NEXUS

17

It was about ten A.M. of a Saturday, just a few minutes after Mona had taken off for the city, when Mrs. Skolsky knocked on the door. I had just taken my seat at the machine and was in a mood to write.

Come in! I said. She entered hesitantly, paused respectfully, then said: There's a gentleman downstairs wants to see you. Says he's a friend of yours.

What's his name?

He wouldn't give his name. Said not to bother you if you were busy.

(Who the hell could it be? I had given no one our address.)

Tell him I'll be down in a minute, I said.

When I got to the head of the stairs there he was looking up at me, with a broad grin on his face. MacGregor, no less. The last man on earth I wanted to see.

I'll bet you're glad to see me, he piped. Hiding away as usual, I see. How are you, you old bastard?

Come on up!

You're sure you're not too busy? This with full sarcasm.

I can always spare ten minutes for an old friend, I replied.

He bounded up the steps. Nice place, he said, as he walked in. How long are you here? Hell, never mind telling me. He sat down on the divan and threw his hat on the table.

Nodding toward the machine he said: Still at it, eh? I thought you had given that up long ago. Boy, you're a glutton for punishment.

How did you find this place? I asked.

Easy as pie, he said. I phoned your parents. They wouldn't give me your address but they did give me the phone number. The rest was easy.

I'll be damned!

What's the matter, aren't you glad to see me?

Sure, sure.

You don't need to worry, I won't tell anybody. By the way, is what's her name still with you?

You mean Mona?

Yeah, Mona. I couldn't remember her name.

Sure she's with me. Why shouldn't she be?

I never thought she'd last this long, that's all. Well, it's good to know you're happy.

I'm not! I'm in a jam. One hell of a jam. That's why I came to see you. I need you.

No, don't say that! How the hell can I help you? You know I'm...

All I want you to do is listen. Don't get panicky. I'm in love, that's what.

That's fine, I said. What's wrong with that?

She won't have me.

I burst out laughing. Is that all? Is that what's worrying you? You poor sap!

You don't, understand. It's different this time. This is love. Let me tell you about her ... He paused a full moment. Unless you're too busy right now. He directed his gaze at the work table, observed the blank sheet in the machine, then added: What is it this time—a novel? Or a philosophical treatise?

It's nothing, I said. Nothing important.

Sounds strange, he said. Once upon a time everything you did was important, very important. Come on, what are you holding back for? I know I disturbed you, but that's no reason to clam up on me.

If you really want to know, I'm working on a novel.

A novel? Jesus, Hen, don't try that ... you'll never write a novel.

Why? What makes you so sure? Because I know you, that's why. You haven't any feeling for plot.

Does a novel always have to have a plot? Look, he countered, I don't want to gum up the works, but...

But what?

Why don't you stick to your guns? You can write anything, but not a novel.

What makes you think I can write at all?

He hung his head, as if thinking up an answer.

You never thought much of me as a writer, said I. Nobody does.

You're a writer all right, he said. Maybe you haven't produced anything worth looking at yet, but you've got time. The trouble with you is you're obstinate.

Obstinate?

Obstinate, yeah! Stubborn, mule-headed. You want to enter by the front door. You want to be different but you don't want to pay the price. Look, why couldn't you take a job as a reporter, work your way up, become a correspondent, then tackle the great work? Answer that!

Because it's a waste of time, that's why.

Other men have done it. Bigger men than you, some of them. What about Bernard Shaw?

That was O.K. for him, I replied. I have my own way.

Silence for a few moments. I reminded him of an evening in his office long ago, an evening when he had flung a new review at me and told me to read a story by John Dos Passes, then a young writer.

You know what you told me then? You said: ‘Hen, why don't you try your hand at it? You can write as good as him any day. Read it and see!'

I said that?

Yes. Don't remember, eh? Well, those words you dropped so carelessly that night stuck in my crop. Whether I'll ever be as good as John Dos Passes is neither here nor there. What's important is that once you seemed to think I could write.

Have I ever said any different, Hen?

No, but you act different. You act as if you were going along with me in some crazy escapade. As if it were all hopeless. You want me to do like every one else, do it their way, repeat their errors.

Jesus, but you're sensitive I Go on, write your bloody novel! Write your fool head off, if you like! I was just trying to give you a little friendly advice ... Anyway, that's not what I came for, to talk writing. I'm in a jam, I need help. And you're the one who's going to help me.

How?

I don't know. But let me tell you a bit first, then you'll understand better. You can spare a half-hour, can't you?

I guess so.

