Now, let us imagine the watchmen of twin poles. One asks, “How many colours are there in a field of grass to the crawling baby unaware of ‘Green?’” The other responds, “D’autre part le cinéma est un langage.” Let us station the latter at the North, alone and nearest to God, and the former at the South, frolicking in exotic domestic bliss amongst the penguins. Their quarrel is theoretically indefinite. Somewhere between, in constant, ghostly motion on the high seas, is a ship captained by a sailor of many names. As the hero of his cine-roman à clef, he is called Magellan. In his vegetable form, a grand and gregarious aspiration, Stropharia cubensis (or, in keeping with the subsequent judgment of a perspicacious German, Psylocibe cubensis). Professionally, in homage to…