The Morest (not Most) "Painter" Yet

In his triumph Robertson ascended into flatulence punctuated by occasional doses of anticarminatives, “which keep me from farting, but encourage everybody else to let ’em rip,” he told Stuckenschmidt in the hope of luring him into a visit of commiserative celebration. Suzy stayed at 3503 St. Paul Street in spite of his rebuffs from about mid-June until early in July; they had both hated the same woman and were rivals in Schadenfreude. “As in one of the epiphenomena of industrial freeze-drying,” he told Mt. Askew, “everything that henceforth will be solid and unpalatable releases me in a nanosecond-long explosion. I have, inter alia, the cheek to impart to this bride-to-be the cowardice that I have in spades (if, that is, spades count as a form of alia).” And to Vadim Rogers, he wrote a week later: “I knew what it was like to be certain, each time I alighted from a motorbus, that even the most meandering and inattentive cab would rush to receive me as a fare.” In this balls-off freezing winter, while the charmed old ladies of North America played their first games of Pong and World of Warcraft after dusk, Robertson watched with delight, like Rugger, “the ascending moon stripping the streets’ horizontality of its almost apoplectically rubicund complexion.” “How quickly the night is to be born on these bite-sized gloamings of winter!”