Pablo Picasso, the artist, likes fried eggs. They probably taste to him much as they taste to another man, but because he is a great painter he is capable of liking them more passionately and more concretely than your common fellow. It is not merely their savor that appeals to him; it is their mass and rhythm. The concentric ovals of their yolks and whites, the fecund chromes bewitched to a dark gold, haunt his dreams with the memory of a beauty marvelous and fugitive. To satisfy...
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