I saw Disney alone through the offices of an enlightened colleague and his own 'manager. This interview occurred because I walked through a door pointed out to me, waited, put ash in an umbrella stand, and then leapt into a mirrored bedroom, furnished mainly with tripods and wardrobe-trunks. There was also a large Mickey Mouse, but I didn't mention that. I myself felt rather like a mouse, told there was good cheese to be had through a certain wainscot, three gnawings to the right. But I didn't say that to Disney. He is rather tired of that mouse. Not in so many words. He says he owes everything to him (we wonder if as much as to his artists ?). But Mickey is, as it were, an affectionate memory. How they do echo. And, like telephone calls from well-meaning friends, prevent one from getting on with one's work.
Disney says sadly, that Mickey now has to behave. He never did. In the old days (which some of us still remember) Mickey was as metaphysical as that felicitous cat he finally chased out of films. Not so now. His logic is literal. He is matter-of-fact. Disney foresaw this, and before we grew tired of him (about four years back) swung his fantasy into the Silly Symphonies. The silly are, of course, those who don't think they're symphonic.
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