“Verrochio...Andrea Verrochio,” we yelped.
And the copper sphere is still there, above the red tiles, unharmed by lightning.
He was a flawless craftsman with the porphyry and marble walls of the Medici sarcophagus. And his beautiful putto, boy and dolphin, are loved by everyone.
F’s drawings of Andrea’s David, and his silverpoint study of Andrea’s great bronze horse are treasures of mine.
Well, his bottega was a place of magic...subtleties in metal and wood.
Again it’s late. Francesco is playing cards at the château—Parisian girls. The cat has disappeared. Lamps need fixing on my table. Will I every finish revising these treatises, re-arranging them?
Di me se mai fu fatta alcuna cosa.
Andrea dead at fifty-three!
Di me se mai...four words...scattered among my mathematical papers, among my drawings: Is anything ever done!
I was twenty...he was thirty-six...genial.