When a foreigner on the street asks you for the whereabouts of the semen centre,
you know that this is not what he meant. But still, as you try your best to conceal
that, admittedly, improper mixture of amusement and astonishment on your face,
you mumble something vague in response and continue on your way. Well, that’s
what I did, at least. It struck me, then, that that very morning I devoted more time
and attention to the information about Mondrian’s unfinished artwork, displayed
upside down for seventy-five years, than to the poor man, I guess, trying to find
the right attitude, or at least directions to the city centre.
hidden pilcrow 