Tuesday 24 December 2002

But of course I envied him. What are you talking about? I envied the whole gang of them—all the old unbearables—Bob, Arthur, the whole crowd. And Howard? Come on. The possibility of not envying Howard didn’t even arise. Forget his writing—I envied him simply because of the way he could read. It was so easy, casual. The way I might have picked up an article about the latest approach to cooking string beans, he would pick up a book of poems by John Donne. I mean, I was clever enough to know that John Donne was offering something that was awfully enjoyable—I just wasn’t clever enough to actually enjoy it. I’d devoted my life to it, I suppose you could say, but I couldn’t get near to the great writers. Day after day and year after year, I read them and read them, but they always seemed remote. I didn’t want them to. They just did. I was kept out of it all, kept away. Howard, on the other hand, was let right in. Come in, they said. Here we are. Come talk, come be with us. We’re right here. Howard couldn’t even comprehend what the problem was for the rest of us poor mortals. How could he, you see. But, do you know?— I always felt I was on the brink of understanding. I felt I could have learned. I was ready to learn. I would have humbled myself to any degree in order to learn, as a matter of fact. But he wouldn’t teach me. None of them would. Howard, Judy, Bob, Arthur—the readers of poetry. Jack (to the audience) Wallace Shawn, The Designated Mourner 11:07:23 PM    comment []

© Copyright 2003 Richard Allan Baruz. Last update: 1/3/03; 11:35:55 PM.