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PARTISAN REVIEW
was failing. I was ready to let go my hold, ready to surrender every–
thing-my fortress, my God,
all
the innocent refugees seeking shelter
under my roof, my life, my faith, my calling, my vow---to the brutal
force that had suddenly appeared in my window and that had proved
to be more than I could resist. But when I was loosening my hand,
I saw that the face before me was a dead man's face. It was not ac–
tually any man's face, but a mask, one of those masks used in
Chinese drama. The mask was an image of Hate, of a hatred so
deep, so impersonal, so abstract, that it would never lose its intensity
in
the course of time, nor would it ever be mollified by anything on
the earth or beyond it.
"So I saw everything now. But I did not know when I had
regained my voice. I said to the man or the face before me, 'Give
me the paper. I will sign.' "
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