That still-life, they proceed, pointing to a jar of red-hot
pokers, is to us what a beefsteak is to an invalid – an orgy of blood and
nourishment, so starved are we on our diet of thin black print, We nestle into its colour, feed and fill
ourselves with yellow and read and gold until we drop off nourished and
content. Our sense of colour seems
miraculously sharpened. We carry those
roses and red-hot pokers about us for days, working then over again in
words. "Portraits” (MOE 177)
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