Michael Horovitz sometimes cultivated the image of a clownish ringmaster, but his literary and artistic judgments were often acute.
In 1984, at a point when Michael and I shared the same printer, I witnessed his concern to obtain a certain shade of green for the celebration booklet published in memory of his former wife Frances. After the printer had produced book samples and done some test runs, Michael dashed down two floors to the overgrown lot behind the building and came back with a handful of turf. Pointing to the grass, he said: “That is the colour we need,” which the printer duly achieved.
