will never be David Niven, but I am not dismayed. My mistress, Dolores, has luminous grey eyes and exquisite breasts; we are reading Dante together, in the original, in bed. My peers are generous in their commendations. I am happy. When the letters are gone, at last, I shall use the jewelled box to store cufflinks, tie-tacks, commemorative medals, and other memorabilia.
THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE
MOST OF HIS MAIL, these days, is fan mail. People keep inviting him to dinner, fishing for secrets, for
his
secret especially. Strangers wave at him, pretty girls beckon and blush, in the streets. He smiles benignly. In the company of friends, he affects to be embarrassed by this attention, or to disdain it: âHow little they realize.â He orders rounds of beer, asks difficult questions, awaits familiar answers. âWhen are you going to do it?â he asks. âWhen are you going to get off your ass and finish it?â Everyone knows what he means; everyone looks away. The jukebox is playing a song of the period, something about clean country air, innocent lovinâ, the Simple Things. He is acquainted, conversant, with the Simple Things. He, too, has sat before a pine fire, toasting marshmallows, thinking placid thoughts. âWe may fancy ourselves intellectuals,
artistes
,â he says, âbut we are not for that reason excused from action. When the day comes, we shall not be exempt. Remember what Socrates said.â Everyone remembers, gratefully, what Socrates said.
He is having supper tonight with the Empress of India. They will fry prawns in exotic sauces; the table will be set with linen, rough-textured stoneware, candles, dried reeds in a brass bowl. They will drink a virtuous red wine, in moderation, sniffing the bouquet critically; he will tell her, not without irony, about his childhood, his first car, his early sexual terror, now happily abated. âWhat an oaf I was,â he will say, reminiscently. Later, he will play his guitar for her. There will be muffled applause, cries of âBravo!â and âWow!â The sun will set discreetly, behind the grape arbour; elsewhere the moon will rise. Everything will partake of the sweetness of life.
Today, he is expansive, in expectation of pleasure, the eveningâs wine and music, the tender ladies. Among the proletariat, he shines. The proletariat seem not to notice. He takes this indifference, sometimes, as an affront, a breach of manners; even now, it hurts. âHave I not done enough?â he complains. âWhat have I failed to do?â He leans confidentially across the table. âEverything that lives is holy, but some things are holier than other things. I know at which door to take off my shoes, at which to leave them on.â His friends nod, as if in assent. They also have known the sweetness of life.
This young man will go far,
they are thinking. They understand that he is always going somewhere, to do something. They understand that the Empress of India will not be kept waiting.
What matters, of course, is the maintenance of harmony. He is not beyond greasing the gears, if the machine falters. Mere sloppiness offends him, confutes the proper deployment of things in nature. âA tree is never sloppy,â he likes to say. âIf the beasts of the field had needed the vacuum-cleaner, they would have invented it.â No one doubts the perspicacity of this.
The Empress of India pours tea, delicately, from a well-wrought urn. âWhen I attained enlightenment,â she tells him, âI was sitting under an acacia tree, freaking. The air was full of sulphur dioxide and ash. I was thinking about cause and effect, in the matter of chicken pox: does the itch generate the scratch, or the scratch the itch? That was my koan, after a fashion. Three ducks were floating on the pond, in perfect formation. I was wearing my sea-green robe, and my hair was spread luxuriant around me. At that moment, nothing anywhere was
THE SWEETNESS OF LIFE
MOST OF HIS MAIL, these days, is fan mail. People keep inviting him to dinner, fishing for secrets, for
his
secret especially. Strangers wave at him, pretty girls beckon and blush, in the streets. He smiles benignly. In the company of friends, he affects to be embarrassed by this attention, or to disdain it: âHow little they realize.â He orders rounds of beer, asks difficult questions, awaits familiar answers. âWhen are you going to do it?â he asks. âWhen are you going to get off your ass and finish it?â Everyone knows what he means; everyone looks away. The jukebox is playing a song of the period, something about clean country air, innocent lovinâ, the Simple Things. He is acquainted, conversant, with the Simple Things. He, too, has sat before a pine fire, toasting marshmallows, thinking placid thoughts. âWe may fancy ourselves intellectuals,
artistes
,â he says, âbut we are not for that reason excused from action. When the day comes, we shall not be exempt. Remember what Socrates said.â Everyone remembers, gratefully, what Socrates said.
He is having supper tonight with the Empress of India. They will fry prawns in exotic sauces; the table will be set with linen, rough-textured stoneware, candles, dried reeds in a brass bowl. They will drink a virtuous red wine, in moderation, sniffing the bouquet critically; he will tell her, not without irony, about his childhood, his first car, his early sexual terror, now happily abated. âWhat an oaf I was,â he will say, reminiscently. Later, he will play his guitar for her. There will be muffled applause, cries of âBravo!â and âWow!â The sun will set discreetly, behind the grape arbour; elsewhere the moon will rise. Everything will partake of the sweetness of life.
Today, he is expansive, in expectation of pleasure, the eveningâs wine and music, the tender ladies. Among the proletariat, he shines. The proletariat seem not to notice. He takes this indifference, sometimes, as an affront, a breach of manners; even now, it hurts. âHave I not done enough?â he complains. âWhat have I failed to do?â He leans confidentially across the table. âEverything that lives is holy, but some things are holier than other things. I know at which door to take off my shoes, at which to leave them on.â His friends nod, as if in assent. They also have known the sweetness of life.
This young man will go far,
they are thinking. They understand that he is always going somewhere, to do something. They understand that the Empress of India will not be kept waiting.
What matters, of course, is the maintenance of harmony. He is not beyond greasing the gears, if the machine falters. Mere sloppiness offends him, confutes the proper deployment of things in nature. âA tree is never sloppy,â he likes to say. âIf the beasts of the field had needed the vacuum-cleaner, they would have invented it.â No one doubts the perspicacity of this.
The Empress of India pours tea, delicately, from a well-wrought urn. âWhen I attained enlightenment,â she tells him, âI was sitting under an acacia tree, freaking. The air was full of sulphur dioxide and ash. I was thinking about cause and effect, in the matter of chicken pox: does the itch generate the scratch, or the scratch the itch? That was my koan, after a fashion. Three ducks were floating on the pond, in perfect formation. I was wearing my sea-green robe, and my hair was spread luxuriant around me. At that moment, nothing anywhere was
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