The oddities of human nature can be uncomfortably observed in the conduct of my dear friend David Schoffman. He is both a gregarious social animal and a detached, withdrawn hermit crab-like recluse. His imprint is at times as silent as a scout. Other times his grassy tongue insinuates itself with unmodulated bluster. He is the classic flaneur and as chaste as a cleric. He has a persistent longing for the luster of artistic immortality as well as an unhealthy penchant for needless self-abnegation.
In short, he is an eccentric.
While he broods within the warm breast of his poorly lit studio he regularly formulates groundless surmises about the future of art. He is the author of countless unpublished treatises and manifestos portending our cultural pratfalls, delivery from which only he can provide.
He is the subject of an upcoming film by Pepo Cendrars whose last effort was a blood libel of inaccuracies about me and my career. I doubt David will fare better in the hands of this invidious documentarian.
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