Well then, it's like this ... You remember that joint we used to go to in the Village Saturday afternoons? The place George always haunted? It was about two months ago, I guess, when I dropped in to look things over. It hadn't changed much ... still the same sort of gals hanging out there. But I was bored. I had a couple of drinks all by myself—nobody gave me a tumble, by the way—I guess I was feeling a little sorry for myself, getting old like and all that, when suddenly I spied a girl two tables away, alone like myself.

A raving beauty, I suppose?

No, Hen. No, I wouldn't say that. But different. Anyway, I caught her eye, asked her for a dance, and when the dance was over she came and sat with me. We didn't dance again. Just sat and talked. Until closing time. I wanted to take her home but she refused to let me. I asked for her phone number and she refused that too. ‘Maybe I'll see you here next Saturday?’ I said. ‘Maybe,’ she replied. And that was that ... You haven't got a drink around here, have you?

Sure I have. I went to the closet and got out a bottle.

What's this? he said, grabbing the bottle of Vermouth.

That's a hair tonic, I said. I suppose you want Scotch?

If you have it, yes. If not, I've got some in my car.

I got out a bottle of Scotch and poured him a stiff drink.

How about yourself?

Never touch it. Besides, it's too early in the day.

That's right. You've got to write that novel, don't you?

Just as soon as you leave, I said.

I'll make it brief, Hen. I know you're bored. But I don't give a damn. You've got to hear me out ... Where was I now? Yeah, the dance hall. Well, next Saturday I was back waiting for her, but no sign of her. I sat there the whole afternoon. Didn't have a single dance. No Guelda.

What? Guelda? Is that her name?

Yeah, what's wrong?

A funny name, that's all. What is she ... what nationality?

Scotch-Irish, I imagine. What difference does that make?

None, none at all. Just curious.

She's no Gypsy, if that's what's on your mind. But there's something about her that gets me. I can't stop thinking about her. I'm in love, that's what. And I don't think I've ever been in love before. Not this way, certainly.

It sure is funny to hear you say that.

! know it, Hen.. It's more than funny. It's tragic.

I burst out laughing.

Yes, tragic, he repeated. For the first time in my life I've met some one who doesn't give a shit about me.

How do you know? I said. Did you ever meet her again?

Meet her again? Man, I've been dogging her steps ever since that day. Sure, I've seen her again. I tracked her home one night. She was getting off a bus at Borough Hall. Didn't see me, of course. Next day I rang her up. She was furious. What did I mean telephoning her? How did I get her number? And so on. Well, a few weeks later she was at the dance hall again. This time I had to literally get down on my knees to wangle a dance out of her. She told me not to bother her, that I didn't interest her, that I was uncouth ... oh, all sorts of things. I couldn't get her to sit with me either. A few days later I sent her a bouquet of roses. No results. I tried phoning her again, but as soon as she heard my voice she hung up.

She's probably mad about you, I said.

I'm poison to her, that's what.

Have you found out what she does for a living?

Yes. She's a school teacher.

A school teacher? That beats everything. You running after a school teacher! Now I see her better—kind of big, awkward creature, very plain but not homely, hardly ever smiles, wears her hair...

You're close, Hen, but you're off too. Yes, she is sort of big and large, but in a good way. About her looks I can't say. I only see her eyes—they're china blue and they twinkle...

Like stars.

Violets, he said. Just like violets. The rest of the face doesn't count. To be honest with you, I think she has a receding chin.

How about the legs?

Not too good. A bit on the plump side. But they're not piano legs!

And her ass, does it wobble, when she walks?

He jumped to his feet. Hen, he said, putting an arm around me, it's her ass that gets me. If I could just rub my hand over it—once—I'd die happy.

She's prudish, in other words?

Untouchable.

Have you kissed her yet?

Are you crazy? Kiss her? She'd die first.

Listen, I said, don't you think that perhaps the reason you're so crazy about her is simply because she won't have anything to do with you? You've had better girls than her, from what I gather about her looks. Forget her, that's the best thing. It won't break your heart. You haven't got a heart. You're a born Don Juan.

Not any more, Hen. I can't look at another girl. I'm hooked.

How did you think I could help you then?

I don't know. I was wondering if ... if maybe you would try to see her for me, talk to her, tell her how serious I am ... Something like that.

But how would I ever get to her—as an emissary of yours? She'd throw me out quick as look at me, wouldn't she?

That's true. But maybe we could find a way to have you meet without her knowing that you're my friend. Work your way into her good graces and then...

Then spring it on her, eh?

What's wrong with that? It's possible, isn't it?

Everything's possible. Only...

Only what?

Well, did you ever think that maybe I'd fall for her myself? (I had no such fear of course, I merely wanted his reaction.)

