PARTISAN REVIEW
99
silver birch leaves was a dancing play of wind. Down the hill, he
came sauntering. He walked, I thought, like a man who wore silken
underwear. Some of my bias seemed confirmed.
He was courteous and oily, a snake of remarkable attraction. I
mustn't be rude, I said to myself. And not a coward, either. I wtas
not a coward, but I was amazed at the pressme of bona fide world
opinion; all of those volumes selling. Books translated into Italian,
French, Danish, Japanese. For some reason, all that notoriety and
power seemed housed in his gleaming white teeth. Correlations
melded; his eyes, like the eyes of some red-haired people, were en–
trancingly pale, deep set. But, it was the insidious
sauoir faire
-
that
made me feel abashed. How can you attack a villain, whose every
nuance is embedded in a kind of intellectual foam rubber, the wise–
crack, sarcasm, evasion?
A smiling snake, with a murderous tooth.
I was, I knew, taking the whole thing too seriously. We spoke
a few words and separated, continuing our opposite paths. He hadn't
been a snob, nor had I expected him to be. I went back to my
room and got ready for dinner. On the second floor of main quarters,
I had a little niche. Through the dark, shaded windows the light
was summery, soft. This was a particular Writers' Colony, and I
mourn that it's now defunct. Only a few months since, the chief
donor (an heir to a cough medicine fortune) ran out of funds. But
while it lasted, the going was good; and for me, more than an eco–
nomic convenience.
It
was like a sort of European farm monastery,
and I thrived on it. Time, and conditions for work. I presumed
that, in the same way, it served as a like retreat for my free-to-choose
Author. Else, why was he there? We were buddies in the stew to–
gether. But, that wasn't my real thought.
I was slightly amused at the process. How your mind gets
Iluck on a symbol and won't let go. But that's what life is about,
m't it? Whether you admit it or not, you're opposed to some things
and in favor of others; interpretings follow. And hence. All of my
fantastic moral resentment seemed geared to a central figure.
It
w.as
IOnsense, but it was natural. I poured myself a half-tumbler of
bourbon, and sat down in a chair to think, thoughts galloping like
waves across the sea.
I couldn't help but believe that writers, and everyday people
