And so we wind down our search for the perfect picture to represent my limping prose. Given the original title, it seemed appropriate to wrap this up when we reached 50 comments. I seem to have gotten off extraordinarily lightly. Among those nominated are…
Rembrandt’s Polish Rider
…and last but not least,
This selection shows a generally flattering bias towards a certain type of sophisticated, slightly old-school Englishman, with a touch of the cad mixed in. I like to think that Beckett and the Polish Rider represent my extensive travels and long residence in many parts of Europe, while Richard Clayderman represents Aunty M’s fag hag tendencies which she should really get therapy for.
After all this, I’m tempted to post an actual pic for comparison, but alas Mrs Terrible has interposed her veto, which is something not to be denied, especially on the day the toddler peed all over the only couch. So instead we’ll have to make do with my favourite author, to whom I am reliably informed I do have a genuine resemblance.
What makes him all the more appropriate is that he is another, like Orwell, who never lived long enough to get “the face he deserved”.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the author of “Heart of a Dog”, “The White Guard” and “Master and Margarita"…