When I was six years old, I drew my first picture. It was a boa constrictor swallowing an elephant. I showed it to the grown-ups. I asked them if my drawing scared them.

They said: Why should we be scared of a hat?

It was not a hat. I drew it again, with the elephant inside, so the grown-ups could see. But they told me to put away my snakes and my elephants. They told me to learn geography, and history, and arithmetic, and grammar. That is how I stopped being a painter at six years old.

Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves. It is tiring for children to have to explain, again and again.

So I grew up. I learned to fly airplanes instead. And whenever I met a grown-up who seemed a little bit clear-eyed, I would show them my old drawing, the one of the boa from the outside. I wanted to see if they were truly a grown-up. But they always said: it is a hat. So I did not talk to them about boa constrictors, or jungles, or stars. I talked to them about bridge, and golf, and neckties. And the grown-up was very pleased to have met such a sensible man.

The grown-ups told me I should put away my drawings of boa constrictors, and give my mind instead to geography, history, arithmetic, and grammar.