Nice one Max!
This is why I've always preferred the simple life. Swarms of ravishing young mistresses, million year old wines and tastefully decorated chauffeurs are all very well, but I just don't know if I could take that nagging sense of disappointment.
Brian
--- On Wed, 9/12/09, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
From: Max Richards <[log in to unmask]>
Subject: snap: dream life
To: [log in to unmask]
Received: Wednesday, 9 December, 2009, 7:36 AM
Dream Life
I dreamed I was a connoisseur -
like Berenson whose life
I'm reading - in my villa
above the Arno and Florence,
ensconced amongst my
favourites, pictures
and people. All morning
I write slowly minute accounts
of misattributed
minor Old Masters,
consult with my chef
and cellar-master.
Afternoons I stroll
with young mistresses
under aromatic arbours
that my gardeners year by year
are bringing to perfection.
We dine by candlelight,
my musicians play
Scarlatti and J.S.Bach,
never too insistently.
All this funded,
as is well known,
by grateful collectors,
whose mistakes are fewer,
their private galleries
fuller and prouder
under my unique advice.
Why then do I feel bitter?
I started poor, now am...better-off.
Their money is old and safe,
mine hard-won, from long
painful journeys, fierce
concentration over
paintings by several
hands, long-neglected,
badly restored, owned
by misers and philistines.
After wily bargaining,
their treasures have been
secured for better carers in
Boston and Manhattan.
In my refuge, beauty is
the preserve of the beautiful,
my wife, my friends,
our conversation
under my benign control
is all refinement.
Why then is there tittering
in the servants' quarters,
my chauffeur so grim and reckless?
Max Richards
far from Florence
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