By Serge Gainsbourg, John Weightman, Doreen Weightman
Serge Gainsbourg's sole foray into fiction, Evguenie Sokolov describes an artist who makes use of his intestinal gases because the medium for his scandalous paintings. What as soon as used to be a stinky and noisy challenge in his social and intercourse existence turns into a recipe for achievement within the early Nineteen Eighties paintings global.
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Extra resources for Evguénie Sokolov
Andrews. I felt like an idiot plenty of times, like I didn’t know what was going on all of the time, and like I was missing out on something most of the time. But, if anything, that only made me hungry to see, do, and live a little more. I never felt like I should be anywhere else, not for a moment, not even when I wanted the earth to swallow me. There were tough times, and melodrama, and I was stupid with my time and with love, and wrong about it, too. But that sponge-like faith in the rightness of it all cushioned every blow.
At first we thought he was getting in on the game, too, but later it turned out that he was generally asleep at the time. Frank started locking his door at night for a while after that came out. Even people who don’t give a fuck have limits. I asked Craig recently why he thought he had been so anal retentive in Fife Park, whether he thought he genuinely had OCD, and whether he thought he’d mellowed out these latter years. He didn’t, as it happens. His exact statement, word for word, was: ‘If my recollection serves, you were a nut.
He would say. ’ I cringed with embarrassment at some of the propositions he made in the ‘Romance’ groups. I hid my head in shame when he infiltrated the ‘Book-Lovers’ group. And I absolutely could not condone some of the things he said in the Christian chat rooms, but hell if those Christians didn’t give as good as they got. Usually minus the swearwords; but not always. I guess that’s what Frank was hoping for and, against all expectations, it was pretty compulsive viewing. ’s most significant error of judgement.