THE MOHAMMEDANS
289
myself largely talking about myself. When he said something (in reply
to my notion of religion) about the dishonesty of
inventing
a divine
order, particularly if one knew what one was about, I tried to explain.
That is, without stopping to adumbrate the extraordinary complexity of
the process of believing, and the subtlety (in a business like this) of
knowing 'what you were about', I told him frankly: "What matters
to men like us, is not what we are-an endless question!-but what we
manage to distil on the clean .white paper."
"That is too bad," he answered (only a literary man could he ex–
pected to know what I meant). "For if you don't write what you are
you write nothing but verses. There's no hope for you at all."
Just then-1 was standing at the window-a police car slowed down
at the curb, and an officer poked his head out of a window, scrutinizing
the house. The automobile did not stop. It was gone in an instant. But
its sudden appearance gave me such a shock that I lost all desire to make
W.
B.
see what I meant. I simply said, in guise of transition to a more
pressing problem:
"I suppose
you
think we ought to come to Islam?"
He hesitated, frowned and moved to the door, speaking coldly:
"Islam is for men with dark skins."
Something to be worked out: the question of roles. Rich man, poor
man, beggerman thief-at bottom am I attached to nothing? Is one role
as good as another, provided one finds the proper style? Worse: nothing
is ever
resolved
in our country. The point is important. I sit here and
lose the name of action, grumbling about the moral formlessness of it
all: everything is slurred over, arranged, or forgotten. No heroism, no
grandeur. Whenever a real question arises, it is destroyed precisely by
its American particularity, which means that the principle involved is
forever distorted by every kind of irrelevance.
Thursday: Sold shoes today, 0
supplice!
Came home early (plead–
ing headache) to see W.
B.,
but no one home upstairs. Tried to do some
work: too agitated, expecting W.
B.
at any moment. But I was already
in
bed when they finally came home and began singing their weird songs.
I put on a robe, went upstairs and entered the room, saying: "Wiley
Bey, you are guilty of Satanic pride!" This produced a considerable
effect, everyone laughed. The women disappeared as usual, and I told
W.
B.
that the great danger was
gleichschaltung,
the deadly unifying
process, the elimination of conflict. The atomisation of groups into
helpless individuals in face of the monster state. All this aided and
abetted by his voluntary withdrawal. Etc. etc. He was affable, offered
me wine (!) but obviously not in a mood to dispute or listen. And
apparently my presence inexorably banished the women. Besides, I was
chilly in my robe and felt a cold coming on. So I took a little wine and
went downstairs. . . .
Friday morning, Simon woke up sneezing. He puttered about dis–
mally, making coffee, washing dishes, trying to think what he had in–
tendea to do that day. But of course there was only one thing to do.
