NEXUS

19

Sailing out one bright and lovely morning to take my constitutional, I find MacGregor waiting for me at the doorstep.

Hi there! he says, switching on his electric grin. So it's you, in the flesh? Trapped you at last, eh? He puts out his hand. Hen, why do I have to lay in wait for you like this? Can't you spare five minutes occasionally for an old friend? What are you running away from? How are you anyway? How's the book coming along? Mind if I walk a ways with you ?

I suppose the landlady told you I was out?

How did you guess it?

I started walking; he fell in step with me, as if we were on parade.

Hen, you'll never change, I guess. (Sounded frighteningly like my mother.) Once upon a time I could call you any hour of the day or night and you'd come. Now you're a writer ... an important man ... no time for old friends.

Come on, I replied, cut it. You know that's not it.

What is it then?

This ... I'm done wasting time. These problems of yours—I can't solve them. No one can, except yourself. You're not the first man who's been jilted.

What about yourself? Have you forgotten how you used to keep me up all night bending my ear about Una Gifford ?

We were twenty-one then.

One's never too old to fall in love. At this age it's even worse. I can't afford to lose her.

What do you mean—can't afford?

Too hard on the ego. One doesn't fall in love as often now or as easily. I don't want to fall out of love, it would be disastrous. I don't say that she has to marry me, but I've got to know that she's there ... reachable. I can love her from a distance, if necessary.

I smiled. Funny, you saying a thing like that. I was touching on that very theme the other day, in the novel. Do you know what I concluded ?

Better to become a celibate, I suppose.

No, I came to the same conclusion that every jackass does ... that nothing matters except to keep on loving. Even if she were to marry some one else, you could keep on loving her. What do you make of that?

Easier said than done, Hen.

Precisely. It's your opportunity. Most men give up. Supposing she decided to live in Hong Kong? What has distance to do with it?

You're talking Christian Science, man. I'm not in love with a Virgin Mary. Why should I stand still and watch her drift away? You don't make sense.

That's what I'm trying to convince you of. That's why it's useless to bring me your problem, don't you see? We don't see eye to eye any more. We're old friends who haven't a thing in common.

Do you really think that, Hen? His tone was wistful rather than reproachful.

Listen, I said, once we were as close as peas in a pod, you, George Marshall and me. We were like brothers. That was a long, long time ago. Things happened. Somewhere the link snapped. George settled down, like a reformed crook. His wife won out...

And me?

You buried yourself in your law work, which you despise. One day you'll be a judge, mark my words. But it won't change your way of life. You've given up the ghost. Nothing interests you any more—unless it's a game of poker. And you think my way of life is cock-eyed. It is, I'll admit that. But not in the way you think.

His reply surprised me somewhat. You're not so far off the track, Hen. We have made a mess of it, George and myself. The others too, for that matter. (He was referring to the members of the Xerxes Society.) None of us has amounted to a damn. But what's all that got to do with friendship? Must we become important figures in the world to remain friends? Sounds like snobbery to me. We never pretended, George or I, that we were going to burn up the world. We're what we are. Isn't that good enough for you ?

Look, I replied, it wouldn't matter to me if you were nothing but a bum; you could still be my friend and I yours. You could make fun of everything I believed in, if you believed in something yourself. But you don't. You believe in nothing. To my way of thinking one's got to believe in what he's doing, else all's a farce. I'd be all for you if you wanted to be a bum and became a bum with all your heart and soul. But what are you? You're one of those meaningless souls who filled us with contempt when we were younger ... when we sat up the whole night long discussing such thinkers as Nietzsche, Shaw, Ibsen. Just names to you now. You weren't going to be like your old man, no sir! They weren't going to lasso you, tame you. But they did. Or you did. You put yourself in the strait-jacket. You took the easiest way. You surrendered before you had even begun to fight.

And you? he exclaimed, holding a hand aloft as if to say Hear, hear! Yeah, you, what have you accomplished that's so remarkable? Going on forty and nothing published yet. What's so great about that?

Nothing, I replied. It's deplorable, that's what.

And that entitles you to lecture me. Ho ho!

