Loose Living by Frank Moorhouse Read Free Book Online

practising his pitch.
    Looking around the young film-makers there in the château , their intelligent, determined Australian faces lit by the warm glow of the big open fire, I said, ‘Yes, we were learning that the whole of the world is the “economy” of the arts. The “marketplace” so called, for the arts, is everywhere and everything. There is no distinction between the public and private sector.
    â€˜Of one thing I am glad,’ I said, looking at their fit bodies, their rugged immune systems, ‘that you are a new breed who will not be made martyrs to your art. You have put that behind you and said to Society,“No—I will not be an alcoholic, I will not live in poverty, I will not be a drug addict, I will not have a thousand divorces just to be recognised as an artist.”’
    I think I must have fallen into a deep sadness about my own wasted and blighted life because I felt someone tugging at my elbow and handing me a clean handkerchief made from rough recycled paper with which to dry my eyes, but which, instead, caused one eye to bleed. I didn’t say anything, having myself been accustomed to only the finest silk.
    I apologised, managed a smile and said, ‘“The black ox hath trod on my foot”, sorry.’
    I said that they were all probably familiar with the story of how I’d been made a martyr to my art.
    I could tell from their faces that some had not been aware of this. I could tell that they were uncertain which art it was I practised.
    Before I could tell them how I became a martyr to my art, the Queen of Commas’ boyfriend blundered in with the rather soiled drawing of the semi-colon with the snail slime on it, and a couple of bruised snails.
    The last thing I needed.
    He was still working on the relationship between the semi-colon and the snail. He does not know it yet, but I have plans for him to become a human canon.
    The Queen of Commas is in England sleeping in Bruce Chatwin’s bed (I wish her luck).
    I shooed the Queen of Commas’ boyfriend away. The eyes of the young film-makers followed this frightening-looking man with his snails.
    I could see that Europe was a place of endless surprise to them. This endeared them to me.
    As an illustration of the Old World Meeting the New, I told them how I rose in the estimation of the local peasants by showing them how one could start a fire which is slow to catch by blowing on it.
    The young film-makers applauded my bush skills and asked me to teach them the trick, which I quite willingly did.
    A young employee of the South Australian Film Corporation put up her hand and asked what they should eat to be successful in the arts. I was pleased by this question.
    â€˜Would you recommend against red meat?’ she asked.
    She was probably prompted to this question by the sight of the oxen roasting on the spit. She said later that there was much pressure on young film-makers in Adelaide not to eat meat or touch men.
    I said I could see a case for not touching men, but as for red meat, I couldn’t disagree more.
    I stood with my back to them, one foot on the hearth, looking into the fire, which I occasionally poked with my poker.
    I watched the roasting oxen. I said there was a lot of silly talk about humans and animals. The fact is that humans and animals are different things, and this must always be kept in mind.
    If you’re in any doubt, try to pick an argument with an animal at a party. Or taste a martini mixed by a kangaroo.
    The only thing that changes over the centuries is the reason these people give for not eating animals. I sipped my Cognac.
    I warned them to beware of any position that kept changing its ground. It was a sure sign of a hidden obsession. ‘Of course, nevertheless, one day they might come up with an argument which is correct,’ I said, turning from the fire and giving them a playful wink.
    Until that happened, I urged them to enjoy the remarkable culinary