He never cries nor frets, as children generally do, but lies at my bosom, or on my knee, as quiet and as gentle as you see him now. God, we suck. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. It is really amusing. ‘Alcide’ or no ‘Alcide,’ there is not a music hall manager in London or Paris who would not give you an engagement on your own merits. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre.
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