“There’s always prejudice, Billy,” he started again, “Don’t like blue eyes, brown eyes, black eyes. Don’t like white hair, black hair, brown hair, red hair, green hair, punk hair. Everyone’s got a prejudice. Everyone. Some people don’t like people from Africa, China, Germany, France, Scotland, America, even from Ireland. Some people plainly don’t like anybody or anything. I guess they don’t even like themselves.”
He stopped for a while. There was a sickle moon between the stars. We could hear the river bubbling away over the rise and the occasional car door slam.
“Some people want you to be like they think you should be, Billy. They feel bad, they call you names, insult all the superficial things in life – colour – why colour? It ain’t got a magic quality, or a life of its own. It’s just a colour. But they start to make strange distorted images about this colour, and imagine themselves to be some great artist creating a wonderful picture. But the only image, the only picture they create, is of their own misery and bad feelings about themselves, expecting the world to be responsible. Look at Hitler, another artist. He blamed everything, everyone, for his bad feelings. Billy, it’s like expecting the colours they’ve painted to be responsible for all the badness and madness in the world. No, they’re crazy”.