— Yes but. . well, it's… I mean love has to be something greater than ourselves, and when it is then it is faith, and the Church. .
Bildow clenched small fists, at the ends of his long arms. — I demand that you tell me where my daughter… he said loudly to Anselm.
— Shut up, this is a conversation about love. Did you ever read the great poet Suckling? Here's a poem of the English Cavalier poet Sir John Suckling for you, Stanley. "Love is the fart Of every heart; It pains a man when 'tis kept close; And others doth offend, when 'tis let loose." Do you like that? Hey come here, where you going?
Stanley looked helplessly at Agnes Deigh. — I have to… excuse me a minute, he said. She continued to stare at Anselm, who shifted his eyes from hers in sudden discomfort, finally said, weakly, — I'm… I mean he's scared. . Isn't he… and turned away to where Bildow pulled him.
All this time, a figure had been moving about the room like a shadow, but a pale shade, if black light could cast such a wan shape in darkness. Occasionally Anselm had fixed inflamed eyes upon him, and looked away after a fiercely vacant exchange. He spoke to no one, hardly anyone had spoken to him, and fewer of him, until now the woman in the collapsed maternity dress noted, — Yes, the boy with the silver plate in his head, he looks like a sensitive minority of one to me. And that woolly-headed boob is trying to convert him, that's the trouble with converts. . what is it, child? Mummy sent you up… I know, wait a minute, here. . Wait, I almost gave you my Pubies. .
— What are they for? the girl with the green tongue asked.
— I forget, but they help. . And she looked back hungrily to where the hunched man in the green shirt had just said, — Just the same, you ought to get wise to yourself. . when he was swung round with a dirty hand on his shoulder. Anselm looked him square in the eyes.
— Don't you get tired of hanging around like a spare prick?
— Why, why you. . The hunched man quivered throughout his body, as though it were suddenly an unfamiliar arrangement which he could not call upon, at such short notice, to fight.
— Just don't give Charles a hard time, Anselm said to him calmly. — You'd be a God damn lot worse oft than he is it you'd been through what he has. I heard this crap you were just giving him, your. . and you can't argue that way, you can't discuss absolutes in relative terms. That's what screws you God-damned smart intellectuals up, trying to discuss absolutes in relative terms.
— I'll discuss it any way I want to, the critic said sounding firm because he spoke quickly.
— God damn it you will not! Anselm said desperately. — You can't, you can't do that with absolutes, you either accept them or you tell them to go take a flying fuck but you can't do what you're doing. . Anselm stopped, breathless, close upon the man. Behind him Bildow stood where Anselm had broken from his grasp, looking at the pale face beyond them both. — And. . and leave Charles alone, just. . leave him alone, Anselm finished.
The other shrugged, taking green elbows in his heavy hands. — I was just trying to get a razor away from him, he said sullenly, turning away.
— A what? Anselm demanded, got no answer, and turned to the pale fading figure. — Did he? Have you? He grabbed a shoulder and shook him. — Where'd you get it? Give it to me. Give it to me. God damn you I said give it to me! He watched the thin wrist with its exaggerated rasceta disappear, and snatched the black-handled thing from the thin hand as it drew out of a pocket. — You. . stupid bastard, you. . what were you trying to do? Anselm went on, but his own voice was unsteady as he put it into his own pocket, and he did not look into the empty face before him. — You have no… God damn right to try things like this, you. . stupid bastard… he finished bringing his voice to a whisper where he could control it. When he did look up their eyes held one another, Anselm's burning into that vacant embrace until he tore them away, and turning away himself sniíîed and wiped his nose with his hand, muttering. Don Bildow stood in his path but did not interrupt him when he saw the orchid, fallen to the floor from an earlier caress, and went to pick it up. With it dangling between two fingers, Anselm turned, recovering, — Hey lady, he said, but the woman who'd worn it was not to be seen. — The lady lost her nuts, Anselm said to no one. He mumbled, — That's the world we live in, the ladies wear the nuts. . choking forth convalescent laughter, coming on toward Stanley who had found the bathroom door locked and was returning to Agnes Deigh the long way round the room.
— And Pablov had this kitten. .
— But Carruthers had a mare. .
— Well she says she got pregnant by taking a bath right after her father, but I say. .
— Omychrahst, I mean, youmeanyoureallywanttobuyone?
— Cómo? qué dice. .?
— You. Really. Want. To. Buy. One.?
— That is the purpose of my trip to your country, in addition for picking up something of artistic for the Jockey Club in Buenos Aires.
— Oh Chrahst now look don't go away, I mean I haven't got one with me. Look tomorrow morning I'll come to your hotel and you come with me. I mean, you're not drunk are you?
— Drunk? I?
— Chrahst I'm sorry maybe I am, I mean I was, but I mean people don't just go around buying battleships.
Maude had been fumbling at her throat. — What's matter, you spilled something down your dress? The hand on the back of her neck stopped, the man leaned forward and looked, with her, down the front of her dress. — What's matter? But her fumbling hand failed, and she was staring at an encumbered limb before her. The attractive girl with the Boston voice, whose leg it was, looked down too. She had just said,
— It's not a bad kick, take two strips of benny and two goof balls, they get down there and have a fight. It's a good drive. She shook her leg. — Is this yours? she accused, looking up at Maude.
— Why I… I'll take her, Maude said reaching.
And the Boston girl pulled up her skirt at the waist and went on, — If you want to score tonight I know a connection uptown we can probably catch.
— Yes, I'll take her home now, Maude said and held the baby up before her, cupping one hand to the head, and she murmured, — A leader of men.
— Huuu, may I take you home? the uniform asked, still trying to gaze down into where Maude had sought what she had now forgotten.
— Where do you live? she asked vaguely, looking up at his face.
Agnes Deigh had taken Stanley's hand to say, — And every time people meet, they seem to just get a little further away from each other. — These gulfs everywhere between everything and everybody, Stanley took up immediately, — it's this fallacy of originality, of self-sufficiency. And in art, even art. .
— Didn't you know him? He died in my apartment in Paris when I was having my first one-man show.
— When art tries to be a religion in itself, Stanley persisted, — a religion of perfect form and beauty, but then there it is all alone, not uniting people, not. . like the Church does but, look at the gulf between people and modern art. .
— When I go abroad I want to see countries, who wants to see people? You can see people on the B.M.T.
— Damn fine music, Mozart, said the Big Unshaven Man, He had just finished making a whole pitcher of martinis, which he poured into a large pocket flask. — I tell you true.
— Well doesn't it seem to you like everybody's changing size?
And in spite of the torn orchid which lowered, and was dangling before his face, Stanley went on, — It isn't for love of the thing itself that an artist works, but so that through it he's expressing love for something higher, because that's the only place art is really free, serving something higher than itself, like us, like we are. .