Authors: A. G. Porta
He’s left his clothes at the laundry. Now, he finds himself slogging uphill, leaning precariously on his cane, but once he reaches the end of the road, he can see the finish line, as it were, the seats and tables of the café in the plaza. The screenwriter limps slowly. There are days when he has to drag his leg like a dead weight, he thinks. It depends on the mood he’s in when he wakes up. On crossing the finish line, he flumps into the nearest seat and looks out for the waitress, hoping she doesn’t take too long. He puts both hands on the pommel of his cane and rests his chin there. But he immediately alters his posture, since he thinks that position makes him look older. He’s seen people do it who look as if they’ve got one foot in the grave. Perhaps he does it because he’s tired, he thinks. Watching the waitress serving a table not too far away seems to reinvigorate him. He then looks over at the plaza. He wishes he knew the names of the people he regularly crosses paths with, simple people with simple habits, he imagines: the girl who walks her dog, the pensioner on his way to buy groceries, the gardener. . The waitress approaches. One day, we’ll have to go on a date, he says. The girl’s expression doesn’t change; she doesn’t even betray a slight grin. The usual? she asks, after an awkward silence. I’m bewitched by you, he continues, ignoring her question. Is it because I’m older than you? You know, maturity is indicative of experience. . he says, beginning an apologia on the virtues of senescence. She quickly loses patience. The usual then, she says, turning around and leaving him mid-sentence. You’ve no idea what you’re missing, he mutters, unfolding the newspaper. One of the detained terrorist’s ex-girlfriends says the police have been harassing her for twenty years, and that the relationship ruined her life. The soccer player still hasn’t returned. Sure you won’t change your mind? he asks the waitress when she brings his coffee. After she stonewalls him a second time, he goes fumbling for his cigarettes in his jacket pocket, whereupon his fingers touch the envelope the girl sent him. He recalls that he hasn’t read all she’d written. The Principal of the Institute in which he once taught had also tried to prevent a scandal, and the screenwriter wonders whether what he’s reading is hitting too close to home. He lights a cigarette and removes the pages from the envelope. “4.3 The possibility of uncertainty does not mean that finally such a possibility exists or does not exist. Classes are over, and the director of the Academy is deliberating. He would like to avoid a scandal, but the old professor of philosophy simply can’t continue teaching there. Do you know the female student’s parents? the professor asks the director. He says he doesn’t. Perhaps he doesn’t care to after what’s happened. The old professor asks if he can gather his things and leave. Deep down he knows that sooner or later her parents will find out. If some persona incognita managed to find out, then surely it’s only a matter of time. 4.4 An accusation is an expression of agreement. 4.41 The mere possibility of being accused is the condition of the truth and falsity of the accusation. The old professor leaves the Academy, incensed at his wife. It had to be she who betrayed him. He can’t stand the thought of continuing to live under the same roof as that woman. For an instant, his alien hunter’s instinct leads him to suspect both his wife and the director of the Academy come from another world. But he needs to find a photo of each to verify whether or not they have a special halo. 4.5 It now seems possible to give the most general propositional form. We can start all over, he says to the female student that night. We can begin a new life. Let’s get out of here, run away together. What kind of new life do you propose? she asks. He can’t answer. It’s an idea he only just came up with — still inchoate, indefinite, something nebulous floating around his head — but he quickly improvises an answer, as one who divines the shape of a cloud in the sky, and suggests their life would be such that she could write while he gave classes at other academies. Write, murmurs the female student, sounding a little disenchanted. The old professor is talking about starting a new life in a city far away, perhaps somewhere in outer space. He’d even run away to the No World, if necessary, where they could lie together under an artificial palm tree, and make love on white sand imported from the tropics. He says they could read W and all the great classics together, and she’d get the opportunity to revolutionize the world of letters. All she needs is the daring, the audacity, to take the first step. The female student smiles. Maybe she will leave her mark on the world of letters; maybe future generations will judge her contribution in terms of what came before and what came after her, but it won’t be with him. I can’t leave now, she says apologetically. I’ve got commitments. He begs her to break away from them; to break away from everything, starting with her past. We can become new beings, he urges her, with an exuberance bordering on the pathetic. Free! The girl can’t make such a decision in haste. She wants to write, she says, but she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to do so with him around. She also has musical commitments she can’t simply forsake. She has several concerts to perform in one of those cities in space orbiting the Earth. She also wants to make an unforgettable recording of the
5 Pieces for piano
. . Run away with me, he urges her again. But the female student knows it’s not a matter of running anywhere with him, for he’ll be going nowhere himself unless she goes with him. Just try to imagine we’re there, she says consolingly. After all, this life, or any life you care to have, will only ever exist in your mind. There’s nothing outside it. Besides, even if we did run away together, it wouldn’t be long before he found us. Before who found us? he says, taken aback. My father.”
