PARTISAN REVIEW
375
thinning hair won't make you appear weak) some are born to - well,
not ugliness, not monstrosity - but to neutrality, weakness, nullity,
nothing. Why?
In the universe there are stars in which all nuclear fuel is burned
up, all energy dissipated into space, stars that then turn in upon them–
selves, becoming dense to infinity, crushing in upon themselves. . . .
Helplessly, forever, they turn in upon themselves until they are points
in space. No light can come out of them: the light
is
dragged back
into them by their powerful gravity. They have collapsed to points,
to the point of a pencil, they are dead, more than dead, black holes
in which everything stops. I am one of those black holes. A point
of consciousness condensed in upon itself. The black holes are all
dead and cannot communicate with other black holes. Why? Certain
bodies of energy continue to live and to give off light. They are
propelled through the universe as if alive. Why? Why are some of
us dead and others alive, why am I a point of silence and neutrality
and you a being of light, always in a hurry, always with a destina–
tion? Why
is
the world put together this way?
I stand grinning into my six-by-eight inch mirror, accepting my
fate. What else can I do? All my life I have
accepted.
The world is
divided into those who accept, and those who act and live and stride
forward and brush past others.
If
I slashed open an artery in honor
of you ("this
is
my Body and my Blood, etc.") would you t ake
notice?
If
I told you that I would perform this act at noon, Sunday,
November
14,
would you
try
to stop me? WOl1ld you at least be
aware of the clock on that day, watching as noon approached?
Would you give a damn?
You won't telephone me or reply to my letters. You won't pay
attention to me. These declarations of love - so frank, sincere, un–
disguised - these mean nothing to you. Couldn' t take five seconds
to autograph that drawing of you, though I worked on it for days,
discarding a dozen attempts. I enclosed a stamped, self-addressed en–
velope but you must have thrown everything away. You or your sec–
retary, who stands between us.
Men like you are arrogant bastards. Beneath the melody of your
music (which
is
often derivative) is the heavy dull throb of Ego,
Ego, selfish Ego.
R. Brightmore
