In Milan during the workshop for Doctor Faustus at La Scala, Wilson and I dropped into the patio of Bragutta's restaurant for dinner. The hour was late, the sky clear, the breeze sensuous. Having finished their five-course meals, the elegant Milanese lingered over coffee and cognac, glowing with good food, good wine, and charm. The restaurant hummed with loud, happy voices. Wilson sat down, looked around, and grumbled, “Why do people talk so much? The human race is drowning in words. They should shut up and drink.” At this point the waiter set down on the table a dish with several thin, round slices of lemon. Wilson stared in silence for a ten minutes, the exclaimed, “How beautiful these lemons are!” “The color, Bob?” I asked. “No,” he replied, “the structure, the pattern of the seeds.”

- Arthur Holmberg, The Theatre of Robert Wilson