The year 1866 was marked by a bizarre and downright inexplicable phenomenon that surely no one has forgotten.
The suburb of Saffron Park lay on the sunset side of London, as red and ragged as a cloud of sunset.
The boatman who rowed him from the ship to the quay kept looking at him: first a stare, then a frown.
This inscription could be seen on the glass door of a small shop, but naturally this was only the way it looked if you were inside the dimly lit shop, looking out at the street through the plate glass door.
In the land of Ingary, where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility really exist, it is quite a misfortune to be born the eldest of three.
Back in the late 1970s, when I was fifteen years old, I spent every penny I then had in the bank to fly across the continent in a 747 jet to Brandon, Manitoba, deep in the Canadian prairies, to witness a total eclipse of the sun.
The artist is the creator of beautiful things.