I had to hedge a bit. I wasn't lecturing you, I was explaining that we had nothing in common any more.

!From the looks of it we're both failures. That's what we have in common, if you'll face it squarely.

I never said I was a failure. Except to myself, perhaps. How can one be a failure if he's still struggling, still fighting? Maybe I won't make the grade. Maybe I'll end up being a trombone player. But whatever I do, whatever I take up, it'll be because I believe in it. I won't float with the tide. I'd rather go down fighting ... a failure, as you say. I loathe doing like every one else, falling in line, saying yes when you mean no.

He started to say something but I waved him down.

I don't mean senseless struggle, senseless resistance. One should make an effort to reach clear, still waters. One has to struggle to stop struggling. One has to find himself, that's what I mean.

Hen, he said, you talk well and you mean well, but you're all mixed up. You read too much, that's your trouble.

And you never stop to think, I rejoined. Nor will you accept your share of suffering. You think there's an answer to everything. It never occurs to you that maybe there isn't, that maybe the only answer is you yourself, how you regard your problems. You don't want to wrestle with problems, you want them eliminated for you. The easy way out, that's you. Take this girl of yours ... this life and death problem ... doesn't it mean something to you that she sees nothing in you? You ignore that, don't you? I want her! I've got to have her! That's all you've got to answer. Sure you'd change your ways, you'd make something of yourself ... if some one were kind enough to stand over you with a sledgehammer. You like to say—'Hen, I'm an ornery sort of bastard,’ but you won't raise a finger to make yourself a wee bit different. You want to be taken as you are, and if one doesn't like you the way you are, fuck him! Isn't that it?

He cocked his head to one side, like a judge weighing the testimony presented, then said: Maybe. Maybe you're right.

For a few moments we walked on in silence. Like a bird with a burr in his craw, he was digesting the evidence. Then, his lips spreading into an impish grin, he said: Sometimes you remind me of that bastard, Challacombe. God, how that guy could rile me I Always talking down from his pedestal. And you fell for all that crap of his. You believed in him ... in that Theosophical shit...

I certainly did! I answered with heat. If he had never mentioned anything more than the name Swanii Vivekananda I would have felt indebted to him the rest of my life. Crap, you say. To me it was the breath of life, I know he wasn't your idea of a friend. A little too lofty, too detached, for your taste. He was a teacher, and you couldn't see him as a teacher. Where did he get his credentials and all that? He had no schooling, no training, no nothing. But he knew what he was talking about. At least, I thought so. He made you wallow in your own vomit, and you didn't like that. You wanted to lean on his shoulder and puke all over him—then he would have been a friend. And so you searched for flaws in his character, you found his weaknesses, you reduced him to your own level. You do that with every one who's difficult to understand. When you can jeer at the other fellow as you do at yourself you're happy ... then everything comes out even ... Look, try to understand this. Everything's wrong with the world. Everywhere there's ignorance, superstition, bigotry, injustice, intolerance. It's been so since the world began most likely. It will be so to-morrow and the day after. So what? Is that a reason to feel defeated, to go sour on the world? Do you know what Swami Vivekananda said once? He said: There is only one sill. That is weakness ... Do not add one lunacy to another. Do not add your weakness to the evil that is going to come ... Be strong!

I paused, waiting for him to make mince meat of this. Instead he said: Go on, Hen, give us some more! It sounds good.

It is good, I replied. It will always be good. And people will go on doing the very opposite. The very ones who applauded his words betrayed him the instant he stopped speaking. That goes for Vivekananda, Socrates, Jesus, Nietzsche, Karl Marx, Krishnamurti ... name them yourself! But what am I telling you all this for anyway? You won't change. You refuse to grow. You want to get by with the least effort, the least trouble, the least pain. Every one does. It's wonderful to hear tell about the masters, but as for becoming a master, shit! Listen, I was reading a book the other day ... to be honest, I've been reading it for a year or more. Don't ask me the title, because I'm not giving it to you. But here's what I read, and no master could have put it better. The sole meaning, purpose, intention, and secret of Christ, my dears, is not to understand Life, or mould it, or change it, or even to love it, but to drink of its undying essence.

Say it again, will you, Hen?