Alone in the room, the girl tries to continue writing. Her father’s on his vigil in the Grand Central Station, or perhaps he’s somewhere else entirely, on a date, say, with the young college chick. The screenwriter is outraged her father doesn’t look after her, as any half-decent father would, but that he’d rather be out dallying with a jumped-up prostitute. He can’t care for his daughter at all, he can’t love her, the screenwriter concludes. Alone in the room, the girl wonders whether the world seems so real because it’s created by a single, immense, and unfathomable intelligence, or by many intelligences working collectively. Did a single consciousness create the world she lives in, or are there many consciousnesses, many different minds, responsible for its existence, and for the existence of each individual in the world — one for her, say, one for the screenwriter, another for her father? It may be that this scattering of minds, being held in a loose conjunction with billions of others, each of which believes itself the center around which the rest of them turn, is really a single powerful collective mind that purposely fractures itself into smaller pieces in order to exist more thoroughly, more intensely. Is that possible? Sometimes, the girl imagines a structure resembling a glass honeycomb, each of whose cells contains a separate brain. At other times, she imagines billions of small, cloudlike structures drifting aimlessly in infinite space. If nothing exists outside these minds, where in space are the minds themselves located? Perhaps it’s more sensible to imagine either a loose collective of minds, or just a single mind, like her own, that creates itself and everything else around it. She remembers having reached this same conclusion before. She goes out onto the balcony. But in what material is this single or collective mind suspended? The girl doesn’t quite understand it. She touches her hand, touches the balcony rail, closes and opens her eyes. Does the Grand Central Station really exist? And where are the aliens, or where is the so-called guardian angel the screenwriter keeps talking about? There must be something linking them, some secret connection between the voices, the aliens, and the guardian angel. She wonders how she can tell if those beings that are supposedly born with us, that then accompany us throughout our lives, listening to our voices, inner and outer, our conversations with others, with ourselves, beings that ultimately outlive us, but will preserve our memory after we die — she wonders how to tell if they’re angels or aliens from outer space. How can a girl of sixteen believe in angels? It makes more sense to believe in extraterrestrials, she says while watching the traffic of people and vehicles in the plaza. And what if there’s only one place in the whole world where we can make contact? She supposes something as important as that would have to be located in a city somewhere, and not some secret location in a rainforest, say, that no one can find. Besides, there are many places to hide in the city. The contact point could be in a bookstore by the river, for example, the kind that sells old books. Then she thinks, what if this actually turned out be the case? She touches her hand, touches the balcony rail, closes and opens her eyes. Does the Grand Central Station really exist? Is it another illusion? She suddenly has an empty feeling inside. Did you say something? she hears her father ask as he walks in the door.
