His breath was always foul, sometimes so foul that I wished he farted more and breathed less — not that I ever heard him fart, but the subject fascinated him and he claimed to fart a lot, his farts as sweet as the perfumes of Arabia. He knew his breath was foul and claimed that it was foul enough to keep flies from perching on the wings of his moustache; when one once did it was made immortal in a photograph.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
As Sweet as the Perfumes of Arabia
Brian Sewell, Outsider II, Always Almost: Never Quite (London: Quartet, 2012), p. 57 (on Salvador Dali):