I took it home, opened the beer, got into bed and began.

It started well. It was about how Janko had lived in small rooms and starved while trying to find a job. He had trouble with the employment agencies. And there was a guy he met in a bar—he seemed like a very learned type—but his friend kept borrowing money from him which he never paid back.

It was honest writing.

Maybe I have misjudged this man, I thought.

I was hoping for him as I read. Then the novel fell apart. For some reason the moment he started writing about the post office, the thing lost reality.

The novel got worse and worse. It ended up with him being at the opera. It was intermission. He had left his seat in order to get away from the coarse and stupid crowd. Well, I was with him there. Then, rounding a pillar, it happened. It happened very quickly. He crashed into this cultured, dainty, beautiful thing. Almost knocked her down.

The dialogue went like this:

“Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“It’s quite all right...”

“I didn’t mean to... you know . .. I’m sorry...!”

“Oh, I assure you, it’s all right!”

“But I mean, I didn’t see you... I didn’t mean to ...”

“It’s all right. It’s quite all right...”

The dialogue about the bumping went on for a page and a half.

The poor boy was truly mad.

It turned out this broad, although she’s wandering1 around among the pillars alone, well, she’s really married to this doctor, but the doc didn’t comprehend opera, or for that matter, didn’t even care for such simple things as Ravel’s Bolero. Or even The Three-Cornered Hat Dance by de Falla. I was with the doc there.

From the bumping of these two true sensitive souls, something developed. They met at concerts and had a quickie afterwards. (This was inferred rather than stated, for both of them were too delicate to simply fuck.)

Well, it ended. The poor beautiful creature loved her husband and she loved the hero (Janko). She didn’t know what to do, so, of course, she committed suicide. She left both the doc and Janko standing in their bathrooms alone.

I told the kid, “It starts well. But you’ll have to take out that bumping-around-the-pillar dialogue. It’s very bad . . .” “NO I” he said. “EVERYTHING STAYS!”
The months went by and the novel kept coming back.

“JESUS CHRIST!” he said, “I CAN’T GO TO NEW YORK AND SHAKE THE HANDS OF THE PUBLISHERS!”

“Look, kid, why don’t you quit this job? Go to a small room and write. Work it out.”

“A GUY LIKE YOU CAN DO THAT,” he said, “BECAUSE YOU LOOK LIKE A WINO. PEOPLE WILL HIRE YOU BECAUSE THEY FIGURE YOU CAN’T GET A JOB ANY– WHERE ELSE AND YOU’LL STAY. THEY WON’T HIRE ME BECAUSE THEY LOOK AT ME AND THEY SEE HOW INTELLIGENT I AM AND THEY THINK, WELL, AN IN–
TELLIGENT MAN LIKE HIM WON’T STAY WITH US, SO THERE’S NO USE HIRING HIM.”

“I still say, go to a small room and write.” “BUT I NEED ASSURANCE.'”

“It’s a good thing a few others didn’t think that way. It’s a good thing Van Gogh didn’t think that way.”

“VAN GOGH’S BROTHER GAVE HIM FREE PAINTS!” the kid said to me.