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something, Angus. I would like to try to sell something of yours. I really would.”
    â€œYou know that I don’t sell through dealers,” said Angus. “Even a semi-decent one like you. Why should I? No thank you, Mr Forty Per Cent.”
    â€œFifty,” corrected Matthew. “No, I’m not asking for any of your figurative studies. Or even those iffy nudes of yours. I’m thinking of something that wouldn’t involve you in much effort, but which would be lucrative. And could make you famous.”
    â€œYou’re assuming that I want to be famous,” said Angus. “But actually I can’t think of anything worse. People taking an interest in your private life. People looking at you. What’s the attraction in that?”
    â€œIt’s attractive to those who want to be loved,” said Matthew. “Which is a universal desire, is it not?”
    â€œWell, I have no need to be loved,” snorted Angus. “I just want my dog back.”
    It was as if Matthew had not heard. “Antonin Artaud,” he said.
    â€œWho?” asked Angus.

14. Artaud’s Way Proves to Be an Inspiration
    This was something that Matthew knew about. “Antonin Artaud,” he pronounced, “was a French dramaturge.”
    Angus Lordie wrinkled his nose. “You mean dramatist?”
    Matthew hesitated. He had only recently learned the word
dramaturge
and had been looking for opportunities to use it. He had eventually summoned up the courage to try it on Big Lou, but her espresso machine had hissed at a crucial moment and she had not heard him. And here was Angus making it difficult for him by questioning it. Matthew thought that a dramaturge did something in addition to writing plays, but now he was uncertain exactly what that was. Was a dramaturge a producer as well, or a director, or one of those people who helped other people develop their scripts? Or all of these things at one and the same time?
    â€œPerhaps,” said Matthew. “Anyway…”
    â€œI don’t call myself an arturge,” Angus interrupted. “I am an artist. So why call a dramatist a dramaturge?”
    Matthew said nothing.
    â€œSimple words are usually better,” Angus continued. “I, for one, like to say
now
rather than
at this time
, which is what one hears on aeroplanes. They say: ‘At this time we are commencing our landing.’ What a pompous waste of breath. Why not say: ‘We are now starting to land’?”
    Matthew nodded, joined in the condemnation of aero-speak. At least this took the heat off his use of dramaturge.
    â€œAnd here’s another thing,” said Angus Lordie. “Have you noticed how when so many people speak these days they run all their words together–they don’t enunciate properly? Have you noticed that? Try to understand what is said over the public address system at Stansted Airport and see how far you get. Just try.”
    â€œEstuary English,” said Matthew.
    â€œGhastly English,” said Angus. He mused for a moment, and then: “But who is this Artaud?”
    â€œA dram…” Matthew stopped himself, just in time. “A dramatist. He was very popular in the thirties and forties. Anyway, he painted monochrome canvases and gave them remarkable titles. It was a witty comment on artistic fashion.”
    This interested Angus. “Such as?”
    Matthew smiled. “He came up with a totally white painting–just white–and he called it
Anaemic Virgins on Their Way to Their First Communion in a Snowstorm
.”
    Angus burst out laughing. There were white canvases in the public collections in Scotland. A suitable title, he thought.
    â€œAnd then,” Matthew went on, “he painted a completely red canvas which he called
Apoplectic Cardinals Picking Tomatoes by the Red Sea
.”
    Angus clapped his hands together. “Wonderful!” he said. “Now let me think. What would