I was wandering round the Blake exhibition, sort of involved, but feeling ignorant, yet again.
Then I was gripped by turning the pages of a screen which had one of his poetry notebooks in it. Without expecting it in the slightest, I read some words I knew: Rose thou art sick... the original draft plus changes was right there for me to read for myself.
Further back I found Tyger Tyger, right there, in 2 versions, one all messed about with and one all neat.
A woman came along, so I showed her what I'd found and we read them out loud together. I should have asked her for a coffee. Not that I had any time at all, but I should have risked having my car clamped for the chance of a conversation with a like minded soul.
I might well find her again. I'd recognise the way she peered, from a few inches away, at the pictures.
The pictures were good, the reds and the blues were equally warm. I like warmth. The fingers and feet have a particular way about them. He also really likes the vertical. I wouldn't get very far with writing an essay on art would I? Some things don't need to be written about.
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