It made him chuckle, this absurd notion. She's not your type, Hen, don't worry. You're looking for the exotic. She's Scotch-Irish, I told you. You haven't a thing in common. But you can talk, damn it! When you want to, that is. You could have made a good lawyer, I've told you that before. Try to picture yourself pleading a cause ... my cause. You could come down from your pedestal and do a little thing like that for an old friend, couldn't you?

It might take a little money, I said.

Money? For what?

Spend money. Flowers, taxis, theatre, cabarets...

Come off it! he said. Flowers maybe. But don't think of it in terms of a long-winded campaign. Just get acquainted and start talking. I don't have to tell you how to go about it. Melt her, that's the thing. Weep, if you have to. Christ, if I could only get into her home, see her alone, I'd prostrate myself at her feet, lick her toes, let her step on me. I'm serious, Hen. I wouldn't have looked you up if I wasn't desperate.

All right, I said, I'll think it over. Give me a little time.

You're not putting me off? You promise?

I promise nothing, I said. It needs thinking about. I'll do my best, that's all I can say.

Shake on it! he said, and put out his hand.

You don't know how good it makes me feel to hear you say that, Hen. I had thought of asking George, but you know George. He'd treat it as a joke. It's anything but a joke, you know that, don't you? Hell, I remember when you were talking of blowing your brains out—over your what's her name...

Mona, I said.

Yeah, Mona. You just had to have her, didn't you? You're happy now, I hope. Hen, I don't even ask that—to be happy with her. All I want is to look at her, idolize her, worship her. Sounds juvenile, doesn't it? But I mean it. I'm licked. If I don't get her I'll go nuts.

I poured him another drink.

I used to laugh at you, remember? Always falling in love. Remember how that widow of yours hated me? She had good reason to. By the way, what ever became of her?

I shook my head.

You were nuts about her, weren't you? Now that I look back on it, she wasn't such a bad sort. A little too old, maybe, a little sad looking, but attractive. Didn't she have a-son about your age?

Yes, I said. He died a few years ago.

You never thought you'd get out of that entanglement, did you? Seems like a thousand years ago ... And what about Una? Guess you never did get over that, eh?

Guess not, I said.

You know what, Hen? You're lucky. God comes to your rescue every time. Look, I'm not going to keep you from your work any longer. I'll give you a ring in a few days and see what's cooking. Don't let me down, that's all I beg of you.

He picked up his hat and walked to the door. By the way, he said, grinning, and nodding toward the machine—What's the title of the novel going to be?

The Iron Horses of Vladivostok, I replied.

No kidding.

Or maybe—This Gentile World.

That's sure to make it a best seller, he said.

Give my best to Guelda, when you phone her again!

Think up something good now, you bastard! And give my love to...

Mona!

Yeah, Mona. Ta ta!

Later that day there came another knock at the door. This time it was Sid Essen. He seemed excited and disturbed. Apologized profusely for intruding.

I just had to see you, he began. I do hope you'll forgive me. Chase me away, if you're in the midst of something...

'Sit down, sit down, I said, I'm never too busy to see you. Are you in trouble?

No, no trouble. Lonely, maybe ... and disgusted with myself. Sitting there in the dark I was getting glummer and glummer. Almost suicidal. Suddenly I thought of you. I said ‘Why not see Miller? He'll cheer you up.’ And like that I up and left. The boy is taking care of the shop ... Really, I'm ashamed of myself, but I couldn't stand it another minute.

He rose from the divan and walked over to a print hanging on the wall beside my table. It was one of Hiroshige's, from: The Fifty-three Stages of the Tokaido.

He looked at it intently, then turned to gaze at the others. Meanwhile his expression had changed from one of anxiety and gloom to sheer joy. When he finally turned his face to me he had tears in his eyes.

Miller, Miller, what a place you have! What an atmosphere! Just to stand here in your presence, surrounded by all this beauty, makes me feel like a new man. How I wish I could change places with you! I'm a rough neck, as you know, but I do love art, every form of art. And I'm particularly fond of Oriental art. I think the Japanese are a wonderful people. Everything they do is artistic ... Yes, yes, it's good to work in a room like this. You sit there with your thoughts and you're king of the world. Such a pure life! You know, Miller, sometimes you remind me of a Hebrew scholar. There's something of the saint in you too. That's why I came to see you. You give me hope and courage. Even when you don't say anything. You don't mind my running on like this? I have to get it off my chest. He paused, as if to summon courage. I'm a failure, there's no getting round that. I know it and I'm reconciled to it. But what hurts is to think that my boy may think so too. I don't want him to pity me. Despise me, yes. But not pity me.

Reb, I said, I've never looked upon you as a failure. You're almost like an older brother. What's more, you're kind and tender, and generous to a fault.