I did.

To drink of its undying essence, he mumbled. Damned good. And you won't tell me who wrote it?

No.

Okay, Hen. Go on! What else have you got up your sleeve this morning?

This ... How are you making out with your Guelda?

Forget it! This is much better.

You're not giving her up, I hope?

She's giving me up. For good, this time.

And you're reconciled to it?

Don't you ever listen to me? Of course not! That's why I was laying in wait for you. But, as you say, each one has to follow his own path. Don't you think I know that? Maybe we haven't anything in common any more. Maybe we never did, have you ever thought that? Maybe it was something more than that which held us together. I can't help liking you, Hen, even when you rake me over the coals. You're a heartless son of a bitch sometimes. If any one's ornery it's you, not me. But you've got something, if you can only bring it out. Something for the world, I mean, not for me. You shouldn't be writing a novel, Hen. Any one can do that. You've got more important things to do. I'm serious. I'd rather see you lecture on Vivekananda—or Mahatma Gandhi.

Or Pico della Mirandola.

Never heard of him.

So she won't have anything more to do with you?

That's what she said. A woman can always change her mind, of course.

She will, don't worry.

The last time I saw her she was still talking of taking a vacation—in Par is.

Why don't you follow her?

Better than that, Hen. I've got it all figured out. Soon as I learn what boat she's taking I'll go to the steamship office and, even if I have to bribe the clerk, I'll get a stateroom next to hers. When she comes out that first morning I'll be there to greet her. ‘Hi there, sweetheart! Beautiful day today, what?'

She'll love that.

She won't jump overboard, that's for sure.

But she might tell the captain that you're annoying her.

Fuck the captain! I can handle him ... Three days at sea and, whether she likes it or not, I'll break her down.

I wish you luck! I grasped his hand and shook it. Here's where I take leave of you.

Have a coffee with me! Come on!

Nope. Back to work. As Krishna said to Arjuna: ‘If I stopped work for a moment, the whole universe would...

Would what?

Fall apart, I think he said.

Okay, Hen. He wheeled around and, without another word, went off in the opposite direction.

I had only gone a few steps when I heard him shouting.

Hey Hen!

What?

I'll see you in Paris, if not before. So long!

See you in Hell, I thought to myself. But as I resumed my walk I felt a twinge of remorse. You shouldn't treat any one like that, not even your best friend, I said to myself.

All the way home I kept carrying on a monologue. It went something like this...

So what if he is a pain in the ass? Sure, every one has to solve his own problems, but—is that a reason to turn a man down? You're not a Vivekananda. Besides, would Vivekananda have acted that way? You don't snub a man who's in distress. Nor do you have to let him puke over you either. Supposing he is acting like a child, what of it? Is your behavior always that of an adult? And wasn't that a lot of shit, about not having anything in common any more? He should have walked away from you then and there. What you have in common, my fine Swami, is plain ordinary human weakness. Maybe he did stop growing long ago. Is that a crime? No matter at what point along the road he is, he's still a human being. Move on, if you like ... keep your eyes straight ahead ... but don't refuse a laggard a helping hand. Where would you be if you had had to go it alone? Are you standing on your own two feet? What about all those nobodies, those nincompoops, who emptied their pockets for you when you were in need? Are they worthless, now that you no longer have need of them?

No, but...

So you have no answer! You're pretending to be something which you're not. You're afraid of falling back into your old ways. You flatter yourself that you're different, but the fact is you're only too much like the others whom you glibly condemn. That crazy elevator runner was on to you. He saw right through you, didn't he? Frankly, what have you accomplished with your own two hands, or with that intellect you seem so proud of? At twenty-one Alexander started out to conquer the world, and at thirty he had the world in his two hands. I know you're not aiming to conquer the world—but you'd like to make a dent in it, wouldn't you? You want to be recognized as a writer. Well, who's stopping you? Not poor MacGregor, certainly. Yes, there is only one sin, as Vivekananda said. And that is weakness. Take it to heart, old man ... take it to heart! Come down off your high horse! Come out of your ivory tower and join the ranks! Maybe there's something more to life than writing books. And what have you got to say that's so very important? Are you another Nietzsche? You're not even you yet, do you realize that?

