322
PARTISAN REVIEW
thus incomprehensible: he doesn't act like we do on an occasion that should
mean to him as much as it means to us. He is different, or at least wants to
be, he is an atheist too, and he doesn't believe for the same reason that he
won't cry. He just thinks he is something special and wants to show off.
I don't say anything to him; it seems everyone resents his behavior, but
no one says anything. But if Matija hadn't come, I don't know whether I
would feel that way about Milan. So I worry that maybe my brother will
not want to go to the funeral or wear black. I worry because I do love him
and I would be terribly sorry if others believed what can be seen of him
and heard from him was really true.
I already hold God and tears wi thin me, so how can he be ashamed of
that...maybe the same way I am ashamed of my tears and kisses in the
humid and dark drawing-room, next to my little sister, when I think of
my godmother. ...
That time I mourned my sister for her sake, other times for the sake
of others...other times I wanted to show it, that time-to hide it....
Why am I ashamed of my true sorrow? And why am I proud of my
forced tears?
I don't understand anybody and it is all unclear to me and Milan spoiled
it all. He made me angry and contemplative. His "something-special" behav–
ior and "something-special" opinion unsettle me and arouse my curiosity.
He has changed; his face is pale, he is standing aside as if he feels foreign and
lonely among us, and I feel sorry for
him.
I would like to say something com–
forting to him. He unsettles me, makes me think and arouses my curiosity.
He really is something special!
Because of him-it is strange-I can begin to doubt my sorrow and
my love. But one thing I know: I cannot cry or kiss my sister now.
Everything seems tight, disgusting and unbearable. A forced kiss on the icy
face of a corpse-that's what we all are and that's what she is. That is our
sorrow and that is our love!
Milan does not cry and does not believe. Milan is something special.
But now I cannot cry and I cannot hold still.
Milan has really spoiled it all.
There he is in the hall. He is alone. Why did I feel the need to com–
fort him, to soothe him, to talk to him, to be friendly?
I ask him for a cigarette. He gives me one without hesitation. The
smoke bites my eyes, I cough, cry, suffocate...all make-believe, to cheer
him up. But he doesn't laugh and doesn't make fun of me.
He abruptly turns and leaves.
I thought it was a "big deal" to walk behind the casket, and going to
the funeral-even though I had my brand-new black suit--seemed harder
