have it.
—And for the rest?
—If he acts, if he doesn’t, it’s meaningless. The whole thing goes forward. No one is important. No one at all.
—A war with no participants. Only casualties. The forest opens and consumes the troops.
She laughed.
—And consumes the troops, agreed Gerard.
She came to the door and stood beside him looking out the window.
There was nothing to see.
—I have a terrible feeling, he said. Like the rope isn’t tied to anything.
—Come now, he’ll make it home. Come.
She kissed him and led him back to the others.
—And here, said Mr. Gibbons, is the brush I always use for eyes.
He handed Molly an extremely thin brush.
—It is not a-single-horse’s-hair, but it is close to that.
Molly wrote on the paper:
*Three horse hairs?
—Perhaps.
The brush had a furious red handle. Such a handle, it seemed that it would grant life to whatever it made. Molly gave it back to Mr. Gibbons reluctantly.
*But why a different brush for eyes? Is there one for mouths, for ears, for cheeks? Molly wrote.
Mr. Gibbons read the paper.
—You’re a shrewd one, he said. That’s for certain. Here’s why: if I have to switch brushes for each feature, it grants me the space of thought. I can’t just dash ’em off. Also, the brush can be acquainted with its specialty, if you believe such things.
He coughed.
—Not that believing such things has anything to do with whether they are true. You see that, don’t you?
Molly nodded.
—The effect of irrational beliefs on your art is invaluable. You must shepherd and protect them. I’m sure your father would say the same.
*He believes many things.
—I’m sure he does.
Mr. Gibbons held up a puppet with a veiled face. It was a male puppet in a jester suit, but its face was veiled.
—There are puppets, said Mr. Gibbons, who know more than what the other puppets know. Do you see what I mean? Not all the puppets are privy to the same information. This puppet for instance, this puppet, I save him for special circumstances. He is aware that the puppet show is going on, and of his place in it. That doesn’t mean that he knows about the puppeteer, not exactly. His information, of course, is not always correct. However, he does know much more than any of the other puppets. Sometimes, why sometimes he can even see the audience.
Molly wrote something on her piece of paper and then crossed it out.
—That’s right, said Mr. Gibbons. It’s better to have something like that in your head awhile before asking questions about it. I quite agree.
—Once, he continued, in a play about a horse, this puppet, this very puppet, explained to the cast that they were all being used, manipulated, made fools of. On the spot, right there, the puppets refused to go on. It was a disaster. I had to refund all the show’s proceeds. The audience left in a huff.
Molly smiled and took a long breath. She scribbled down a question.
*He can say things to them in one play and they won’t know it in the next. Everything starts over, no?
—Everything starts over. Except—maybe, just maybe, he has some sense of the history of all these puppet shows. That’s why he sits here, on this fine throne, overlooking the whole room.
It was true that the veiled jester had a fine view of the room.
*What voice do you use for him?
—Oh, he has many voices. As many as the leaves on the tree he was carved from. He is a teller of stories, but a great liar as well.
*But isn’t one his voice?
—Well, we will just have to see if he joins the play, won’t we? Time passes. We must continue our good work. Come over here now. We must make some of those decisions I spoke of.
William went along the street as quickly as he could. To run would be foolish. It would attract attention. Besides, it was too far. He could never run all the way. But walking below a certain speed was foolish, too—it meant someone walking behind and faster might overtake you. So one had to walk fast enough to not
—And for the rest?
—If he acts, if he doesn’t, it’s meaningless. The whole thing goes forward. No one is important. No one at all.
—A war with no participants. Only casualties. The forest opens and consumes the troops.
She laughed.
—And consumes the troops, agreed Gerard.
She came to the door and stood beside him looking out the window.
There was nothing to see.
—I have a terrible feeling, he said. Like the rope isn’t tied to anything.
—Come now, he’ll make it home. Come.
She kissed him and led him back to the others.
—And here, said Mr. Gibbons, is the brush I always use for eyes.
He handed Molly an extremely thin brush.
—It is not a-single-horse’s-hair, but it is close to that.
Molly wrote on the paper:
*Three horse hairs?
—Perhaps.
The brush had a furious red handle. Such a handle, it seemed that it would grant life to whatever it made. Molly gave it back to Mr. Gibbons reluctantly.
*But why a different brush for eyes? Is there one for mouths, for ears, for cheeks? Molly wrote.
Mr. Gibbons read the paper.
—You’re a shrewd one, he said. That’s for certain. Here’s why: if I have to switch brushes for each feature, it grants me the space of thought. I can’t just dash ’em off. Also, the brush can be acquainted with its specialty, if you believe such things.
He coughed.
—Not that believing such things has anything to do with whether they are true. You see that, don’t you?
Molly nodded.
—The effect of irrational beliefs on your art is invaluable. You must shepherd and protect them. I’m sure your father would say the same.
*He believes many things.
—I’m sure he does.
Mr. Gibbons held up a puppet with a veiled face. It was a male puppet in a jester suit, but its face was veiled.
—There are puppets, said Mr. Gibbons, who know more than what the other puppets know. Do you see what I mean? Not all the puppets are privy to the same information. This puppet for instance, this puppet, I save him for special circumstances. He is aware that the puppet show is going on, and of his place in it. That doesn’t mean that he knows about the puppeteer, not exactly. His information, of course, is not always correct. However, he does know much more than any of the other puppets. Sometimes, why sometimes he can even see the audience.
Molly wrote something on her piece of paper and then crossed it out.
—That’s right, said Mr. Gibbons. It’s better to have something like that in your head awhile before asking questions about it. I quite agree.
—Once, he continued, in a play about a horse, this puppet, this very puppet, explained to the cast that they were all being used, manipulated, made fools of. On the spot, right there, the puppets refused to go on. It was a disaster. I had to refund all the show’s proceeds. The audience left in a huff.
Molly smiled and took a long breath. She scribbled down a question.
*He can say things to them in one play and they won’t know it in the next. Everything starts over, no?
—Everything starts over. Except—maybe, just maybe, he has some sense of the history of all these puppet shows. That’s why he sits here, on this fine throne, overlooking the whole room.
It was true that the veiled jester had a fine view of the room.
*What voice do you use for him?
—Oh, he has many voices. As many as the leaves on the tree he was carved from. He is a teller of stories, but a great liar as well.
*But isn’t one his voice?
—Well, we will just have to see if he joins the play, won’t we? Time passes. We must continue our good work. Come over here now. We must make some of those decisions I spoke of.
William went along the street as quickly as he could. To run would be foolish. It would attract attention. Besides, it was too far. He could never run all the way. But walking below a certain speed was foolish, too—it meant someone walking behind and faster might overtake you. So one had to walk fast enough to not
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