They were products of yet another “trough,” as he himself termed the dives into despair and self-disgust that he took every year or so, unknown to almost everyone around him. He had emerged from one circle of Beatle hell only to find himself in another, less crazily hectic but no less arid and unfulfilling, from which the only escape seemed to lie in drugs. A few rare pieces of art turn the bleakest negatives into radiant positives, telling you life is not worth living in terms which reassure you that it is.