That’s probably it, says the girl to herself while sitting in a half-empty restaurant, still thinking about the old bookstore she imagined could be the place in which she finally makes contact with the aliens. From a distance, we wouldn’t recognize her, but as we approached, we’d see it was the girl, and that she’s undergone a significant transformation, cutting her hair quite short, and dying it metallic blonde. She’s anxious, breathing quite heavily, filling her lungs with air, her veins and arteries with oxygen, and yet there remains an empty feeling inside her. Maybe she’s just hungry and impatient for the food to arrive. At the table next to hers, a recently married couple is flirting. A little farther away, a husband and wife, with a daughter not yet old enough to walk, are having dessert. Some of the empty tables in the restaurant don’t have a tablecloth or any such covering at all. One of the waiters is watching her intently. It’s late, but if she must eat alone, the girl prefers the restaurant to be empty; the solitude is less overwhelming. She’s always more lonely in a crowd. Nonetheless, the girl listens to people’s true voices: the recently married couple’s, the older couple’s and their daughter’s — voices they can’t hear themselves, but which the girl hears clearly. She even listens to the voices of the people who were once sitting at the empty tables, people who’ve long since left. There’s a movie in which we listen to other people’s voices. These aren’t like the ones the girl hears — which are like the voice of the multitudes speaking in unison, as if all humanity was speaking with a single voice. What does it signify? she wonders. Nothing happens by chance. They’re voices informing her of a task, a mission she has to complete; whispers she’ll eventually understand. So there’s no need for her to lose heart. Sooner or later, it’ll all start making sense. Suddenly, the recently married woman interrupts her musings to ask for an autograph. She just happened to have a magazine with a picture of the girl inside. It’s better with a picture than on blank paper, the woman says. The girl signs it, but not without scanning the article first. She then apologizes for the delay, saying she hadn’t been aware of its existence. The world must be conspiring against her. How did the woman recognize her even though she cut and dyed her hair? Should she start dining with sunglasses on? When her cell phone rings, the recently married couple and the couple with the daughter have long since left. On the other line, the brilliant composer is praising the design and acoustics of the concert hall in which the Little Sinfonietta are performing tonight. The girl isn’t impressed either by the hall’s architecture or the number of people it can accommodate. The brilliant composer is about to begin a short rehearsal, but he took the time to call her anyway — as if to say, look at what you’re missing with all your silly scribbling. She listens in silence, considers an adequate response. Perhaps something like: Oh, but haven’t you premiered in this or that concert hall yet? No? Well, wait until you see it. It’s far better than the one you’re describing. If you ever perform there, don’t forget to call me. Or maybe, instead of irony, she should wait until he’s in mid-sentence then hang up on him. In the end, she decides against playing either card, chooses instead to listen, in case she needs the information to finish her novel. She also wants to find out how far his malice will stretch. He asks if she’s planning to make her novel autobiographical, as he suggested she should do. The girl stops talking. She doesn’t want him to know how she really feels. She’d gladly shoot him dead, but she pretends everything he says rolls off her as water off a duck’s back, as if the interview she heard on the radio hadn’t fazed her at all, as if she didn’t mind the latest conquest pretending to be her, as if she wasn’t enraged at her boasting about hearing voices and writing novels. No, she wouldn’t stoop so low.
If nothing exists, writes the girl in her diary, the dead are nothing more than products of the imagination: a corollary of the theorem that a single mind is responsible for conceiving everything. And reinforced by the lemma: the single creative mind must somehow exist outside its creation. It must exist in another dimension. So why not bring the dead back to life? Why not create life in other galaxies? She has to think of a mechanism that connects aliens and the dead, nothing too simple, or others would’ve already thought of it. It has to be something like those gateways connecting far-flung regions of the cosmos, through which one could traverse vast distances of space and time. She can’t rely too much on the personal ads in the newspaper. She once believed the
No World Symphony
was the place to have an encounter, a place from which she’d be transported to another world. She once believed they shared a common language with us, but she never managed to discover it. Not even the brilliant composer, with all his mathematical casuistry, and those compositions that are more like secret messages for cabals of code-breakers than music to delight a listener, no, not even he had managed to discover a common language between humans and aliens, between the living and the dead. He may not even believe that such a common language is possible. He may only believe in the game. Now the girl considers the possibility of a single creative consciousness again, wondering if, in her eagerness to know it better, she might begin by asking a completely different question. Would a mind that creates itself and everything else still have need of success and recognition? It would require a superhuman effort at self-deception.
