They always thought themselves so god-damned smart!
Curley was still trembling with excitement, fear, anguish, admiration and God knows what. He could talk of nothing else. He urged us to watch the papers. It would be a sensational affair. Even to us he refused to reveal the nature of it. He was still frightened, still hypnotized. His eyes! he exclaimed over and over. I felt as if I were turning to stone.
But you met in the dark.
Doesn’t matter. They glowed like coals. They gave off sparks!
Don’t you think maybe you imagined it, knowing he was a killer?
Not me! I’ll never forget those eyes. They’ll haunt me to my dying day. He shuddered.
Do you really think, Curley, asked Mona, that a criminal’s eyes are different from other people’s?
Why not? said Curley. Everything else about them is different. Why not their eyes? Don’t you think eyes change when the personality changes? They all have ‘other’ personalities. I mean, they’re not themselves. They’re something plus—or less, I don’t know which. They’re another breed, that’s all I can say. Even before he told me who he was I felt it. It was like getting a vibration from another world. His voice was unlike any human voice I know. When he shook hands with me I thought I had hold of an electric current. I got a shock, I can tell you—I mean a physical shock. I would have run away from him, then and there, but those eyes kept me rooted to the spot. I couldn’t budge, couldn’t lift a finger … I begin to understand now what people mean when they talk of the Devil. There was a strange smell about him—did I mention that? Not sulphur and brimstone. More like some concentrated acid. Maybe he had been working with chemicals. But I don’t think it was that.
It was something in his blood…
Do you think you would recognize him if you saw him again?
Here Curley paused, to my surprise. He seemed baffled.
Frankly, he answered, and with great hesitation, I don’t think I would. Strong as his personality was, it also had the power to erase itself from one’s consciousness. Does that sound fishy? Let me put it another way. (Here I was genuinely astounded. Curley had indeed made strides.) Supposing St. Francis appeared before you tonight in this very room. Supposing he spoke to you. Would you remember what he looked like tomorrow or the day after? Wouldn’t his presence be so overwhelming as to wipe out all remembrance of his features? Maybe you’ve never thought of such an eventuality. I have because I know someone once who had visions. I was only a kid at the time but I can remember the look on the person’s face when she told me of her experiences. I know that she saw more than the physical being. When someone comes to you from above he brings something of heaven with him—and that’s blinding. Anyway, that’s how it seems to me … Butch gave me a similar feeling, only I knew he didn’t come from above. Wherever he came from, it was all about him. You could sense it. And it was terrifying. He paused again, his face brightened. Listen, you’re the one who urged me to read Dostoievsky. You know what it is, then, to be dragged into a world of unmitigated evil. Some of his characters talk and act as if they inhabited a world absolutely unknown to us. I wouldn’t call it Hell. Something worse. Something more complex, more subtle than Hell. Nothing physical can describe it. You sense it from their reactions. They have an unpredictable approach to everything. Until he wrote about them, we’d never known people who thought as his characters do. And that reminds me—with him the criminal, the idiot, the saint are not so very far apart, are they? How do you figure that out? Did Dostoievsky mean that we’re all of one substance? What is evil, and what divine?
Maybe you know … I don’t.
Curley, you really surprise me, said I. I mean it.
You think I’m so very different now?
Different? No, not so very, but certainly more mature.
What the hell, you don’t remain a kid all your life.
True … Tell me honestly, Curley, if you could get away with it, would you be tempted to lead the life of a criminal?
Possibly, he answered, lowering his head ever so little.
You like danger, don’t you?
He nodded.
And you don’t have many scruples either, when the other fellow gets in your way?
I guess not. He smiled. A rather twisted smile.
And you still hate your step-father?
Without waiting for a reply I added: Enough to kill him, it you could get away with it?
Right! said Curley. I’d kill him like a dog.
Why? Do you know why? Now think, don’t answer me straight off.
I don’t have to think, he barked. I know. I’d kill him because he stole my mother’s love. It’s as simple as that.
Doesn’t that sound slightly ridiculous to you?
I don’t give a damn if it does. It’s the truth. I can’t forget it and, what’s more, I’ll never forgive him. There’s a criminal for you, if you want to know.
Maybe you’re right, Curley, but the law doesn’t recognize him as one.
Who cares about the law? Anyway, there are other laws—and more important too. We don’t live by legal codes.
Right you are!
I’d be doing the world a service, he continued heatedly. His death would purify the atmosphere. He’s of no use to anyone. Never was. I ought to be honored for doing away with him and his kind. If we had an intelligent society, I would be. In literature men who commit such crimes are regarded as heroes. Books are as much a part of life as anything else. If authors can think such thoughts, why not me or the other fellows? My grievances are real, not imaginary…
Are you so sure, of that, Curley? It was Mona who spoke.
Dead sure, said he.
But if you were the central character in a book, said she, the important thing would be what happened to you, not your step-father. A man who kills his father—in a book—doesn’t become a hero just on that account. It’s the way he behaves that counts, the way he faces the problem—and resolves it. Anyone can commit a crime, but some crimes are of such stupendous import that the doer becomes something more than a criminal. Do you see what I’m getting at?
I follow you all right, said Curley, but I don’t give a damn about all those subtleties and complexities. That’s literature! I’m telling you honestly that I still hate his guts, that I’d kill him without compunction, if I could get away with it.
I see one big difference already … Mona began.
What do you mean? he snapped.
Between you and the hero of a book.
I don’t want to be a hero!
I know, said Mona gently, but you do want to remain a human being, don’t you? If you go on thinking this way, who knows, some day you may get your wish. Then what?
Then I’d be happy. No, not happy exactly, but relieved.
Because he was out of the way, you mean?
No! Because I had done away with him. There’s a difference there.
Here I felt impelled to break in. Look, Curley, Mona got off the track. I think I know what she meant to say. It’s this—the difference between a criminal who commits a crime and the hero of a book who commits the same crime is that the latter doesn’t care whether he will get away with it or not. He’s not concerned about what happens to him afterwards. He must accomplish his purpose, that’s all…
Which only proves, said Curley, that I’ll never make a hero.
Nobody’s asking you to become a hero. But if you see the distinction between the two then you’ll realize that you’re hardly much better than the man you hate and despise so much.
Even if that’s true I don’t give a damn!
Let’s forget it then. The probabilities are that he’ll die a peaceful death and that you’ll end up on a ranch in sunny California.
Maybe it’ll be
