On impulse this morning, alone in Powells' big elevator with a few carts of books, I pulled one off and decided to open it at random and read out loud. This is what I read before the doors opened again:
"You might think, who is this, and I might say, this is God and what are you to do? Or I might say, a bird! Or I could tell you, madame, monsieur, sir, madam, how this name was given to me - I was christened Parrot because my hair was colored carrot, because my skin was burned to feathers, and when I tumbled down into the whaler, the coxswain yelled, Here's a parrot, captain. So, it seems you have your answer, but you don't."
That's Parrot and Olivier in America.
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