The subject was too abstract, the maths was beyond me. And by then I’d read a book or two and was taking an interest in imaginary people. Heller’s Catch-18, Fitzgerald’s The High-Bouncing Lover, Orwell’s The Last Man in Europe, Tolstoy’s All’s Well That Ends Well—I didn’t get much further and yet I saw the point of art. It was a form of investigation. But I didn’t want to study literature—too intimidating, too intuitive.
