An art critic from the 25th century visits struggling poet David Dantziger and his totally
unappreciated painter friend Morniel Mathaway.
So we indulged in the twentieth-century custon of shaking hands with him. First Morniel,
then me—and both very gingerly. Mr. Glescu shook hands with a peculiar awkwardness that
made me think of the way an Iowan farmer might eat with chopsticks for the first time.