Peter Mann
Peter Mann grew up on the black dirt of the Kansas prairie before seeking his fortune as a man of letters and engraver of images in San Francisco. He is currently in the grips of the late, not quite terminal, stage of a doctorate in European history and humanities from Stanford. Common symptoms of the ailment include drinking whole pots of coffee before noon, deciphering collegiate prose, doodling mustached figures in the margins of library books, and working on a dissertation about German and Spanish intellectuals and the problem of decadence in the early twentieth century. Fortunately, he has his wife to save him from the perils of anachronism.
At night Peter dreams of deranged scholars, melancholic aristocrats, lost explorers, and other pedigree breeds of broken men. In his free waking hours, he makes woodcuts and exhibits them on gallery walls. His current projects include drawing on every page of Don Quixote and writing a sordid romance novel on the toilet, thereby doubling his output of crap. His site is Waxworks and Roustabouts.
