This morning, I awoke at six, from a dream in which Francis Crick was talking to me about worms. The odd thing was that I was interviewing him in bed. He wasn’t in bed: he was sitting on the next bed in the room, dressed in dark clothes, and looking like a dolicephalic Berthold Brecht.
I am aware the real Crick looks nothing like that, and never has done. But as this one talked to me (we were leaving a conference), I took off all my clothes, and scrambled around under a downie, trying to stay modest while digging the little tape recorder out of my black laptop bag.
But I never found the tape recorder, and I can’t remember what he said, except that there was something mildly disobliging about Christof Koch.
Zo. You are conflating your intellectual curiosity about vurrrrms viz sublimated sexual desires for Nobel prize vinners. It is surprisingly common in conflicted, troubled souls, especially if by some kosmiche mischance the soul is owned, however temporarily, by ein journalist.
Tell me in simple terms, only the good things that come into your mind about George Carey und Howling Wolf. You haff fifty minutes, zo hurry.
so [pauses] already I have told you all the good things that come into my mind about George Carey.
About Howling wolf — Hubert Sumlin, for one good thing. “Going Down Slow”; “I asked for Water, she gave me gasoline”. “Killing Floor”. I could go on for the rest of the day, but I have to ring a travel agent.