248. I don’t know, I just do not know what possessed me to suddenly attack my sculpture instructor that Saturday afternoon, after she said the word ‘twombly.’
249. The word somehow set me off, and an entire disjointed, frustrated diatribe burst out of me, ostensibly in defense of her husband, and his intention to write a limerick instead of an epic poem.
250. I had become sick of pretending to appreciate various works of art presented to us as worthy of consideration, that seemed to me to be entirely without merit of any kind.
251. And why, you ask, would I pretend to appreciate a work of art that I felt was pointless?