People have often accused me of being selfish and self-centered. They’re quite right. All artists are. They protect like all hell what’s most precious for them—the privilege to exploit the full range of their curiosity. On the other hand, in my case, brought up as I was, I also wanted a steady home, a good, strong roof over my head. I’ve tried all my life long to hold on to both ways of life, despite the fact that I know they are finally incompatible.

Or are they? Because of my cleverness and something slippery in my soul, I found that they need not be mutually exclusive. Later in life, I maintained a succession of girlfriends while, at the same time, “worshipping” in a middle-class home. Flaubert has said that an artist must be, au fond, a bourgeois. That is only half right, but it is half right.