The letter

The young man theatrically lights his pipe, flicks the match onto the end table, then leans back into the cavernous leather armchair and pitches one leg up onto the other knee. With one fist stoically jammed into the space between his hip and the cushion, and the other vacillating between his chin and the bowl of his pipe, he delivers the following monologue, in fragments:

"Right now I can’t seem to concentrate. Rather, it’s thinking that’s difficult. These languages that we have are really quite a miracle. That we can write them down is something else, another show of our power. That we are powerful beings, on this scale, is evident. Every day I find myself so awed by the miracle of existence, of life, that so little perturbs me for a moment or two. Of course, it’s easy to break the spell. A parking ticket does it, for instance."

"A saying of Sartre’s has given me immense comfort in my life. I believe in it whole-heartedly and it informs my every day and it also informs this advice: 'We are condemned to be free.'"

"Every situation poses a response. And we are free to take an active hand in the shaping of our lives, if we choose. But we must choose to so do. Another existentialist, Camus, put it this way: 'Man finds meaning in acting.' Our actions and reactions, our activities: They’re us. We find our life’s meaning in them."

"Of course, Camus was pretty cracked on a couple ideas; for instance, he thought that action was important to people because if they didn’t engage themselves, they’d commit suicide. I find that very depressing. So I supply a different premise and come to the same conclusion: Since life is magnificent, in general, and overflowing with experience and neat things, people are moved to stick around and find their way through the land. Therefore they engage in activity, which helps to validate their lives. That’s my argument against Camus."

"The other night I had a weird dream. I was walking through an alleyway, and this guy asked for change. I looked at him, decided he could use some cash and gave him a buck. 'Thanks,' he said. 'But what I really wanted, was to show you this funky wall.'"

"He points to my right. Sure enough, it is a pretty funky wall: All bricks, red. Certain door shaped portions stand out from the rest of the wall, with huge leather straps running across them. The bum goes and knocks on one of them."

"'Watch,' he commands me. Soon, a tall, portly black man with a face like Willie Brown’s opens the door in a red smoking jacket. He is wearing red silk pajamas underneath, as well; you can see the fabric from his knees down to his feet."

"'What the hell you want from me?' he asks the bum. 'I don’t have no gold pieces in here. No gold pieces. What you want? I told, told you, I don’t have no gold pieces in here!'"

"He shakes his head and slams the door in our face, Q.E.D."

"Anyway, see the backs of this and the previous two sheets for my renaming of El Greco’s paintings: 'Taking a Holy Shit', and 'The Holy Undefiled Cunt and her Brat, Jesus.' Now that I’ve spent many hours writing this long letter, I must desist and shelve books."

The young man scowls at his exhausted pipe, spits it aggressively onto the rug, and vacates the chair.