you have to. We’ll never get there, of course. The boat’ll go down first, take my word for it… Now if I were Henry here, if I felt as sure as he does that I was an artist, do you think I’d bother to prove it to the world? Not me! I wouldn’t put a line down on paper; I’d just think my thoughts, dream my dreams, and let it go at that. I’d take any kind of job, anything that would keep me alive, and I’d say to the world: «Fuck you, Jack, you’re not putting anything over on me! You ain’t making me starve to prove that I’m an artist. No siree—I know what I know and nobody can tell me different.» I’d just worm my way through life, doing just as little as possible and enjoying myself just as much as possible. If I had good, rich, juicy ideas I’d enjoy them all to myself. I wouldn’t try to ram them down people throats. I’d act dumb most of the time. I’d be a yes man, a rubber stamp. I’d let them walk over me if they wanted to. Just so long as I knew in my heart and soul that I really was somebody. I’d retire right in the midst of life; I wouldn’t wait till I was old and decrepit, until they had first hammered the shit out of me and then salved me with the Nobel Prize… I know this sounds a bit cock-eyed. I know that ideas have to be given form and substance. But I’m talking about knowing and being rather than doing. After all, you only become something in order to be it—there wouldn’t be any fun in just becoming all the time, would there? Well, supposing you say to yourself—the hell with becoming an artist, I know I am one, I’ll just be it—what then? What does it mean, to be an artist? Does it mean that you have to write books or make pictures? That’s secondary, I take it—that’s the mere evidence of the fact that you are one…. Supposing, Henry, you had written the greatest book ever written and you lost the manuscript just after you had completed it? And supposing nobody knew that you had been writing this great book, not even your closest friend? In that case you’d be just where I am who haven’t put a stroke on paper, wouldn’t you? If we were both to die suddenly, at that point, the world would never know that either of us was an artist. I would have had a good time of it and you would have wasted your whole life.»

At this point Ulric couldn’t stand it any longer. «It’s just the contrary,» he protested. «An artist doesn’t enjoy life by evading his task. You’re the one who would be wasting his life. Art isn’t a solo performance; it’s a symphony in the dark with millions of participants and millions of listeners. The enjoyment of a beautiful thought is nothing to the joy of giving it expression—permanent expression. In fact, it’s almost a sheer impossibility to refrain from giving expression to a great thought. We’re only instruments of a greater power. We’re creators by permission, by grace, as it were. No one creates alone, of and by himself. An artist is an instrument that registers something already existent, something which belongs to the whole world and which, if he is an artist, he is compelled to give back to the world. To keep one’s beautiful ideas to oneself would be like being a virtuoso and sitting in an orchestra with hands folded. You couldn’t do it! As for that illustration you gave, of an author losing his life’s work in manuscript, why I’d compare such a person to a wonderful musician who had been playing with the orchestra all the time, only in another room, where nobody heard him. But that wouldn’t make him any the less a participant, nor would it rob him of the pleasure to be hand in following the orchestra leader or hearing the music which his instrument gave forth. The greatest mistake you make is in thinking that enjoyment is something unearned, that if you know you can play the fiddle, well it’s just the same as playing it. It’s so silly that I don’t know why I bother to discuss it. As for the reward, you’re always confusing recognition with reward. They’re two different things. Even if you don’t get paid for what you do, you at least have the satisfaction of doing. It’s a pity that we lay such emphasis on being paid for our labors—it really isn’t necessary, and nobody knows it better than the artist. The reason why he has such a miserable time of it is because he elects to do his work gratuitously. He forgets, as you say, that he has to live. But that’s really a blessing. It’s much better to be preoccupied with wonderful ideas than with the next meal, or the rent, or a pair of new shoes. Of course when you get to the point where you must eat, and you haven’t anything to eat, then to eat becomes an obsession. But the difference between an artist and the ordinary individual is that when the artist does get a meal he immediately falls back into his own limitless world, and while he’s in that world he’s a king, whereas your ordinary duffer is just a filling station with nothing in between but dust and smoke. And even supposing you’re not an ordinary chap, but a wealthy individual, one who can indulge his tastes, his whims, his appetites: do you suppose for one minute that a millionaire enjoys food or wine or women like a hungry artist does? To enjoy anything you have to make yourself ready to receive it; it implies a certain control, discipline, chastity, I might even say. Above all, it implies desire, and desire is something you have to nourish by right living. I’m speaking now as if I were an artist, and I’m not really, I’m just a commercial illustrator, but I do know enough about it to say that I envy the man who has the courage to be an artist—I envy him because I know that he’s infinitely richer than any other kind of human being. He’s richer because he spends himself, because he gives himself all the time, and not just labor or money or gifts. You couldn’t possibly be an artist, in the first place, because you lack faith. You couldn’t possibly have beautiful ideas because you kill them off in advance. You deny what it takes to make beauty, which is love, love of life itself, love of life for its own sake. You see the flaw, the worm, in everything. An artist, even when he detects a flaw, makes it into something flawless, if I may put it that way. He doesn’t try to pretend that a worm is a flower or an angel, but he incorporates the worm into something bigger. He knows that the world isn’t full or worms, even if he sees a million or a billion of them. You see a tiny worm and you say—«Look, see how rotten everything is!» You can’t see beyond the worm… Well, excuse me, I didn’t mean to put it so caustically or so personally. But I hope you see what I’m driving at….»

«That’s quite all right,» said MacGregor briskly and cheerily. «It’s good to have the other fellow’s opinion once in a while. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am unduly pessimistic. But that’s how I’m built. I think I’d be a lot happier if I could see it your way—but I can’t. Besides, I must confess I’ve really never met a good artist. It would be a pleasure to talk to one some time.»

«Well,» said Ulric, «you’ve been talking to one all your life without knowing it. How are you going to recognize a good artist when you meet one if you can’t recognize one in your friend here?»

«I’m glad you said that,» piped MacGregor. «And now that you’ve pushed me to the ropes I’ll admit I do think he’s an artist. I’ve always thought so. As for listening to him, well I do that too, and quite seriously. But then I also have my doubts. You see, if I listened to him long enough he’d undermine me. I know he’s right, but it’s like I told you before —if you want to get along, if you want to live, you just can’t permit yourself such thoughts. Sure he’s right! I’d change places with him any day, the lucky dog. What have I got for all my struggles? I’m a lawyer. So what? I might just as well be a piece of shit. Sure, you bet I’d like to change places. Only I’m not an artist, as you said. I guess the trouble with me is that I can’t swallow the fact that I’m just another nobody…»

7

Back in town I found a note on Ulric’s bell, from Mara. She had arrived shortly after we left. Had been sitting on the steps waiting for me, waiting for hours, if I were to believe her words. A postscript informed me that she was off to Rockaway with her two friends. I was to call her there as soon as I could.

I arrived at dusk and found her waiting for me at the station; she was in a bathing suit over which she had thrown a mackintosh. Florrie and Hannah were sleeping it