By the time I reached the corner of our street I had beaten myself to a pulp. I had about as much spunk left in me as a stoat. To make it worse, Sid Essen was waiting for me at the foot of the steps. He was wreathed in smiles. Miller, he said, I'm not going to take up your valuable time. I couldn't keep this in my pocket another minute.

He pulled out an envelope and handed it to me. What's this? I said.

A little token from your friends. Those darkies think the world of you. You're to buy something with it for the Missus. It's a little collection they made among themselves.

In my crestfallen state I was on the verge of tears. Miller, Miller, said Reb, throwing his arms around me, what are we ever going to do without you?

It'll only be a few months, I said, blushing like a fool.

I know, I know, but we're going to miss you. Have a coffee with me, won't you? I won't keep you. There's something I've got to tell you.

I walked back to the corner with him, to the candy and stationery shop where we had first met.

You know, he said, as we took a seat at the counter, I've almost a mind to join you. Only I know that I'd be in the way.

Somewhat embarrassed, I replied: Guess most everybody would love to go to Paris for a vacation. They will too, one day...

I meant, Miller, that I'd love to see it through your eyes. He gave me a look that melted me.

Yes, I said, disregarding his words, one day it won't be necessary to take a boat or a plane to get to Europe.

All we need to learn now is how to overcome the force of gravitation. Just stay put and let the earth spin round under your feet. It travels fast, this old earth. I went on in this vein, trying to overcome my embarrassment. Engines, turbines, motors ... Leonardo da Vinci. And we're moving like snails, I said. We haven't even begun to use the magnetic forces which envelop us. We're cave men still, with motors up our bung holes...

Poor Reb didn't know what to make of it. He was itching to say something, but he didn't want to be impolite and head me off. So I rattled on.

Simplification, that's what we need. Look at the stars—they have no motors. Have you ever thought what it is that keeps this earth of ours spinning like a ball? Nikola Tesla gave a lot of thought to it, and Marconi too. No one has yet come up with the final answer.

He looked at me in utter perplexity. I knew that whatever it was that was on his mind it wasn't electromagnetism.

I'm sorry, I said. You wanted to tell me something, didn't you?

Yes, he said, but I don't want to...

I was only thinking out loud.

Well, then ... He cleared his throat. All I wanted to tell you was this ... if you should get stranded over there, don't hesitate to cable me. Or if you want to prolong your stay. You know where to reach me. He blushed and turned his head away.

Reb, I said, nudging him with my elbow, you're just too damned good to me. And you hardly know me. I mean, you've known me only a short time. None of my so-called friends would do as much, that's a bet.

To this he replied—You don't know what your friends are capable of doing for you, I'm afraid. You've never given them a chance.

I fairly exploded. I haven't, eh? Man, I've given them so many chances they don't even want to hear my name.

Aren't you a bit hard on them? Maybe they didn't have what to give.

That's exactly what they said, all of them. But it's not true. If you don't have you can borrow—for a friend. Right? Abraham offered up his son, didn't he?

That was to Jehovah.

I wasn't asking them to make sacrifices. All I asked for was chicken feed—cigarettes, a meal, old clothes. Wait a minute, I want to modify what I said. There were exceptions. There was one lad I remember, one of my messengers ... this was after I had quit the telegraph company ... when he learned that I was up against it he went and stole for me. He'd bring us a chicken or a few vegetables ... sometimes only a candy bar, if that was all he could lay hands on. There were others too, poor like him, or nuts. They didn't turn their pockets inside out to show me they had nothing. The guys I traveled with had no right to refuse me. None of them had ever starved. We weren't poor white trash. We all came from decent, comfortable homes. No, maybe it's the Jew in you that makes you so kind and thoughtful, pardon the way I put it. When a Jew sees a man in distress, hungry, abused, despised, he sees himself. He identifies immediately with the other fellow. Not us. We haven't tasted enough poverty, misfortune, disgrace, humiliation. We've never been pariahs. We're sitting pretty, we are, lording it over the rest of the world.

