PRINT January 1993


THE MAN'S NAME is Igor. I don’t know if this picture is posed, I don’t know if the photographer even knows Igor: by chance, I do. An architect from Trieste, he acted in movies a friend of mine made in the early ’70s. He’s carrying the goldfish to drop in an aquarium I’ve never noticed in his house. Maybe it’s for the restaurant he used to own on Greenwich Street: at home, Igor’s a cat person. Large, furry, slow-moving cats who drop unexpectedly from high bookcases. My director friend once told me, “I really don’t know why I like Igor. But he fascinates me. Maybe it’s the way he looks, his voice, I can’t help it.”

A few years ago, Evan Lurie and I were planning an opera about Wittgenstein. Igor told me he had some documents relating to Wittgenstein’s death in Trieste. I told him I was certain Wittgenstein had died in England. “No, no, that’s what everybody believes, but my friend’s written

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