
It cheapens the whole . . . it’s a calumny, that’s what it is, on my work
