It is the last days of my country sojourn. I strolled a chestnut lined lane with my ivory tipped cane. There I encountered a gentleman poet and his smiling wife. They invited me to supper, and soon pasta in a rich, bacony sauce was before me. We talked of weather and of the wasp’s sting, of travelling and staying at home. I was tucked deeply into a glass of spirits when the talk turned to theater. “Cruelty! Plague!” I cried, springing upon the table and miming a violent death. The gentleman and his gentle wife did not share my enthusiasm for Artaud, looking on horrified as I writhed in agony, seizing and shattering their crockery. I abruptly resumed my seat and it was my turn to be horrified, as the poet referred to Roland Barthes. Signs! Deconstruction! Abstract piddle puddle, I’ll have none of it. We should have come to blows, but the poet’s mild wife took to fainting in a corner. I took up my hat and strode out, bristling with indignation. Barthes indeed!