I wish my wife could hear you say that.

Never mind what she thinks. Wives are always hard on those they love.

Love. There hasn't been any love, not for years. She has her own world; I have mine.

There was an awkward pause.

Do you think it would do any good if I dropped out of sight?

I doubt it, Reb. What would you do? Where would you go?

Anywhere. As for making a living, to tell the truth I'd be happy shining shoes. Money means nothing to me. I like people, I like to do things for them.

He looked up at the wall again. He pointed to a drawing of Hokusai's—from Life in the Eastern Capital.

You see all those figures, he said. Ordinary people doing ordinary everyday things. That's what I'd like—to be one of them, to be doing something ordinary. A barrel-maker or a tinsmith—what difference? To be part of the procession, that's the thing. Not sit in an empty store all day killing time. Damn it, I'm still good for something. What would you. do in my place?

Reb, I said, I was in exactly your position once upon a time. Yes, I used to sit all day in my father's shop, doing nothing. I thought I'd go crazy. I loathed the place. But I didn't know how to break loose.

How did you then?

Fate pushed me out, I guess. But I must tell you this ... while I was eating my heart out I was praying too. Every day I prayed that some one—God perhaps—would show me the way. I was also thinking of writing, even that far back. But it was more a dream than a possibility. It took me years, even after I had left the tailor shop, to write a line. One should never despair...

But you were only a kid then. I'm getting to be an old man.

Even so. The years that are left you are yours. If there's something you really want to do there's still time.

Miller, he said, almost woefully, there's no creative urge in me. All I ask is to get out the trap. I want to live again. I want to get back into the current. That's all.

What's stopping you?

Don't say that! Please don't say that! What's stopping me? Everything. My wife, my kids, my obligations. Myself, most of all. I've got too poor an opinion of myself.

I couldn't help smiling. Then, as if to myself, I replied:

Only we humans seem to have a low opinion of ourselves. Take a worm, for example—do you suppose a worm looks down on itself?

It's terrible to feel guilty, he said. And for what? What have I done?

It's what you haven't done, isn't it?

Yes, yes, of course.

Do you know what's more important than doing something?

No, said Reb.

Being yourself.

But if you're nothing?

Then be nothing. But be it absolutely.

That sounds crazy.

It is. That's why it's so sound.

Go on, he said, you make me feel good.

In wisdom is death, you've heard that, haven't you? Isn't it better to be a little meshuggah? Who worries about you? Only you. When you can't sit in the store any more, why don't you get up and take a walk? Or go to the movies? Close the shop, lock the door. A customer more or less won't make any difference in your life, will it? Enjoy yourself! Go fishing once in a while, even if you don't know how to fish. Or take your car and drive out into the country. Anywhere. Listen to the birds, bring home some flowers, or some, fresh oysters.

He was leaning forward, all ears, a broad smile stretched across his face.

Tell me more, he said. It sounds wonderful.

Well, remember this ... the store won't run away from you. Business won't get any better. Nobody asks you to lock yourself in all day. You're a free man. If by becoming more careless and negligent you grow happier, who will blame you? I'll make a further suggestion. Instead of going off by yourself, take one of your Negro tenants with you. Show him a good time. Give him some clothing from your store. Ask him if you can lend him some money. Buy his wife a little, gift for him to take home. See what I mean?

He began to laugh. Do I see? It sounds great. That's just what I'm going to do.

Don't make too big a splurge all at once, I cautioned. Take it slow and easy. Follow your instincts. For instance, maybe one day you'll feel like getting yourself a piece of tail. Don't have a bad conscience about it. Try a piece of dark meat now and then. It's tastier, and it costs less. Anything to make you relax, remember that. Always treat yourself well. If you feel like a worm, grovel; if you feel like a bird, fly. Don't worry about what the neighbors may think. Don't worry about your kids, they'll take care of themselves. As for your wife, maybe when she sees you happy she'll change her tune. She's a good woman, your wife. Too conscientious, that's all. Needs to laugh once in a while. Did you ever try a limerick on her? Here's one for you...

There was a young girl from Peru,

Who dreamt she was raped by a Jew,

She awoke in the night,

With a scream of delight,

To find it was perfectly true!

Good, good! he exclaimed. Do you know any more?

Yes, I said, but I've got to get back to work now. Feel better now, don't you? Tomorrow we visit the darkies, eh? Maybe some day next week I'll ride out to Bluepoint with you. How's that?

Would you? Oh, that would be dandy, just dandy. By the way, how is the book coming along? Are you nearly finished with it? I'm dying to read it, you know. So is Mrs. Essen.

Reb, you won't like the book at all. I must tell you that straight off.

