In a leafy, wooded corner of St. James's park, a small oasis of shade amidst the relentlessly blinding light. We sit exhausted, mouths parched (or is that an excuse for not speaking?). It is easy to imagine our arteries dry, all chalked up, our pulses and thoughts lowered to mere functioning, a tick above what's necessary.
A stylish Japanses woman stands aloof in her floppy hat and immaculately slim jeans (flared at the bottom). Amazingly trim after two kids. The adults have a tendency to look into the distance. Other people are simply stunned by the heat and the light.
A man opens a book at random and reads about a man in the park...
One lost in thought of what his life might mean
sat in a park and watched the children play
Did nothing, spoke to no one, but all day
Composed his life around the happy scene
[on a steep hill people lied flat stomached, bare backed, at a suitable distance from one another, as if they were in part of a Seurat composition]
So one can live, like patterns under glass,
And, like those patterns, not committing harm.
[He gets up to leave and a dark haired woman flops down in his place. He looks back, adding one more note to his philosophy]
~~~
When the light is so strong everything seems unreal, stuck in time. All these ghosts in the sunlight. One of us, at least, is dead.
~~~
Alfred Hayes's two novellas are stunningly good, remorselessly honest.
'And was this, we say, later, when it's over, really us? But it's impossible! How could that fool, that impossible actor, ever have been us? How could we have been that posturing clown? Who put that false laughter into our mouths? Who drew those insincere tears from our eyes? Who taught us all that artifice of suffering? We have been hiding all the time; the events, that once were so real, happened to other people, who resemble us, imitators using our name..
She, too, knew the words that came easily or fumblingly were never the true words...
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