[the novel in progress]

By Vincent McCaffrey

[ as of January 8, 2018 ]


Copyright © Vincent McCaffrey 2018



In my state of mind

a proem


It was a sun bright morn on the ides of May when the FBI came and took my files away. Sounds better in rhyme than it was. I went too—though not in the same truck as the files. Nevertheless, to be bundled off, like a character in a cold war novel, is purposefully frightening. The purpose, of course, was to instill a proper fear and awe of this secular god of theirs, ‘The Government.’ But I’d been in fear of that particular entity since the day when I was sixteen and wrongly realized I hadn’t paid my income tax—had no clue at the time, in fact, about how to perform this act of subservience. I was already working for myself, reselling books found at yard sales and such (not so much different than I do today) but a friend of mine who had a job taking care of the gold fish at Woolworth’s enlightened me to the awesome fact that this was how they had finally nabbed Al Capone, and there my dread began.

In this more recent event, I was taken away by a ‘Special Agent’ named Mark Clifford and accompanied by an assistant who was never introduced, or even said a word that I recall. Clifford had little enough to say himself, and said all of it. “Are you Michael James McGeraughty?” He already knew the answer there. “You are being taken in for questioning.” Where had I heard that before? “No. You are not under arrest,” and “Yes, you are free to refuse to answer our questions.” Thus I had no right to a lawyer, you see. “But if you do not cooperate, you may be formally arrested in order to fully conduct our investigation and that may involve a great deal more of your time.” Helpfully he added, “the warrant covers both your business and your home.”

I told him the door of my apartment was locked.

He answered, “That’s been taken care of.”

I was reassured.

Mr. Clifford is more the sort of plain-faced man you would expect in such a job. Like Ms. Arendt’s banal Mr. Eichmann. Though clearly very fit, Clifford looks to be about twenty pounds overweight. My guess is, more muscle than fat. He is clean-shaven, with a close-cut cap of black hair and dark blue eyes. (That was important because he reminded me a little of my uncle Jerry, a prick if there ever was one.) Special Agent Clifford is about six inches shorter and stands back far enough to avoid having to look up at me.

The assistant held a plastic zip lock bag toward me.

“Please tell us at this time if you have a cell phone, or any other recording device on your person.”

My cell phone was conspicuously laying out on the front desk by the register. I reached for it but he was closer.

“I’ll keep this for the time being.”

It was Mr. Clifford then who brought me to the Boston field office of the FBI, across from City Hall Plaza, and that is where I first met a Mr. Evans.

In contrast to his associate, Special Agent Douglas Evans is a thin man—wiry is the adjective there. And despite the vanilla aspect of his name, he has the dark and swarthy look of my friend Vito Paranesi who runs Vesuvius Pizza. Also akin to Vito, Mr. Evans has a baritone voice that moves his Adam’s apple in quick hops beneath a cleanly shaven neck. I’m positive his neck hair goes all the way to his chest, but he’s wearing a shirt and tie so that’s a guess too. By his tone, he is very serious and a bit too clearly concerned for my welfare as well as the matter under investigation. He also reminds me of an uncle—my Uncle Fred who used to sit on the porch and smoke cigarettes alone in the twilight so as to get away from the visiting in-laws. When I would sneak away from the gathering myself, Fred would say something like, “Go climb a tree, or they’ll catch you.” Always useful advice. (And I warn you now, I have many other uncles to use for reference. I come from a large and Catholic family on my father’s side.) I immediately understand that Clifford will be the ‘Mr. Hyde’ guy and Evans his ‘Dr. Jekyll’ counterpart.

I had the following conversation with Mr. Evans—

But first, to neaten this picture, I should also mention that I had left the bookshop in the custody of the lovely Ardis. She calls herself the ‘assistant manager,’ in any case, but this designation is humorous for the fact that there are just the two of us, really. The others are only part-time. And I did not realize when I told her to keep an eye on things as I was escorted from the premises that they would be taking her in for questioning as well. So that’s why the door to the shop was locked for the entire day. There was no one else to call to cover for us at the last minute because all the part-timers have other jobs, or they’re in school. My kids used to be the standbys, but they are long gone from the roost, on to more exciting work in better places, and their mother lives in Florida now, though she might be back soon enough. Then again, Margaret used to avoid the place as much as she could even before the divorce. So that was that.

I should also note, allowing for the fact that Ardis can speak for herself and usually does, from what I gather she said pretty much the same things to the agents that I did. She likely employed a bit more of the vernacular, however. It’s one of her bad habits—that, and humming.

Also, please appreciate that the room in which I was interrogated was small, but not quite a booth. You could have squozen another chair or two in on either side of the table. But I felt a tinge of claustrophobia.

Mr. Evans begins by saying to me, “Now Mr. McGeraughty. Are you the head of this ‘Republic of Books’ organization?”

Just like that. No preamble. No cautions. Nothing. I thought the question was clumsily worded. Impatient. As if, wanting to skip by the little stuff and get right to the meat of the matter. There is a recording device on the desk about the size of a pack of cigarettes. The red light is on. I’m thinking, aren’t they supposed to warn me that the conversation is being recorded? At least I’ve seen it done that way on television shows.

But I’m thinking the room is probably wired anyway, so this is just a bit of visual prompt. And I can’t spot the camera.

I ask, “How about, ‘You have the right to remain silent? Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law? You have the right to an attorney? If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you?’ ”

Evans’ Adam’s apple danced. “You have been detained under Title 18 of the United States Code, sections 10, 12, 20 . . .” there were more such numbers but I was not writing them down (I did not have a pen or paper in hand, or I might have tried) at the time, though I assumed, if I was actually arrested, this particular nomenclature of the nomenklatura would again be offered to my lawyer in print.

