My mother, who is descended from a line founded by a confederate colonel, gave birth to me on the deck of a battleship anchored at harbor in Norfolk, Virginia. I was born fully realized, and cognizant of everything that was happening. I also am able to see my past lives. In 1943, the last time I was a human being, I was killed on the deck of a battleship. Because of the role I played in a war, I was reborn a white horse in the south of France. I remember it being a remarkably peaceful life. I was reborn as a human in 1980, while my mother visted the Navy Yards.

No one knows much about my father. He drowned when I was only three while swimming in the Xingu, possibly while drunk. I am inclined to believe then that he was Brazilian, and not part Cherokee as some claimed. I have few memories of him, the most clear of which is one of him wearing a white linen suit, smoking a cigarette and cutting up mangoes early in the afternoon. My mother tells me that she rode trains with him all over the world and yet never came to know him very well. Although early on in his life he made a living as a beekeeper, he spent much of his life painting landscapes, and then burning the paintings. Aside from these things, about the only thing I know is that he could hone a knife sharp enough to shave with. I have inherited exactly one of his knifes: an Opinel from the 1920's.

I enjoy big game hunting, Alpine sports, fencing, archery, and swimming. I am also an amateur astronomer.

At 22 I fell in love with a Roman prostitute. It was a relationship doomed from the start and I have remained a bachelor ever since. She taught me quite a bit, not the least of which is the language of Italian prostitutes, and the best recipe for puttanesca.

I recently gave up driving. For about fifteen years I have had a lot of fun getting drunk on good gin and crashing beautiful sports cars; maseratis, Citroën DS, etc, etc. A friend, nay, a confere recently remarked that what I was doing was iconoclastic at its best, and made me a philistine at its worst. I'm inclined to agree so I gave up driving except for on sunday mornings.

I am the owner of an extensive collection of antique revolvers, and am always looking to aquire more. I am currently searching for the weapon with which Verlaine shot Rimbaud.

I live in the biggest city of South America.