Early the following morning, the screenwriter is browsing the shelves of a recently opened bookstore. In one of the aisles, he notices a mop inside a bucket of water and that portions of the floor are still wet. He also sees the owner, standing on a ladder, sorting the books on one of the shelves. The screenwriter’s resisted the temptation to read any books on this trip because he wants to focus completely on his script. He hasn’t changed his mind, but he has to check certain references, take some notes directly from primary sources. He also wants to double check some of the things the girl’s father believes about the writer he refers to variously as the author of jealousy, the warder of cherished memories, and the master of the subordinate clause, because he needs to plan his next scene with the young college chick cum private escort. In it, the girl continues quoting the beginnings of books by renowned authors. The screenwriter hasn’t actually read many of these books, but he thinks he knows which ones she’d choose. “One day, I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, ‘I’ve known you for years. .’” Another novel she’d choose begins as follows: “He — for there could be no doubt of his sex, although the fashion of the time did something to disguise it. .” The screenwriter continues browsing the shelves, selects another book that begins: “Early in 1880, in spite of a well-founded suspicion as to the advisability of perpetuating that race which has the sanction of the Lord and the disapproval of the people. .” He doesn’t recall it being so brilliant. If asked, he’d say he chose them for their fame, their canonicity, or something like that, but in reality, the only criteria that matter are his intuition and personal taste. When he’s in a good mood, he always feels he hasn’t given all of himself yet, that there’s yet another book to write. Perhaps one day, he tells himself, he’ll write a book based on the notes assembled from all his notebooks. A collage built up of many different pieces of books and scripts he’s written over the years, revealing the secret, unpublished lives of his characters, and collating all his abortive ideas, as well as the brilliant ideas that never found their proper place. “In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together.” He jots it down neatly in his notebook and returns the book to the shelf. Then he undergoes a change of mood, becomes glum, and no longer sees any sense in taking such detailed notes. No one will care about all this once the movie’s made. A script, he tells himself, is nothing. Nothing but a tiny part of the huge process that brings a movie to the big screen; it’s only an itemization of what will appear in the final product, and it’s only the final product people care about. Why would anyone be remotely interested in these notes that won’t even appear in the final script? Only the great directors and screenwriters from the past would take care to incorporate them into the movie, but these are the elect, and at his age, it’s too late to be admitted into their ranks. “Once an angry man dragged his father along the ground through his own orchard. .” He recognizes this one, not for having read the book, but because he’s often quoted it in other contexts. The screenwriter’s satisfied with the number of openings he’s collected so he starts looking around for the exit. The bookseller gives him a few fleeting looks as he walks by, as if casting about in his mind to match this face with one of the writers he knows, for he must be a writer, since he’s far too old to be a student, and the screenwriter slows his canter to a trot in order to allow enough time for the penny to drop. Two more writers, and then that’s it, he says. So he diverts to another bookshelf and, before long, finds the first of the two: “The lie detector was asleep when he heard the telephone ringing. .” And then the second: “On a January evening of the early seventies, Christine Nilsson was singing in
Faust
at the Academy of Music in New York. .” The young college escort will have chosen some passages specifically for a game with the girl’s father, who’ll know them, and will try to name the books and authors. Others, though, will have been chosen specifically for their obscurity, and probably won’t be recognized by anyone. The screenwriter grants, however, that after a few days, he himself will probably forget who the authors are, and will have to make due with attributing them to one of the two characters that speak them — the girl’s father or the young college escort. He puts the notebook and pencil in his jacket pocket, picks up his cane — which he left leaning against a bookshelf — and goes looking for the main aisle that leads to the exit. On reaching the front of the store, he sees a number of tables on which the new releases have been arranged in small stacks. He reads some of the titles, perhaps considering one of