516
PARTISAN REVIEW
writer to be lying incurably ill between sweaty sheets on a night like
this. In vain have all the windows of the auditorium been opened
wide: the bad air solidly refuses to stir. The audience is perspiring.
People are greeting acquaintances and sitting down tiredly on hard
chairs, youngsters all together, old folk in little groups apart, their
clothes sticking to their bodies, each with his own smell and the smell
of his neighbor in the fetid air. Meanwhile they exchange opinions
about the latest news and the general situation. In vain three ancient
fans revolve listlessly above the audience's head: they bring no relief.
It is very warm. Insects force their way between collar and neck, as
though this were tropical Africa. Outside two streets away sounds
the rise and fall and plaintive rise of an ambulance siren or a fire en–
gine. Will the author bring us some new message tonight, will he be
able to explain to us how we got into this condition or what we must
do to escape from its clutches? Can he see something that is invisible
to us? Will he come and tell us about it?
Some have come armed with a copy of the book which is the
subject of this evening's meeting, and for the time being they are us–
ing it-or the evening paper-as a fan. In vain. We're already late in
starting and there's still no sign of him. But anyway there's nothing
on the television tonight except a boring quiz. While here the pro–
gram includes opening remarks by a well-known literary expert, a
reading of excerpts from the work itself, a talk by the author, ques–
tions,discussion, answers, and closing remarks. Admission is free,
and the author has aroused, as is well known, a certain public curi–
osity.
And now at last here he is.
For the last half hour the local cultural enthusiast has been wait–
ing for him outside, at the foot of the steps, a red-faced balding man
twice the author's age, whose cheeks are alarmingly crisscrossed with
blue veins but whose soul is still bursting as ever with charm and ea–
ger social concern. Immediately he sets to work forging a bond of af–
fection and cheerful respect with the author, a kind ofjolly intimacy:
after all are we not two priests of the intellect both devoted to the
very same ideal, and they are all sitting out there waiting to hear
what we shall say. Well well well, welcome my friend. You're a little
late. It doesn't matter. Everyone's always late here. How are you?
We were beginning to think that the muse had driven us out of your
mind. But we didn't give you up, my friend. Not us. We're very
stubborn.
The author responds by muttering a feeble witticism: Surely