Miller, he said, you must have taken a lot of punishment. No matter what I may think of my own people—they've got their faults too, you know—I could never talk about them the way you do about yours. It makes me all the more happy to think you're going to enjoy yourself for a while. It's coming to you. But you've got to bury the past!

I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself, you mean. I threw him a tender smile. You know, Reb, I really don't feel this way all the time. Deep down it still rankles, but on the surface I take people pretty much as they come. What I can't get over, I guess, is that I had to worm it out of them, everything I got. And what did I get? Crumbs. I exaggerate, of course. Not every one turned me down cold. And those who did probably had a right to act as they did. It was like the pitcher you bring once too often to the well. I sure knew how to make a nuisance of myself. And for a man who's willing to eat humble pie I was too arrogant. I had a way of rubbing people the wrong way. Especially when asking for help. You see, I'm one of those fools who think that people, friends anyway, ought to divine the fact that one is in need. When you come across a poor, filthy beggar, does he have to make your heart bleed before you toss him a coin? Not if you're a decent, sensitive being. When you see him with head down, searching the gutter for a discarded butt or a piece of yesterday's sandwich, you lift up his head, you put your arms around him, especially if he's crawling with lice, and you say: ‘What is it, friend? Can I be of any help?’ You don't pass him up with one eye fastened on a bird sitting on a telegraph wire. You don't make him run after you with hands outstretched. That's my point. No wonder so many people refuse a beggar when he accosts them. It's humiliating to be approached that way: it makes you feel guilty. We're all generous, in our own way. But the moment some one begs something of us our hearts close up.

Miller, said Reb, visibly moved by this outburst, you're what I'd call a good Jew.

Another Jesus, eh?

Yeah, why not? Jesus was a good Jew, even though we've had to suffer for two thousand years because of him.

The moral is—don't work too hard at it! Don't try to be too good.

One can never do too much, said Reb heatedly.

Oh yes he can. Do what needs doing, that's good enough.

Isn't it the same thing?

Almost. The point is that God looks after the world. We should look after one another. If the good Lord had seeded help to run this world He would have given us bigger hearts. Hearts, not brains.

Jesus, said Reb, but you do talk like a Jew. You remind me of certain scholars I listened to when I was a kid and they were expounding the law. They could jump from one side of the fence to the other, like goats. When you were cold they blew hot, and vice versa. You never knew where you stood with them. Here's what I mean ... Passionate as they were, they always preached moderation. The prophets were the wild men; they were in a class apart. The holy men didn't rant and rave. They were pure, that's why. And you're pure too. I know you are.

What was there to answer? He was simple, Reb, and in need of a friend. No matter what I said, no matter how I treated him, he acted as if I had enriched him. I was his friend. And he would remain my friend, no matter what.

Walking back to the house I resumed the inner monologue. You see, it's as simple as that, friendship. What's the old adage? To have a friend you must be a friend.

It was hard to see, though, in what way I had been a friend to Reb—or to anybody, for that matter. All I could see was that I was my own best friend—and my own worst enemy.

Pushing the door open, I had to remark to myself—If you know that much, old fella, you know a lot.

I took my accustomed place before the machine. Now, said I to myself, you're back in your own little kingdom. Now you can play God again.

The drollery of addressing myself thus stopped me. God! As if it were only yesterday that I had left off communing with Him, I found myself conversing with Him as of yore. For God so loved the world that He gave his only begotten Son ... And how little we had given in return. What can we offer thee, O Heavenly Father, in return for thy blessings? My heart spoke out, as if, veriest nothing that I was, I had an inkling of the problems which confronted the Creator of the universe. Nor was I ashamed to be thus intimate with my Maker. Was I not part of that immense all which He had made manifest expressly, perhaps, to realize the unlimited bounds of his Being?