them as a last inclusion. But he’s really only doing so to linger, delay his exit, to give the bookseller a little more time to recognize him. Besides, it wouldn’t be characteristic of the girl’s father to remember the beginning of a recently published book. He doesn’t find anything among the new releases that’s worth including, but he does happen upon a book about the screenwriters of the golden age. He opens it and immediately recognizes some of the names. The author gives a brief biography of each and a summary of their contributions to cinema. There are also photographs of them — some are just passport-sized snapshots, some feature a given screenwriter posing next to a poster for the film they wrote, others show a screenwriter looking up from his desk in an office, and there are even a few of the screenwriter disporting on set with actors, directors, and other crew members. The screenwriter’s surprised such a book exists, and he checks the blurb, the preface, and the introduction to see what criteria the author used to make his selection. His tastes are slightly different, but the screenwriter admires the selection nonetheless, especially considering it isn’t an exhaustive list. While flipping through the book, he stops at the synopsis of a certain film. “The protagonist makes his living renting a boat to wealthy vacationers to go fishing offshore.” He quickly reads a few more random passages before finally deciding to buy the book. He knows he can’t afford it, but once again, desire overrides his better judgment — a desire that will make him feel guilty as soon as he leaves the bookshop. Who knows, it may come in useful one day, if he manages to get a university appointment as professor of screenwriting. It’s an excuse as valid as any other.
It’s been days since he visited the pond; since he sat on one of the benches to have a rest and admire the young mothers who bring their children there to play; since he saw their little sailboats scudding on the water, driven by the lightest of breezes. But the benches are far, and it’s getting quite late. The screenwriter is eating a sandwich in a small park, not far from the island in the river, and reading some passages from his new book. He pays no heed to the time, until he casually looks at his watch and is alerted of the fact he’s let another day go by without having written a single line. He also forgot to call the producer, but resolves to do so as soon as he gets back to the hotel. During the walk, he notes his leg has improved over the course of the day, and before long, he finds himself standing at the reception desk collecting yet another envelope. He asks who delivered it, but the receptionist doesn’t know, having just begun her shift. Distrait, the screenwriter moves away without a thank you or good-bye. He’s sick of these people never being around when the girl’s envelopes are delivered. Such incompetence is typical, universal in fact, and he can’t stand it anymore, can’t tolerate living in a world he believes to be defective — completely inadequate to a discerning mind, utterly detrimental to a brilliant one. He takes the elevator up to his room, sits at his desk, and begins reading. But suddenly, he remembers his livelihood depends on his making a certain phone call. He picks up the handset and dials the number. This time he’s in luck, the producer’s at home. They spend a few minutes exchanging pleasantries, talking about the August vacation. The producer says he’s just gotten back from a distant retreat where he went to catch up on some work. The screenwriter takes his mention of work as an opportunity to tell him about his predicament. He then immediately reassures the producer by mentioning the magnificent script he’s holding in his hands. But he’s in urgent need of money, he says. The producer remains silent. The screenwriter then replies to that silence by insisting he’s at a crucial juncture with the screenplay. After some persuasion, the producer finally acquiesces, and promises he’ll speak to the accountant. But the screenwriter detects in his tone a tacit warning that this will be his last advance. The producer then fills him in about the time constraints under which this draft must be produced, about deadlines, and important dates relating to the shoot. But the screenwriter doesn’t believe any of it. He thinks it’s only a pro forma test, a mere convention, that he’d send the advance anyway. Perhaps he’d send it to pay back an old favor, or perhaps because they’re old friends; the point is these are the reasons he’ll continue sending advances, the reasons why the screenwriter refuses to heed the tacit warning. Would you consider making the girl the main protagonist? No, she’s only his student. Yes, there are other students as well. And yes, all of them are gifted. After hanging up, the screenwriter feels like a weight’s been lifted. He decides to pick up the phone and call his wife. He