Francis Bacon in Your Blood Read Online Free
Author: Michael Peppiatt
swung, deems possibly corked and barely better. His breathing has become slightly wheezy and laboured.
âI might live in squalor,â Francis confides in an undertone, âbut I donât see why I have to drink filth. After all, even if what arecalled oneâs friends have no taste,â and here he shoots a venomous glance at John, who flinches perceptibly, âI myself always want the best of everything, for myself and for my friends. I want the best food and wine I can get as well as the most excitement and the most interesting people around. The thing is I have known a few extraordinary people in my life,â he continues, waving a meaty hand towards the ceiling which seems to exclude present company, âpeople with real natural wit and who were tougher and more intelligent than me. And of course when youâve known one or two people like that, most of the others just come across as weak and dreary, poor things,â he emphasizes, looking pointedly at John and Denis, but not Iâm relieved to find at me, whose eye he catches now.
âThe thing is, Michael,â Francis says, âI have known just a few people like that, who thickened the texture of life and took you out of the banality of existence just for a moment, as I believe Velázquez must have done for Philip IV, brightened his existence by his wit and his talent just for a moment. But there it is, life is nothing but a finite series of moments, so the more intense they are the better. Perhaps thatâs why I donât sleep very much any more even though I have got all these pills to relax me. I canât see the point of relaxing or going to sleep. I could never relax on a beach, the way people do, and just doze. After all, Iâve got such a big sleep coming up, itâs coming closer and closer, always closer and closer,â he adds with a laugh, âthat thereâs no point in sleeping,
câest pas la peine
. There it is. I decided early on that I wanted an extraordinary life, to go everywhere and meet everybody, even if I had to use everybody I met to get there. Lifeâs like that. We all live off one another. You only have to look at the chop on your plate to see that. I expect that sounds pompous, it probably is pompous. But there it is. Iâve always bought my way through life,â Francis concludes, more exuberantly now, and pulling a ball of banknotes from his pocket he drops the price of another expensive bottle as a tip on to the wine barrel in front of us, âbut then what else is money for?â
We get to our feet again, and I see John, as imperturbable now as before, eye the large tip greedily as we clump up the steps into the evening, dark into dark, and settle ourselves in a taxi crossing first the heart of the city then some of the grimmest areas of London I have ever seen, with deserted dark streets, low black bridges and the occasional half-reclaimed bombsite on either side, followed by a long trip through a virtual vacuum eerily lit by towering overhead sodium lamps. Francis has insisted I sit in comfort in the back with John Deakin and Denis Wirth-Miller while he has the jump-seat opposite; he clings to the strap overhead with both hands as if his life depends on it. Francis seems to seek out situations where he is worsted or punished. He didnât have to pay for Johnâs bad wine or to leave such a huge tip for the little service it took to plonk two dubious bottles and some glasses down. Itâs like a sort of masochistic generosity, but I notice that it stops when he expresses opinions about other people which are harsh and apparently definitive. Iâm glad to be on the right side of him and wonder if it will last once he gets to know me better and sees through me, as Iâm sure he will, with those eyes that seem to pierce and take everything apart even when heâs being friendly. Iâm cheered, though, to have passed the test this far. We all sit in
âI might live in squalor,â Francis confides in an undertone, âbut I donât see why I have to drink filth. After all, even if what arecalled oneâs friends have no taste,â and here he shoots a venomous glance at John, who flinches perceptibly, âI myself always want the best of everything, for myself and for my friends. I want the best food and wine I can get as well as the most excitement and the most interesting people around. The thing is I have known a few extraordinary people in my life,â he continues, waving a meaty hand towards the ceiling which seems to exclude present company, âpeople with real natural wit and who were tougher and more intelligent than me. And of course when youâve known one or two people like that, most of the others just come across as weak and dreary, poor things,â he emphasizes, looking pointedly at John and Denis, but not Iâm relieved to find at me, whose eye he catches now.
âThe thing is, Michael,â Francis says, âI have known just a few people like that, who thickened the texture of life and took you out of the banality of existence just for a moment, as I believe Velázquez must have done for Philip IV, brightened his existence by his wit and his talent just for a moment. But there it is, life is nothing but a finite series of moments, so the more intense they are the better. Perhaps thatâs why I donât sleep very much any more even though I have got all these pills to relax me. I canât see the point of relaxing or going to sleep. I could never relax on a beach, the way people do, and just doze. After all, Iâve got such a big sleep coming up, itâs coming closer and closer, always closer and closer,â he adds with a laugh, âthat thereâs no point in sleeping,
câest pas la peine
. There it is. I decided early on that I wanted an extraordinary life, to go everywhere and meet everybody, even if I had to use everybody I met to get there. Lifeâs like that. We all live off one another. You only have to look at the chop on your plate to see that. I expect that sounds pompous, it probably is pompous. But there it is. Iâve always bought my way through life,â Francis concludes, more exuberantly now, and pulling a ball of banknotes from his pocket he drops the price of another expensive bottle as a tip on to the wine barrel in front of us, âbut then what else is money for?â
We get to our feet again, and I see John, as imperturbable now as before, eye the large tip greedily as we clump up the steps into the evening, dark into dark, and settle ourselves in a taxi crossing first the heart of the city then some of the grimmest areas of London I have ever seen, with deserted dark streets, low black bridges and the occasional half-reclaimed bombsite on either side, followed by a long trip through a virtual vacuum eerily lit by towering overhead sodium lamps. Francis has insisted I sit in comfort in the back with John Deakin and Denis Wirth-Miller while he has the jump-seat opposite; he clings to the strap overhead with both hands as if his life depends on it. Francis seems to seek out situations where he is worsted or punished. He didnât have to pay for Johnâs bad wine or to leave such a huge tip for the little service it took to plonk two dubious bottles and some glasses down. Itâs like a sort of masochistic generosity, but I notice that it stops when he expresses opinions about other people which are harsh and apparently definitive. Iâm glad to be on the right side of him and wonder if it will last once he gets to know me better and sees through me, as Iâm sure he will, with those eyes that seem to pierce and take everything apart even when heâs being friendly. Iâm cheered, though, to have passed the test this far. We all sit in
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