Tony Grist (poliphilo) wrote,
Tony Grist

Florence, 1425

The abbot's hand on my arm. "Very pretty," he says, "very pretty." My saints and angels float across the wall. They have grace, they inspire love and piety. I am pleased with them. But no, dammit. I am not pleased with them. I have seen the fat boy's frescoes in the Branacci chapel. "Pah," I said to my friends, "these are ugly, these are gross." That was a week ago. I have done a lot of thinking since. That Eve of his is a real woman. You can imagine the weight of her on the mattress at your side. Her grief appalls. I am still a young man, but my career is over. The fat boy has murdered it.

Unless.....unless I were to start all over again.
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