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PAUL: A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY"IS there someplace I put this?" Paul asked indig the large parcel he held in his arms. "It is a hing I just fioday, still a little wet Im afraid." He wiped his hands which were covered wi<var>?</var>th emulsions on his trousers. "Ill just lean it up against your wall for a moment." Paul leahe hing up against our wall for a moment. The hing, a dirty great banality in white, poor-white and off-white, leaned up against the wall. "Iing," we said. "Its poor," Snow White said. "Poor, poor." "Yes," Paul said, "one of my poorer things I think." "Not so poor of course as yesterdays, poorer oher hand than some," she said. "Yes," Paul said, "it has some of the qualities of poorness." "Especially poor in the lower left-hand er," she said. "Yes," Paul said, "I would go so far as to hurl it into the marketplace." "Theyre getting poorer," she said. "Poorer and poorer," Paul said with satisfa, "desding to unexplored depths of poorness where no human intelligence has ever been." "I find it extremely iing as a social phenomenon," Snow White said, "to hat during the height of what is variously called, abstract expressionism, a painting and so forth, when most artists were grouped together in a sch<bdi></bdi>ool, you have persisted in an image alohat, I find -- and I think it has been described as hard-edge painting, is an apt description, although it leaves out a lot, but I find it very iing that in the last few years there is a tremendous new surge of work being done in the hard-edge image. I dont know if you want to ent on that, but I find it extremely iing that you, who have always been sure of yourself and your image, were one of the earliest, almost founders of that school, if you even call it a school." "I have always been sure of myself and my image," Paul said. "Sublimely poor," she murmured. "aper," he said. They kissed. We trudged to bed then singing the to-bed song heigh-ho. She was lying there in her black vinyl pajamas. "He is certainly a well-ied personality, Paul," she said. "Yes," we said. "He makes tact, you must grant him that." "Yes," we said. "A beautiful human being." "Carrying the mace is a bit much, perhaps," we said. "We are fortuo have him in our try," she cluded.
THEN we went over to Pauls plad took the typewriter. Then the problem was to find somebody to sell it to. It was a fine Olivetti 22, that typewriter, and the typewriter girls put it uheir skirts. Then Gee wao write something on it while it was uheir skirts. I think he just wao get uhere, because he likes Amelias legs. He is always looking at them and patting them and thrusting his haween them. "What are you going to write uhere, Gee?" "I thought perhaps some automatic writing, because one t see so well under here with the light being strangled by the thick wool, and I touch-type well enough, but I t see to think, so I thought that. . ." "Well we t sell this typewriter if youre typing on it under Amelias legs, so e out of there. And bring the carbon paper too because the carbon paper makes black smudges on Amelias legs and she doesnt want that. Not now." We all had our hands oypewriter when it emerged because it had been in that pure grotto, Pauls place, and tomorrow we are going to go there again and take the elevate this time, so that he t e down into the street any more, with his<cite></cite> pretensions.
"YES," Bill said, "I wao be great, once. But the moon for that was not in my sky, then. I had hoped to make a powerful statement. But there was no wind, no weeping. I had hoped to make a powerful statement, coupled with a moving plea. But there was no weeping, except, perhaps, cealed weeping. Perhaps they wept in the evenings, after dinner, in the family room, among the family, ea his own chair, weeping. A certain diffideill gs to these matters. You laughed, sitting in your chair with your purple plywood spectacles, your iced tea. I had hoped to make a signifit tribution. But they remaiony-faced. Did I make a mistake, seleg Bridgeport? I had hoped t about a heightened awareness. I saw their smiling faces. They were going gaily to the grocery for peanut oil, Band-Aids, Saran . My sus of tears was still inplete. Why had I selected Bridgeport, city of cealed meaning? In Calais they weep openly, on street ers, urees, in the banks. I wao provide a definitive at. But my lecture was not a success. Men came to fold the folding chairs, although I was still speaking. You laughed. I <cite>?</cite>should talk about things people were ied in, you said. I wao achieve a breakthrough. My peing study was to have been a masterly evocation, sobs and cries, these things matter. I had in mind initiating a multi-faceted program involving paper towels and tears. I came into the room suddenly, you were weeping. You slipped something out of sight, uhe pillow.
" What is uhe pillow? I asked.
" Nothing, you said.
"I reached uhe pillow with my hand. You grasped my wrist. An alarm clock spread the alarm. I rose to go. My survey of the ince of weeping in the bedrooms of members of the faculty of the Uy eport was methodologically sound but informed, you said, by too little passion. You laughed, in your room, pulling from uhe pillow grainy gray photographs in albums, pictures of people weeping. I wao effect a rapprochement, I wao recile irrecilable forces. What is the reward for knowing the worst? The reward for knowing the worst is an honorary degree from the Uy eport, salt tears in a little bottle. I wao engage in a meaningful dialogue, but the seminal thinkers I tacted were all shaken with sobs, wracked is the >?９9ｌiｂ.</samp>rd for it. Why did we ceal that emotion which, had we declared it, could have liberated us? There are no parameters for measuring the importance of this question. My life-enhang poem was mildly meretricious, as you predicted. I wao substantiate an unsubstantiated report, I listeo the Blue work, I heard weeping. I wao make suitable arras but those whose lives I had thought te did not appear on the appointed day. They were deployed elsewhere marg and ter-marg on fields leased from the Police Athletic League. I erhaps not lucky enough. I wao make a far-reag reevaluation. I had in mind laung a three-pronged assault, but the prongs wandered off seduced by fires and s. It was hell there, in the furnay ambition. It was because, you said, I had read the wrong book. He reversed himself in his last years, you said, in the books no one would publish. But his students remember, you said."
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