How can you say that? He was fairly shouting.

Because it's no good.

He looked at me as if I were out of my mind. For a moment he didn't know what to say. Then he blurted out—Miller, you're crazy! You couldn't write a bad book. It's impossible. I know you too well.

You know only a part of me, I said. You've never seen the other side of the moon, have you? That's me. Terra incognita. Take it from me, I'm just a novice. Maybe ten years from now I'll have something to show you.

But you've been writing for years.

Practising, you mean. Practising the scales.

You're joking, he said. You're over modest.

That's where you're mistaken, I said. I'm anything but modest. I'm a rank egotist, that's what I am. But I'm also a realist, at least with myself.

You underrate yourself, said Reb. I'm going to hand you back your own words—don't look down on your-self!

O.K. You win.

He was heading for the door. Suddenly I had an impulse to unburden myself.

Wait a moment, I said. There's something I want to tell you.

He trotted back to the table and stood there, like a messenger boy. All attention. Respectful attention. I wondered what he thought I was about to tell him.

When you came in a few minutes ago, I began, I was in the middle of a sentence in the middle of a long paragraph. Would you like to hear it? I leaned over the machine and reeled it off for him. It was one of those crazy passages which I myself couldn't make head nor tail of. I wanted a reaction, and not from Pop or Mona.

I got it too, immediately.

Miller! he shouted. Miller, that's just marvelous! You sound like a Russian. I don't know what it means but it makes music.

You think so? Honestly?

Of course I do. I wouldn't lie to you.

That's fine. Then I'll go ahead. I'll finish the paragraph.

Is the whole book like that?

No, damn it! That's the trouble. The parts I like nobody else will like. At least, not the publishers.

To hell with them! said Reb. If they won't take it I'll publish it for you, with my own money.

I wouldn't recommend that, I replied. Remember, you're not to throw your money away all at once.

Miller, if it took my last cent, I'd do it. I'd do it because I believe in you.

Don't give it another thought, I said. I can think of better ways to spend your money.

Not me! I'd feel proud and happy to launch you. So would my wife and children. They think very highly of you. You're like one of the family to them.

That's good to hear, Reb. I hope I merit such confidence. Tomorrow, then, eh? Let's bring something good for the darkies, what?

When he had gone I began pacing up and down, quietly, containedly, pausing now and then to gaze at a woodblock, or a colored reproduction (Giotto, della Francesca, Uccello, Bosch, Breughel, Carpaccio), then pacing again, becoming more and more pregnant, standing still, staring into space, letting my mind go, letting it rest where it willed, becoming more and more serene, more and more charged with the gravid beauty of the past, pleased with myself to be part of this past (and of the future too), felicitating myself on living this womb or tomb sort of existence ... Yes, it was indeed a lovely room, a lovely place, and everything in it, everything we had contributed to make it habitable, reflected the inner loveliness of life, the life of the soul.

You sit there with your thoughts and you're king of the world. This innocent remark of Reb's had lodged in my brain, given me such equanimity that for a spell I felt factually knew what it meant—to be king of the world. King! That is, one capable of rendering homage to high and low; one so sentient, so perceptive, so illumined with love that nothing escaped his attention nor his understanding. The poetic intercessor, in short. Not ruling the world but worshiping it with every breath.

Standing again before the everyday world of Hokusai ... Why had this great master of the brush taken the pains to reproduce the all too common elements of his world? To reveal his skill? Nonsense. To express his love, to indicate that it extended far and wide, that it included the staves of a barrel, a blade of grass, the rippling muscles of a wrestler, the slant of rain in a wind, the teeth of a wave, the backbone of a fish ... In short, everything. An almost impossible task, were it not for the joy involved.

Fond of Oriental art, he had said. As I repeated Reb's words to myself suddenly the whole continent of India rose up before me. There, amidst that swarming beehive of humanity, were the palpitating relics of a world which was and will ever remain truly stupefying. Reb had taken no notice, or had said nothing if he did, of the colored pages torn from art books which also adorned the walls: reproductions of temples and stupas from the Deccan, of sculptured caves and grottoes, of wall paintings and frescoes depicting the overwhelming myths and legends of a people drunk with form and movement, with passion and growth, with idea, with consciousness itself. A mere glance at a cluster of ancient temples rising from the heat and vegetation of the Indian soil always gave me the sensation of gazing at thought itself, thought struggling to free itself, thought becoming plastic, concrete, more suggestive and evocative, more awe-inspiring, thus deployed in brick or stone, than ever words could be.

