Words are my thing, not pictures. Is why graphic art, and people conversant with graphic art, seem to me like Masons or Rosicrucians: members of a secret society speaking a language known only to themselves in a way that makes me uneasy and often fantoddy. Now, I know most graphic artists are cheerful people doing cheerful and cheering things, but A Journey Round My Skull is all about the other kind.

(That webpage takes me back to my childhood rummaging through the books in the attic, pre-War castoffs in French (my grandparents) or Dutch (the Mendels who'd owned the house before us.) European graphic art of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, yes, precisely. To this I owe my introduction to Caran d'Ache, James Ensor, and Balthus, to name three artists children should never have heard of.)