still doesn’t know why he counts the rings, why he waits until the fifth one: just a meaningless habit perhaps, something to do while he waits so he doesn’t have to think about anything. After the fifth ring, he hangs up. He then returns to his chair and starts reading the pages he collected at reception. It seems she sent him more passages about the City in Outer Space. “5.471 The general form of the No World is the essence of the No World. One day he sleeps in an area far from his old address, the next he sleeps in an area quite close to it. Or perhaps the reverse. He’s long since lost track. Besides, he doesn’t see the point of sleeping in the same bed every night if there’s another one close-by. Even so, every now and then he still feels the urge to go back. Not for any special reason: there’s nothing there he can’t find in any other house in the city. He could move into a first-class hotel, even requisition the luxury suite, but for the moment he’s happy playing the vagabond, content to sleep wherever his head happens to fall. If he does go back to the house he lived in, the bed he slept in, during the war, it won’t be for any other reason than to feel at home. A purely sentimental motive. He’s usually accompanied on his travels by the female student’s music, which is transmitted from speakers located around the city — her recordings of twelve-tone piano music performed so slowly, with the pauses between notes so long, that the waiting becomes a kind of torment — now a note, then a silence, now another — the only interruption occurs on the hour, every hour, when a voice can be heard announcing the time and date. Sometimes, the old survivor recognizes some of the beds from having slept in them many years before. His only possessions are a tape recorder, a copy of W, and a gun. He doesn’t expect to find any other survivors, especially after all this time, but he carries a gun because he can never be sure, and he doesn’t really know what to expect in a city he’s yet to fully explore. Moreover, he doesn’t know when the fuel supplies are going to run out, when the solar powered generators or the machines supplying oxygen to the city will fail. He carries a gun for his protection, but he also carries it in the event the oxygen runs out, for then he intends to kill himself. To commit suicide and prevent a slow, torturous demise, or perhaps as an alternative to boredom, to despairing of ever being rescued, to the weariness of performing the same rituals every day, thinking the same thoughts every day, repeating the same day every day, or seeming to. The old professor feels hollow. He wishes things were like they used to be. As if the old days were timeless, renewable, could exist again in the present or the future. Lying in one of the beds he frequents, he remembers a time before he fled to the City in Outer Space, when the only thing he wanted in the world was to run away and disappear somewhere with the female student; somewhere far away from everything and everyone. He has a vivid memory of her smiling at him. It is a knowing smile, as if she’s finally come to understand him, or perhaps as if she’s always understood him. He’s looking deep into her eyes, entranced, bewitched, because she’s lavishing on him an expression he rarely gets to see — at once seductive and timorous, knowing and innocent, the things that draw him most to her, that caused him fall in love with her. He wants to run away with her, begin a new life somewhere else, somewhere far away where he could find a decent job, a place where the laws are in his favor, and where he could easily get a license and even make a living as an alien hunter. The female student remains silent. She has no intention of going anywhere with him. Let’s leave, says the old professor. Run away with me. Run away? she asks. 5.5542 Is it really legitimate to ask the question ‘What must be the case for the No World not to be the case?’ The old professor is going to be reported by his wife to the director of the Academy. The female student thinks it’s all just a game. Life’s just a game. She could run away to that City in Outer Space where she has a number of concerts pending.” The screenwriter sees perfectly the path the girl is taking in her novel, where it deviates from and where it comes back to his own life, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He sees her alone in her room, reading then writing, editing her diary then typing away on her father’s laptop, lying on her bed listening to music while looking outside through a gap in the curtains before indulging in a peripatetic jaunt around the room. The screenwriter eventually forgets about the role the girl assigned him in her novel. At this point, he shouldn’t allow anything to distract him. The girl’s boredom has become chronic from all the waiting. She could go for a walk, catch a movie, or take up a hobby, but she doesn’t think there’s anything worth doing in the neighboring country’s capital except writing and trying to contact extraterrestrials. Nothing else interests her. She may try to find out what her father and Cousin McGregor are up to. She finally knows what to call him: by contracting the names, Cousin Dedalus and McGregor, Cousin McGregor was the obvious choice. She thinks about going home. But she knows she still has a commitment to fulfill, to record the
