Sublime

The last canvas I saw him working on in Port Lligat was a painting of a decaying donkey, a scene lifted from Un Chien Andalou, the surrealist film he had made with Luis Buñuel in 1929. Every obsession returned. 'I am the concentric eccentric,' he said and I thought of ripples growing smaller as they vanish to nothing. He was shrinking, shrivelling,

Not a peseta in cash remained in Dalí's bank accounts. But there were three hundred million dollars in works of art

And I remember you telling us how you first met the plastics millionaire, your most famous collector, a man with his very own Dalí museum in St Petersburg, Florida. It was at the St Regis Hotel in New York in the 1950s, the innocent years. In the pee-pee room, naturally. They stood side by side in the row of polished white urinals. 'What was he doi

Dalí's favourite metaphor: 'I am a prostitute. I don't want to know the client. I just want my money. I love money. Lots of money. My seed rises into the glorious eruption of a majestic orgasm when I picture the Divine Dalí rolling in a bed of money.'

There was Captain Peter Moore, a small man, Dalí's business manager, on the end of a lead being led by an ocelot