As often as I had read his words, I was never able to commit them to memory. I was hungry now for that flood of torrential images, those great swollen phrases, sentences, paragraphs—the words of the man who had opened my, eyes to this stupefying creation of India: Elie Faure. I reached for the volume I had thumbed through so often—Vol. II of the History of Art—and I turned to the passage beginning—For the Indians, all nature is divine ... What does not die, in India, is faith ... Then followed the lines which, when I first encountered them, made my brain reel.

In India there came to pass this thing: that, driven forth by an invasion, a famine, or a migration of wild beasts, thousands of human beings moved to the north or to the south. There at the shore of the sea, at the base of a mountain, they encountered a great wall of granite. Then they all entered the granite; in its shadows they lived, loved worked, died, were born, and, three or four centuries afterward, they came out again, leagues away, having traversed the mountain. Behind them they left the emptied rock, its galleries hollowed out in every direction, its sculptured, chiseled walls, its natural or artificial pillars turned into a deep lacework with ten thousand horrible or charming figures, gods without number and without name, men, women, beasts—a tide of animal life moving in the gloom. Sometimes when they found no clearing in their path, they hollowed out an abyss in the center of the mass of rock to shelter a little black stone. It is in these monolithic temples, on their dark walls, or on their sunburnt facade, that the true genius of India expends all its terrific force. Here the confused speech of confused multitudes makes itself heard. Here man confesses unresistingly his strength and his nothingness...

I read on, intoxicated as always. The words were no longer words but living images, images fresh from the mould, shimmering, palpitating, undulating, choking me by their very excrescence.

...the elements themselves will not mingle all these lives with the confusion of the earth more successfully than the sculptor has done. Sometimes, in India, one finds mushrooms of stone in the depths of the forests, shining in the green shadow like poisonous plants. Sometimes one finds heavy elephants, quite alone, as mossy and as rough skinned as if alive; they mingle with the tangled Vines, the grasses reach their bellies, flowers and leaves cover them, and even when their debris shall have returned to the earth they will be no more completely absorbed by the intoxication of the forest.

What a thought, this last! Even when they have returned to the earth ... Ah, and now the passage...

...Man is no longer at the center of life. He is no longer that flower of the whole world, which has slowly set itself to form and mature him. He is mingled with all things, he is on the same plane with all things, he is a particle of the infinite, neither more nor less important than the other particles of the infinite. The earth passes into the trees, the trees into the fruits, the fruits into man or the animal, man and the animal into the earth; the circulation of life sweeps along and propagates a confused universe wherein forms arise for a second, only to be engulfed and then to reappear, overlapping one another, palpitating, penetrating one another as they surge like the waves. Man does not know whether yesterday he was not the very tool with which he himself will force matter to release the form that he may have to-morrow. Everything is merely an appearance, and under the diversity of appearances, Brahma, the spirit of the world, is a unity ... Lost as he is in the ocean of mingled forms and energies, does he know whether he is still a form or a spirit? Is that thing before us a thinking being, a living being even, a planet, or a being cut in stone? Germination and putrefaction are engendered unceasingly. Everything has its heavy movement, expanded matter beats like a heart. Does not wisdom consist in submerging oneself in it, in order to taste the intoxication of the unconscious as one gains possession of the force that stirs in matter?

To love Oriental art. Who does not? But which Orient, the near or the far? I loved them all. Maybe I loved this art so very different from our own because, in the words of Elie Faure, man is no longer at the center of life. Perhaps it was this leveling (and raising) of man, this promiscuity with all life, this infinitely small and infinitely great at one and the same time, which produced such exaltation when confronted with their work. Or, to put it another way, because Nature was (with them) something other, something more, than a mere backdrop. Because man, though divine, was no more divine than that from which he sprang. Also, perhaps, because they did not confound the welter and tumult of life with the welter and tumult of the intellect. Because mind—or spirit or soul—shone through everything, creating a divine irradiation. Thus, though humbled and chastened, man was never flattened, nullified, obliterated or degraded. Never made to cringe before the sublime, but incorporated in it. If there was a key to the mysteries which enveloped him, pervaded him, and sustained him, it was a simple key, available to all. There was nothing arcane about it.

Yes, I loved this immense, staggering world of the Indian which, who knows, I might one day see with my own eyes. I loved it not because it was alien and remote, for it was really closer to me than the art of the West; I loved the love from which it was born, a love which was shared by the multitude, a love which could never have come to expression had it not been of, by and for the multitude. I loved the anonymous aspect of their staggering creations. How comforting and sustaining to be a humble, unknown worker—an artisan and not a genius!—one among thousands, sharing in the creation of that which belonged to all. To have been nothing more than a water carrier—that had more meaning for me than to become a Picasso, a Rodin, a Michelangelo or a da Vinci. Surveying the panorama of European art, it is the name of the artist which always sticks out like a sore thumb. And usually, associated with the great names, goes a story of woe of affliction, of cruel misunderstanding. With us of the West the word genius has something of the monstrous about it. Genius, or the one who does not adapt; genius, he who gets slapped; genius, he who is persecuted and tormented; genius, he who dies in the gutter, or in exile, or at the stake.

