He would even concede the sunsets.
That, after John Whitaker's cold-blooded misinterpretation, was necessary to his own self-respect--and Brian's happiness.
Ah, love was the only thing in the world that counted, love and art.
Not the love of woman, which was after all but an intermittent intoxicant, but the love of one's own.
Kenny pitied in foretaste the ragged parent who would come upon the camp fire of his son, picturesque and repentant, and dramatized the meeting, a lump in his throat.

Emotionally it was complex to be actor and audience both.

Thank God, he reflected, as he opened a closet door, dragged forth a battered multitude of bags and suit cases and began an impatient upheaval of bureau drawers, he was a man of action.
When Garry entered a half hour later he found the studio floor littered with preparation.
"I'm off, this morning," he explained.

"In an hour now.

Garry, how can I possibly reduce this mass to packing possibility ?" "Stop running around in circles!" commanded Garry, thunderstruck.
"What's it all about?
Where are you going ?" "I'm going," said Kenny with his chin out and his eyes defiant, "to hunt Brian." Garry stared blankly at the packing litter and the tall Irishman in the center of it wearily mopping his forehead.