waxing poetical

Over pizza in some nameless restaurant in Rome's Quartiere Degli Pseuds Grandi, my Italians Laura and Alessandro demanded to know whether I'd written a book yet.
When I answered in the negative Alessandro ventured to ask why.
I thought for a bit.
"Firstly it's laziness," I answered frankly. "Then it's that business where I don't want to start because once I do we'll know for sure whether I'm the next Shakespeare or not. Finally I think I'm just too comfortable. Art asks everything and promises nothing. She doesn't show up for people who are too comfortable. This isn't tragedy. It's a sort of justice in the universe. And it's the way it is. Sometimes young artists tell me how rough things are for them. I always smile to myself and think: Ah yes, but you are being given a pearl of great price. That pearl is already moving beyond my reach. Destiny has not yet decided for them. For me the hour is past."
On the wall of the restaurant near the door there was a framed photo.
We stopped to look at it as we left.
It showed two dozen writers and poets from Rome sitting in a semi circle at the Antico Cafe Greco Degli Rudi Waiteri.
Squashed in among them at the front sat a fresh faced Orson Welles.
No cinema films yet. No awards. All his fame yet to come.
A studenty Orson Welles wandering around Europe on Daddy's money and mixing with the Roman in-crowd on a lost night in 1947.
Laura, Alessandro and myself peered at it.
"The artist must squeeze to the front," I murmured.
We walked arm in arm into the sweet night air.