5 Pieces for piano
, her own unique interpretation, which she must leave behind so that posterity will remember who she was. Meanwhile, her father will be spending more time getting to know the young college chick. When not waiting in the hotel room, or on his vigil in the station, the girl’s father always visits the young college chick. The girl believes her father works twenty-four hours a day. The contrast of the girl writing alone in the room with her father lying in bed with his throwaway girlfriend accents the many distances between them. The screenwriter gets up from his typewriter and goes to the kitchen. He lights a cigarette while waiting for the coffee to prepare. He doesn’t feel like going to the café in the plaza. He opens the fridge to make sure there’s enough food, decides to fix something with whatever he can find. Then he picks up the telephone and calls the black prostitute, asks her if she can come to the hotel. He wants her to be with him while he writes. It’ll only be for a couple of hours, he says in an almost-whisper. On the other end, the prostitute is smiling as she remindes him that the price is higher if she travels. He tells her not to worry about the price, that her presence alone is bound to bring him luck. He then hangs up, and returns to his desk to resume writing. . Alone in her father’s hotel room, the girl is writing in her notebook, doing some literary exercises in observation — writing a series of short, descriptive vignettes — as she resolved to do whenever she wasn’t making progress with her novel, as a form of self-resuscitation. She describes the old hotel room she’s staying in: how the balcony looks, shrouded by timeworn curtains, barely translucent with all the stains; the high, flaking ceilings raining plaster on the carpet; the walls; the once kitsch, now obscenely discolored wallpaper; and finally, of course, the room’s furnishings. She describes what she sees because she believes the exercises will hone her skills as a writer, and whenever she gets writer’s block, she exercises. Then she decides to reads some of the writers the screenwriter recommended, perhaps as a nod to the gossamer thread still connecting them. On her father’s nightstand, the jazz CDs, magazines, and newspapers continue to mount, but now completely cover the monumental work of his favorite author — warder of cherished memories, master of subordinate clauses. The screenwriter would relish explaining to the girl’s father that his favorite author doesn’t write about lost time at all, nor jealousy, nor any other subject he has defined him by, but of a world that disappears before his eyes, a world overwhelmed by change, by time’s ineluctable progress, sometimes slow, sometimes rapid, always inconceivable, especially to those who lived in times past; explaining that his favorite author is nothing but a hoarder of memories, a starry-eyed futilitarian in search of a past he can never retrieve, and yet tries to nonetheless, for whatever reason, being unable to abandon his quest, perhaps because the guerdon’s in the searching, in the writing about a world of refinement and bon ton, of frivolity and effeminacy, of waxen moustaches and scented handkerchiefs, a world that was his own, and could limn to the smallest detail, a world in which he believed, for there was none other to believe in. Of course, this is in stark contrast to the screenwriter, who doesn’t write about his past, who couldn’t bear the reprisal of so many bruised memories. The girl reads in a short introduction that, through the cumulative effect of describing many small and seemingly insignificant events, the author creates a magnificent crumbling mosaic of a world in crisis; that he seems to bask in the recollection of those who lived in that world, of hours that have long since tolled, epitomizing both in a plethora of fictive personalities; that we don’t know if he confabulated his memories of early childhood, such memories being unreliable at best, or if he likewise supplemented his memories of youth and early adulthood; that perhaps his vision of a bootless world, empty and decadent, was only that, and vanished only from his own memory, and that his wistfulness, his yearning, is symptomatic of a man who’d have mourned the loss of any age, any time, because the only thing that truly vanishes is the self located there, located then, so the narrator interprets the end of his age as the end of the self, and the end of the self as end of the world entire.