Crazy Radio eBooks

The raw materials of John
Galbraith's art were paint and canvas, fabrics, tunes, men and women. It
was an axiom in his experience, that any personal feeling--any sort of
human relation with one of the units in the mosaic he was building--was
to be avoided like the plague. His professional and personal contempt
for a colleague capable of a love-affair with a woman in a company he
was directing, would be inexpressible--unfathomable. Of course when a
man's job was finished--and this sort of job nearly always did finish on
the opening night--why, after that, his affairs were his own affair.
In a word: he ordered his life on the perfectly sound masculine instinct
for keeping his work and his sex emotions in separate water-tight
compartments. Rose was a working member of his production, and it was
therefore flagrantly impossible that his relation with her should be
other than purely professional.
And yet there had been something intangibly personal from the very
first, about every one of their broken momentary conversations--almost
about every meeting of their eyes.


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