It was ages since I had addressed Him in this intimate fashion. What a difference between those prayers wrung out of sheer despair, when I called on Him for mercy—mercy, not grace!—and the easy duos born of humble understanding! Strange, is it, this mention of earthly-heavenly discourse? It would occur most often when my spirits ran high ... when there was little reason, mark this, to show any sign of spirit. Incongruous as it may sound, it was often when the cruel nature of man's fate smote me between the eyes that my spirit soared. When, like a worm eating his way through the slime, there came the thought, crazy perhaps, that the lowest was linked to the highest. Did they not tell us, when we were young, that God noted the sparrow's fall? Even if I never quite believed it, I was nevertheless impressed. (Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh—is there anything too hard for me?) Total awareness! Plausible or implausible, it was a great reach of thought. Sometimes, as a kid, when something truly extraordinary occurred, I would exclaim: Did you see that, God? How wonderful to think that He was there, within calling distance! He was a presence then, not a metaphysical abstraction. His spirit pervaded everything; He was of it all and above it all, at one and the same time. And then—thinking about it I assumed an almost seraphic smile—then would come times when, in order not to go stark, raving mad, one simply had to look upon it (upon the absurd, monstrous nature of things) with the eyes of the Creator, He who is responsible for it all and understands it.

Tapping away—I was on the gallop now—the thought of Creation, of the all-seeing eye, the all-embracing corn-passion, the nearness and farness of God, hung over me like a veil. What a joke to be writing a novel about imaginary characters, imaginary situations! Hadn't the Lord of the Universe imagined everything? What a farce to lord it over this fictitious realm! Was it for this I had beseeched the Almighty to grant me the gift of words?

The utter ridiculousness of my position brought me to a halt. Why hurry to bring the book to a close? In my mind it was already finished. I had thought out the imaginary drama to its imaginary end. I could rest a moment, suspended above my ant-like being, and let a few more hairs whiten.

I fell back into the vacuum (where God is all) with the most delicious sense of relief. I could see it all clearly—my earthly evolution, from the larval stage to the present, and even beyond the present. What was the struggle for or toward? Toward union. Perhaps. What else could it mean, this desire to communicate? To reach every one,: high and low, and get an answer back—a devastating thought! To vibrate eternally, like the world lyre. Rather frightening, if pushed to its furthest implications.

Perhaps I didn't mean quite that. Enough, perhaps, to establish communication with one's peers, one's kindred spirits. But who were they? Where were they? One could only know by letting fly the arrow.

A picture now obtruded. A picture of the world as a web of magnetic forces. Studding this web like nuclei Were the burning spirits of the earth about whom the various orders of humanity spun like constellations. Due to the hierarchical distribution of powers and aptitudes a sublime harmony reigned. No discord was possible. All the conflict, all the disturbance, all the confusion and disorder to which man vainly endeavored to adjust was meaningless. The intelligence which invested the universe recognized it not. The murderous, the suicidal, the maniacal activity of earthly beings, yea, even their benevolent, their worshipful, their all too humane activities, were illusory. In the magnetic web motion itself was nil. Nothing to go toward, nothing to retreat from, nothing to reach up to. The vast, unending field of force was like a suspended thought, a suspended note. Aeons from now—and what was now?—another thought might replace it. Brrrr! Chilling though it was, I wanted to lie there on the floor of nothingness and forever contemplate the picture of creation.

It came to me presently that the element of creation, where writing was concerned, had little to do with thought. A tree does not search for its fruits, it grows them. To write, I concluded, was to garner the fruits of the imagination, to grow into the life of the mind like a tree putting forth leaves.

Profound or not, it was a comforting thought. At one bound I was sitting in the lap of the gods. I heard laughter all about me. No need to play God. No need to astound any one. Take the lyre and pluck a silvery note. Above all the commotion, even above the sound of laughter, there was music. Perpetual music. That was the meaning of the supreme intelligence which invested creation.

I came sliding down the ladder in a hurry. And this was the lovely, lovely thought which had me by the hair ... You there, pretending to be dead and crucified, yon there, with your terrible historia de calamitatis, why not reenact it in the spirit of play? Why not tell it over to yourself and extract a little music from it? Are they real, your wounds? Are they still alive, still fresh? Or are they so much literary nail polish? Comes the cadenza...

Kiss me, kiss me, again. We were eighteen or nineteen then, MacGregor and I, and the girl he had brought to the party was studying to become an opera singer.

