By Laurence Levy-Atkinson
Oliver came to art with his fists like I came to it with words.
Everything that people pondered or considered annoyed him; anything you couldn’t feel in your stomach was a waste of time. He even hated the little stories I wrote, except maybe the ones about him. Once on a bus I said he was a story and he scoffed at that the way he scoffed at the books I bought.
“Don’t give me that crap” he said, “Conrad was so scared of the dentist that he once said every book he wrote cost him another tooth. That’s a story”
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