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But at the same time… there was no one
like Leonard. He was deeply passionate about a million things. He loved his family and his
friends and Denmark and the Danes, and language and food and beauty in every possible
guise. He would have been a good God, for the universe he created all around him was one
of extraordinary beauty; poetry, in fact. He adored art and culture, and practiced them
both. He was a wonderful artist and supremely cultured. Leonard loved painting and dance
and literature, and devoured them all. The objects he made or bought were stunning, and
the words he used to describe life flowed like a swift river through a picturesque stone
village where there are roses climbing every cottage. When you talked to Leonard, you
suddenly fell madly in love with the world, and saw it differently, because he loved it
too, and he saw it like no one else. And he painted differently than other people had,
invented new techniques, and decorated the interior landscape of children’s minds
like no one else ever has. For me, of course, all of that – the vast collection of
his remarkable achievements -- was secondary to his presence. The comfort and joy of
Leonard. For I’ve never had a better friend. There was no one like Leonard.
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