She was sensitive, attractive, the best he had found so far, he ever would find, for that matter. She loved him passionately. She loved him though she knew he was frivolous and faithless. When he said in his easy, thoughtless way—I'm crazy about you!—she swooned. There was this song between them which he never tired of hearing. Sing it again, won't you? No one can sing it like you. And she would sing it, again and again. Kiss me, kiss me, again. It always gave me a pang to hear her sing it, but this night I thought my heart would break. For this night, seated in a far corner of the room, seemingly as far from me as she could get, sat the divine, the unattainable Una Gifford, a thousand times more beautiful than MacGregor's prima donna, a thousand times more mysterious, and a thousand thousand times beyond any reach of mine. Kiss me, kiss me, again! How the words pierced me! And not a soul in that boisterous, merry-making group was aware of my agony. The fiddler approaches, blithe, debonair, his cheek glued to the instrument, and drawing out each phrase on muted strings, he plays it—softly in my ear.

Kiss me ... kiss me ... a ... again. Not another note can I take. Pushing him aside, I bolt.

Down the street I run, the tears streaming down my cheeks. At the corner I come upon a horse wandering in the middle of the street. The most forlorn, broken-down nag ever a man laid eyes on. I try to speak to this lost quadruped—it's not a horse any more, not even an animal. For a moment I thought it understood. For one long moment it looked me full in the face. Then, terrified, it let out a blood-curdling neigh and took to its heels. Desolate, I made a noise like a rusty sleighbell, and slumped to the ground. Sounds of revelry filled the empty street. They fell on my ears like the din from a barracks full of drunken Soldiers. It was for me they were giving the party. And she was there, my beloved, snow-blonde, starry-eyed, forever unattainable. Queen of the Arctic. No one else regarded her thus. Only me.

A long ago wound, this one. Not too much blood connected with it. Worse to follow. Much, much worse. Isn't it funny how the faster they come, the more one expects them—yes, expects them!—to be bigger, bloodier, more painful, more devastating. And they always are.

I closed the book of memory. Yes, there was music to be extracted from those old wounds. But the time was not yet. Let them’ fester awhile in the dark. Once we reached Europe I would grow a new body and a new soul. What were the sufferings of a Brooklyn boy to the inheritors of the Black Plague, the Hundred Years War, the extermination of the Albigensians, the Crusades, the Inquisition, the slaughter of the Huguenots, the French Revolution, the never ending persecution of the Jews, the invasions of the Huns, the coming of the Turks, the rains of frogs and locusts, the unspeakable doings of the Vatican, the irruption of regicides and sex-bedeviled queens, of feeble-minded monarchs, of Robespierres and Saint Justs, of Hohenstauffens and Hohenzollerns, of rat chasers and bone crushers? What could a few soulful haemorrhoids of American vintage mean to the Raskolnikovs and Karamazovs of old Europe?

I saw myself standing on a table top, an insignificant pouter pigeon dropping his little white pellets of pigeon shit. A table top named Europe, around which the monarchs of the soul were gathered, oblivious of the aches and pains of the New World. What could I possibly say to them in this white pouter pigeon language? What could any one reared in an atmosphere of peace, abundance and security say to the sons and daughters of martyrs? True, we had the same forbears, the identical nameless ancestors who had been torn on the rack, burned at the stake driven from pillar to post, but—the memory of their fate no longer burned in us; we had turned our backs upon this harrowing past, we had grown new shoots from the charred stump of the parental tree. Nurtured by the waters of Lethe, we had become a thankless race of ingrates, devoid of an umbilical cord, slap-happy after the fashion of syntheticos.

Soon, dear men of Europe, we will be with you in the flesh. We are coming—with our handsome valises, our gilt-edged passports, our hundred dollar bills, our travelers’ insurance policies, our guide books, our humdrum opinions, our petty prejudices, our half-baked judgments, our posy spectacles which lead us to believe that all is well, that everything comes out right in the end, that God is Love and Mind is all. When you see us as we are, when you hear us chatter like magpies, you will know that you have lost nothing by remaining where you are. You will have no cause to envy our fresh new bodies, our rich red blood. Have pity on us who are so raw, so brittle, so vulnerable, so blisteringly new and untarnished! We wither fast...