The previous publisher, for him it was regrettable, he agreed- "... but people do not think the way I think," to his mind anyhow. Did he take a survey? No! Did he read 'The Epic of Gilgamesh,' or Achebe, or 'The Trial,' or 'The Castle,' or 'Sentimental Education' or Virgil, or 'Hamlet' or 'Moby-Dick` or 'Metamorphoses': no, no, no, but they all have gloominess to them. How about Faust or Voltaire? No, no, no, again gloominess. For him there is no calamity at the tip of the horizon, no nuclear clock three minutes to midnight, he lives blind in a foxhole.
When I got home last night I noticed a pile of bills on my floor, the mailman's too lazy to put them in the mailbox, instead of the door slot, that's for when I'm on a trip, and I haven't taken one for six years. This mailman's a new one, he's older than I, or looks older, with his wrinkles on his face swaying like masts in the offing.
By the time I reached the restaurant, 'The Chef' off Payne Avenue and West Seventh Street, my little apartment, two rooms on York Street not far off, just a little walk, no so much an unusual place, more on the order of a greasy-spoon place, with heavy waitresses with loose aprons and bulging pouches, where white haired men eat, and hopefuls with no sympathetic view on life go. I was still feeling badly about the previous turndown of my MS, but Christion Durant was on my brain now. Yet, oddly enough, so much alike they both are. I thought everyone had a view on the chaos going on in the world, did not Aristotle say, "We are all political Animals," and did not Pope Francis quote that quote to Mr. Donald Trump concerning the wall he wanted to narrow the gap between the overflow of Mexicans sneaking into the United States. I guess my view on it was what Confucius, said: "For a wise man should know what he knows and what he doesn't know."
I like them both, but I wonder if Confucius should have changed his maxim to: "A wise man should know what he knows, and not pretend to know what he doesn't know."
"The Regular," I told the fat waitress, with heavy-duty varicose-veins, it's a crying shame, her insurance policy here doesn't pay for them to be taken care of, and evidently they don't. Just then a man came in who lives in the bottom apartment of my four-plex building. He's 93-years old, he said he sold furs in his younger days.
"Hello," he said, waves; I give him a wave back.
Mr. Christion Durant, should know evil is not blind, only hope and those like Russia, and Putin, and al-Assad in Syria, and the Islamic State, and North Korea's head honcho, China likewise, they are all brooding over owning more of the earth.
To know them you got to know their fathers and mothers, because they get their temper from their father, and their good sense and intellect from the mother. The world lives in half-truths, like dreaming, if they put it all together, they'd have a heart attack. But what is stronger than the temper or the good sense or intellect? That is what my book is about, 'The Will'. Why the world is falling apart. Why people put-up with living an unbearable life, a burdensome life. That's why I live by myself, short-tempered and all, and live a challenging-like life, it takes guts to do that. Not mouth-guts, like the politicians, but gut-guts, it takes a strong Will.
I still don't know if I should call him. I didn't know until recently my book produced such a bad impression on him of me.
I have two sons and two daughters, seldom seen, all out of wedlock, one of the daughters has what I have, that is above 'Will' not so much intelligence perhaps, but the will covers that all up! Her husband just died, and she's survived it quit well. She is not in touch with the pretense of the world. She's not gloomy, and cynical, or suspicious. Or obsessed with fears, and evils, or fancies.
It is an effort thinking all these things out, the old man, the fur man, looking my way, smiling. Hair loose, flying to and fro, he sits under a fan, to cool his ordinary body, and life, and he laughs happily as if he told himself a joke. I'd bet he'd agree with my book to be.
I sleep with a gun under by bed, and I hate noise, it is unbearable, but those with less mental capacity, they can endure noise it doesn't torture them, for intellectuals, it does, the knocking, hammering of neighbors, loud music, that base thumping, all torment.
