He had big hands. She would invite him over for tea, but he
could never pick up the tea cups properly, his clumsy
fingers giants compared to the delicate china handles. But
he tried, to be polite. He would hold the cup in both hands,
and she would worry that he get burned, but he felt nothing
except awkwardness.

In the afternoons he sculpted in the fields. He would tear
down large pieces of wood and metal and glue them together
with strong resin. Critics described his work
straightforwardly as "piercing commentary of the raging
conflict between stability and change in the modern
condition". He once met a critic when she came to his house
for tea. He was worried that he would crush her tiny hand as
he shook it. Later, she wrote a book about him. It was
called "A Cage in a Bird", and it made him laugh as he mixed
his cement.

His spine got hit by shrapnel during the war, and he lost
most of the feeling in his hands. He couldn't pick up tea
cups anymore without crushing them. So, he made a sculpture:
a pile of tea cup shards glued to a helicopter blade, bullet
shells in between. She described it as "piercing commentary
of the raging conflict between stability and change in the
postmodern condition". He laughed, and they made love in the
fields, carefully.