Page 92 - NyghtVision Magazine Volume 3 #2

to be compared to Melville’s Ishmael—well, "No one, not even you, can live on the edge of
how does one even begin to respond to that? a knife,” he continued. “Not without slipping
on that edge one day and bleeding to death.
Stan reached across the table, took hold of And when you do, who will be there to hold
Moby Dick, and began reading. "Whenever your hand? No one. No one will be there. Be-
I find myself growing grim about the mouth; cause no one will understand."
whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in
my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily No one will understand.
pausing before coffin warehouses…"
The words echoed through the silence. No

I was so caught in the words that I have no rec- one will understand… No one will... No one—
ollection of how long Stan continued to read. "Why do you think you can't settle down?"
(Apparently, at some point he picked up Clarel he said abruptly, falling silent for only a mo-
and began reading from that text, although I ment before continuing. "V'lo yasah eloheem

remember none of this.) nepesh. Even god cannot raise the dead. We
both know this to be true. Only, you don't
"So tell me this isn't about you," he said, closing have to say it to the world every moment of
the book. The echo of page striking page thun- every day. Let it be."
dered through the silence created in the ab-
sence of words. "Tell me you don't see the world "In The Myth of Sisyphus," I began, "Camus
this way. Tell me you aren't constantly rebelling clearly says that committing suicide is tan-
against death. Tell me you are not aware—every tamount to letting death win. It is admitting
minute of every day—that you will one day die." that life is futile, empty, and vain; that—”

"You ask the impossible," I replied. We’d had "You know it is," he interrupted. "What is it
some seriously intense conversations in the you said in one of your poems? Ah, yes—‘time

time we had worked together, but I had never even steals our grief.’ Time, death, it is all the
before seen him like this. His eyes had turned same. So, you rebel. You create like no one
so cold and focused that there was no sign of I have ever known. And, you suffer like no
life in them. Still reeling from the tenor of his one I have ever known. You want intimacy,
comments, I said nothing more. but death precludes intimacy—and you know
that too—but still, you keep chasing it. Inti-
"You ask that every moment of every day we all macy. You are relentless in this pursuit. You
remember and face our mortality,” he retort- want a woman to love you—as you love the
ed. “Do you honestly think anyone but you can world, as you would love her—but no woman,
do that? Be careful, my friend, that you do not no human, can love the way that you do. For
lose your sanity. How long do you think you to love you in the way you wish to be loved—
can live this way? Didn't you tell me that Ni- as you love—demands an honesty that no one
etzsche died insane? Didn't Koestler kill him- but you can sustain. To give you the love you
self? What about Camus' drinking? Or Heide- seek, a woman must stare death—her death—
gger—secluding himself in the Black Forest in the face. Though, no one but you can do
for the last twenty-five years of his life? What that—not with the same intensity. And with-
makes you think you are different? That a sim- out that intensity, no one can love you as you
ilar fate won't befall you?" wish to be loved.
So, you are right. Life isn't the opposite of
Silence drifted across the room. death, love is. But what does it matter? You

92 | the heart is a restless wanderer