It is true, I had a way of infuriating my bosom friends when extolling the virtues of other peoples. They asserted that I did it for effect, that I only pretended to appreciate and esteem the works of alien artists, that it was my way of castigating our own people, our own creators. They were never convinced that I could take to the alien, the exotic, or the outlandish in art immediately, that it demanded no preparation, no initiation, no knowledge of their history or their evolution. What does it mean? What are they trying to say? Thus they jeered and mocked. As if explanations meant anything. As if I cared what they meant.

Above all, it was the loneliness and the futility of being an artist which most disturbed me. Thus far in my life I had met only two writers whom I could call artists: John Cowper Powys and Frank Harris. The former I knew through attending his lectures; the latter I knew in my role of merchant tailor, the lad, in other words, who delivered his clothes, who helped him on with his trousers. Was it my fault, perhaps, that I had remained outside the circle? How was I to meet another writer, or painter or sculptor? Push my way into his studio, tell him that I too yearned to write, paint, sculpt, dance or what? Where did artists congregate in our vast metropolis? In Greenwich Village, they said. I had lived in the Village, walked its streets at all hours, visited its coffee shops and tea rooms, its galleries and studios, its bookstores, its bars, its dives and speak-easies. Yes, I had rubbed elbows, in some dingy bar, with figures like Maxwell Bodenheim, Sadakichi Hartman, Guido Bruno, but I had never run into a Dos Passes, a Sherwood Anderson, a Waldo Franck, an E.E. Cummings, a Theodore Dreiser or a Ben Hecht. Nor even the ghost of an O'Henry. Where did they keep themselves? Some were already abroad, leading the happy life of the exile or the renegade. They were not in search of other artists, certainly not raw novices like myself. How wonderful it would have been if, in those days when it meant so much to me, I could have met and talked with Theodore Dreiser, or Sherwood Anderson, whom I adored I Perhaps we would have had something to say to one another, raw as I then was. Perhaps I would have derived the courage to start sooner—or to run away, seek adventure in foreign lands.

Was it shyness, timidity, lack of self-esteem which kept me apart and alone throughout these barren years? A rather ludicrous incident leaps to mind. Of a time when, cruising about with O'Mora, searching desperately for novelty and excitement, anything for a lark, we went one night to a lecture at the Rand School. It was one of those literary nights when members of the audience are asked to voice their opinions about this author and that. Perhaps that evening, we had listened to a lecture on some contemporary and supposedly revolutionary writer. It seems to me that we had, for suddenly, when I found myself on my feet and talking, I realized that what I was saying had nothing to do with what had gone before. Though I was dazed—it was the first time I had ever risen to speak in public, even in an informal atmosphere such as this—I was conscious, or half-conscious, that my audience was hypnotized. I could feel, rather than see, their upturned faces strained to catch my words. My eyes were focused straight ahead, at the figure behind the lectern who was slumped in his seat, gazing at the floor. As I say, I was utterly dazed; I knew not what I was saying nor where it was leading me. I spouted, as one does in a trance. And what was I talking about? About a scene from one of Hamsun's novels, something concerning a peeping Tom. I remember this because at the mention of the subject, and I probably went into the scene in detail, there was a slight titter in the audience followed immediately by a hush which signified rapt attention. When I had finished there was a burst of applause and then the master of ceremonies made a flattering speech about the good fortune they had had in hearing this uninvited guest, a writer no doubt, though he was regretfully ignorant of my name, and so on. As the group dispersed he jumped down from the platform and rushed up to me to congratulate me anew, to ask who I was, what I had written, where did I live, and so forth and so on. My reply, of course, was vague and non-committal. I was in a panic by this time and my one thought was to escape. But he clutched me by the sleeve, as I turned to go, and in utter seriousness said—and what a shock it was!—Why don't you take over these meetings? You're much better equipped for it than I am. We need some one like you, some one who can create fire and enthusiasm.

I stammered something in reply, perhaps a lame promise, and edged my way to the exit. Outside I turned to O'Mara and asked—What did I say, do you remember?

He looked at me strangely, wondering no doubt if I were fishing for a compliment.

I don't remember a thing, said I. From the moment I rose to my feet I was out. I only vaguely know that I was talking about Hamsun.

Christ In he said, What a pity I You were marvelous; you never hesitated a moment; the words just rolled out of your mouth.

