They seem to vanish like steam on glass or a Polaroid picture developing in reverse, those pale young men, the introverted romantic artists of your acquaintance. Where do they go, those sickly, epicene shades? What are the occult powers drawing them into that marbled, baize-muffled Zen “quiet life” from which they never return to go bowling with you and suck on a couple Mickey’s bigmouths? What opium addicts them, what pleasure dome constricts them?
I will tell you, my friend. It’s art which takes them away from you. Art, and solitude, and Japan, and instant photography, and ornamental gardens in Kyoto, and the music of Toru Takemitsu. But, most of all it’s “a Japanese girlfriend”. Not the same bitch that broke up The Beatles. But might as well be.