"And the history of Roussillon is in this one of the tile roofs of l'Hermitage in Pontoise. Those roofs are stained red-orange from Roussillon pigments. And the red ground and the row of bushes aflame--that's Roussillon red-ochre. That may not mean anything to you now, but if you had lived here all your life and had seen those miners come home filthy and exhausted, it would."

I thought he had finished talking for the day until I heard him murmur, "Red Roofs, Corner of the Village, Winter. Six roofs, ocre rouge. Five chimneys, jaune nankin clair. Six fields on the hillside behind--vert foncé, green so rich and dark it must have been spinach growing there; ocre de Ru, pale, like wheat; ocre rouge; vert-de-chou, the light green of a cabbage; rose earth; and the duller olive green, Verte Veronèse."

He found another sheet of paper, sat down at the desk, and wrote down the colors.

"Why are the names so important?" I asked.

"Because God conceived of those colors, and we mined the ochres that made them! Because there is holiness in color." His voice exploded with exasperation. "Because I don't want to forget when...when I go on."