Did it make sense, that's what I'd like to know.

Make sense? Man, you were almost as good as Powys.

Come, come, don't give me that!

I mean it, Henry, he said, and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke. You could be a great lecturer. You had them spell-bound. They were shocked too. Didn't know what to make of you, I guess.

It was really that good, eh? I was only slowly realizing what had happened.

You said a lot before you launched into that Hamsun business.

I did? Like what, for instance?

Jesus, don't ask me to repeat it. I couldn't. You touched on everything, it seemed. You even talked about God for a few minutes.

No! That's all a blank to me. A complete blank.

What's the difference? he said. I wish 7 could go blank and talk that way.

There it was. A trifling incident, yet revelatory. Nothing ever came of it. Never again did I attempt, or even dream, of opening my mouth in public. If I attended a lecture, and I attended many in this period, I sat with eyes, mouth and ears open, entranced, subjugated, as impressionable and waxen a figure as all the others about me. It would never occur to me to stand up and ask a question, much less offer a criticism. I came to be instructed, to be opened up. I never said to myself—You too could stand up and deliver a speech. You too could sway the audience with your powers of eloquence. You too could choose an author and expound his merits in dazzling fashion. No, never any such thoughts. Reading a book, yes, I might lift my eyes from the page upon the conclusion of a brilliant passage, and say to myself: You could do that too. You have done it, as a matter of fact. Only you don't do it often enough. And I would read on, the submissive victim, the all-too-willing disciple. Such a good disciple that, when the occasion presented itself, when the mood was on me, I could explain, analyze and criticize the book I had just read almost as if I had been the author of it, employing not his own words but a simulacrum which carried weight and inspired respect. And of course always, on these occasions, the question would be hurled at me—Why don't you write a book yourself? Whereupon I would close up like a clam, or become a clown—anything to throw dust in their eyes. It was always a writer-to-be that I cultivated in the presence of friends and admirers, or even believers, for it was always easy for me to create these believers .

But alone, reviewing my words or deeds soberly, the sense of being cut off always took possession of me. They don't know me, I would say to myself. And by this I meant that they knew me neither for myself nor for what I might become. They were impressed by the mask. I didn't call it that, but that is how I thought of my ability to impress others. It was not me doing it, but a persona which I knew how to put on. It was something, indeed, which any one with a little intelligence and a flair for acting could learn to do. Monkey tricks, in other words. Yet, though I regarded these performances in this light, I myself at times would wonder if perhaps it was not me, after all, who was behind these antics.

Such was the penalty of living alone, working alone, never meeting a kindred spirit, never touching the fringe of that secret inner circle wherein all those doubts and conflicts which ravaged me could be brought out into the open, shared, discussed, analyzed and, if not resolved, at least aired.

Those strange figures out of the world of art—painters, sculptors, particularly painters—was it not natural that I should feel at home with them? Their work spoke to me in mysterious fashion. Had they used words I might have been baffled. However remote their world from ours, the ingredients were the same: rocks, trees, mountains, water, theatre, work, play, costumes, worship, youth and old age, harlotry, coquetry, mimicry, war, famine, torture, intrigue, vice, lust, joy, sorrow. A Tibetan scroll, with its mandalas, its gods and devils, its strange symbols, its prescribed colors, was as familiar to me, some part of me, as the nymphs and sprites, the streams and forests, of a European painter.

But what was closer to me than anything in Chinese, Japanese or Tibetan art was this art of India born of the mountain itself. (As if the mountains became pregnant with dreams and gave birth to their dreams, using the poor human mortals who hollowed them out as tools.) It was the monstrous nature, if we may speak of the grandiose as such, yes, the monstrous nature of these creations which so appealed to me, which answered to some unspoken hunger in my own being. Moving amidst my own people I was never impressed by any of their accomplishments; I never felt the presence of any deep religious urge, nor any great aesthetic impulse: there was no sublime architecture, no sacred dances, no ritual of any kind. We moved in a swarm, intent on accomplishing one thing—to make life easy. The great bridges, the great dams, the great skyscrapers left me cold. Only Nature could instill a sense of awe. And we were defacing Nature at every turn. As many times as I struck out to scour the land, I always came back empty-handed. Nothing new, nothing bizarre, nothing exotic. Worse, nothing to bow down before, nothing to reverence. Alone in a land where every one was hopping about like mad. What I craved was to worship and adore. What I needed were companions who felt the same way. But there was nothing to worship or adore, there were no companions of like spirit. There was only a wilderness of steel and iron, of stocks and bonds, of crops and produce, of factories, mills and lumber yards, a wilderness of boredom, of useless utilities, of loveless love...