Frida Kahlo Memory

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bags lay around his feet.
The Librarian loved the clicks. They spoke to something in his soul. He’d even started writing a story which he thought would make a very good moving picture.[18] Everyone he showed it to said it was jolly good, often even beforegot a palm in his chest that sat him firmly on the floor, where great coils of film piled up on top of him.
He watched in horror as the great ape grunted, grasped a piece of the film in both hands and, with two bites, edited it. Then the Librarian picked him up, dusted him off, patted him on the head, thrust the great pile of unwound click into his helpless arms, and ambled swiftly out of the room with a few frames of film dangling from one paw. they’d read it. But something about this click was worrying him. He’d sat through it four times, and he was still worried. He eased himself out of the three seats he was occupying and knuckled his way up the aisle and into the little room where Bezam was rewinding the film. Bezam looked up as the door opened. ‘Get out-’ he began, and then grinned desperately and said, ‘Hallo, sir. Pretty good click, eh? We’ll be showing it again any minute now and - what the hell are you doing? You can’t do that!’ The Librarian ripped the huge roll of film off the projector and pulled it through his leathery fingers, holding it up to the light. Bezam tried to snatch it back and