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PARTISAN REVIEW
party hack who has been dismissed from his post because he has di–
vulged classified information to a rival party . Can it really be that he
is the wretch who has just uttered, for the third time at least, a sort of
titter or stifled snigger? What does it mean, the author asks himself
in alarm, is it spite, or petty stupidity, or envy, or contempt, or is
this real suffering?
All these are filling the author's heart. And so, when his turn
comes to speak, he appears at his best. He replies wittily to the audi–
ence's questions. Makes discreet use of examples drawn from real
life. Raises doubts . Delicately trounces the literary expert. Occa–
sionally accuses literature in general and his own writing in particu–
lar of shady and even in a sense discreditable motives. Expounds to
the audience his well-known view that if only our predicament (hu–
man, national, historical, personal) is regarded from a standpoint of
despair, it becomes possible to face it with a smile . While he is speak–
ing he bitterly regrets having come to the meeting, agreeing to
speak, his own inadequacy, his failure to write what he should really
have written, his inability to discover who in the audience is secretly
laughing at him, the fact that the mockery is actually justified, and
his lecherous glances earlier at the tired waitress in the cafe.
All in vain.
He pauses for a moment. He ruffles his hair with his hand. Oth–
erworldliness, loneliness and sorrow display themselves on his face.
He continues speaking, twice as falsely as before .
Afterwards he is surrounded by admirers. He rapidly signs a
few copies of his latest book. Accepts compliments with a look of hu–
mility. Encourages the shy, secretive youth to send him his first at–
tempts at writing poetry. Takes his leave of the chastened literary
expert with a warm handshake and a knowing wink . Then he thanks
the cultural organizer who is thanking him for agreeing to come. As
they go down the steps he devotes a few warm words to Ruchele
Reznik alone .
And then he goes on his way.
For an hour or an hour and a half he paces the darkened streets
alone . In vain. He smokes three or four more cigarettes, and makes
a mental note that he has smoked eight or nine in the course of the
evening. Boys and girls pass him with their arms round each other,
on their way home to bed from an evening out, silent or laughing
aloud, and one of the girls lets out a horrified shriek as though some–
one has just whispered a particularly outrageous suggestion in her
ear. Beside an unfinished building a motionless night watchman