I said, “I would like to speak to my lawyer.”

This was humorous to me, mostly because I don’t have a lawyer.

Mr. Evans assured me, “If you are formally arrested, you may request counsel. At present you are only being detained under the habeas corpus provisions in the Patriot Act.”

I countered with, “It appears you have neglected to consider the First, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth, and Fourteenth Amendments to the Constitution along the way.” I think I had got my own numerical nomenclature out about as quickly as he had said his.

He says, “I ask you again, are you the head of this ‘Republic of Books’ organization?”

Now, I’m thinking what anyone would likely believe. It was better to cooperate as far as I could, and get this over with. I hadn’t done anything evil, and what civil codes, state law, city ordinances and traffic restrictions I had recently broken were likely petty.

So I answer, “It’s a business. I suppose that’s an organization of sorts. A small one, anyway. I’m the proprietor.”

“How long have you been in charge?”

“Since I started it. Thirty-seven years ago.”

“What is the purpose of your organization?”

“I sell books.”

“What is your objective?”

“To make an honorable living.”

“Why do you call it by that name?”

“It’s a conceit. The existence of the shop is dependent on the purchases of my customers—they are the voters—the citizens of the Republic if you will.”

“Does it have any other purpose?”

Of course it did. I had written at book length on the subject. More than once. But Mr. Evans did not appear to be interested in my bibliography or my philosophy.

“The name is an allusion to various other things, if that’s what you mean. Plato first imagined a Republic in his dialogues about justice over two thousand years ago. But I’ve always seen myself more as one of the ‘keepers,’ as suggested by Benjamin Franklin when that lady in the street asked him what kind of government it was that they had fashioned at the Constitutional Convention of 1787, and he answered, ‘A Republic, if you can keep it.’ ”

Mr. Evan’s face became deadly serious now. The ‘deadly’ aspect was in the expressionlessness of it and the sudden loss of any discernible concern for me. I wondered if he had ever practiced that face in a mirror.

“Mr. McGeraughty, are you now or have you ever been involved with any group or organization advocating the overthrow of the United States Government, or engaged in any activity to that end?”

What was I to say to that? The matter would require some thought.

Met with my immediate silence, Mr. Evans rose from his chair after posing his question—as if to emphasize the rhetorical weight of it—and not getting a response—he slouched back against the wall facing me, perhaps to say by posture that he had all the time in the world. But suddenly I found my speculations about his motivations to be a little trite. There was always the tendency to write a script out of any exchange. And for me, this was just too prime for that. So I took another moment to answer, considering my options. I decided upon a sober approach.

“Are you suggesting that I have advocated an armed insurrection against our duly elected government? Are you supposing that I support violent revolution as a means of furthering my own ends? No, I have not. And I do not.”

I attempted a straight face to compliment my answer.

He leaned forward from the wall to the open a folder on the table and shifted one of the pieces of paper inside toward me. The gesture was just a little bit dismissive.

“Could you please explain this then?”

This was a print-out of an essay from my own website. I knew it immediately because of the title ‘The estoppel of Government deceit.’

“I think it’s self-explanatory. At least I hope it is.”

“For me then, and any others who might be visually impaired,” he gestured at the recording device between us, “could you try to explain this statement in other words?”

“I was calling for peaceful resistance to unlawful acts of government.”

“Unlawful, as determined by you?”

“No. As determined by the United States Constitution.”

With that, Mr. Evans pulled his chair out and sat down again as if to speak in a closer confrontational manner, but then quickly leaned back in it to regain the space behind. I was thinking he did not like being in my company. Which was funny, because I was just then beginning to enjoy the chance to speak to him. I was not sure why.

He says, “You are telling people not to pay their taxes. You are advocating that people refuse to sign up for Obama Care. Those are laws.”

“I am advocating resistance to illegal requirements enacted by bureaucracies. Article one, section one of the United States Constitution states ‘All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of Representatives.’ Those particular ‘laws,’ as you are calling them, were not enacted by the Senate and Congress. They were imposed by the President, or his minions in an unelected bureaucracy. The President cannot make law. That right is very clearly and specifically described in the Constitution.”

He came forward in his chair, eyebrows raised.

“You’re nuts!”

Perhaps I was not wrong in trying to script his behavior. These moves were just a little too stagy for my taste. He was hoping to provoke me.

“That may be, but I am not wrong.”

He gave me a good grimace for that, and waved the flat of his hand in the air between us.

“I am not about to debate Constitutional law with you, inasmuch as I don’t believe either of us is qualified to do that, but the Constitution—I believe it’s even in the first paragraph, before your article one, section one—states that it’s written to provide for the general welfare.”

Any pleasure I was taking in talking to him was gone now. I was certain his act was as staged as any second-rate bit of dinner theatre. He would only debate me long enough to get a reaction to fit his need.

But I said, “Clearly, you were shooting spitballs in class the day they covered all that. The first paragraph of the Constitution states, ‘We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.’ The framers had no delusions about ‘providing’ for the common welfare. But they did wish to promote it.”

Mr. Evans, raised both eyebrows again and spread his hands in the air above the table.

“Well, it’s the same thing!”

“No. Not even nearly. The words were chosen carefully. Debated at the time. As were all the words of the first ten amendments, which have been so badly mangled since then by the politically motivated philologists on the Supreme Court. If you ever get the opportunity, you really ought to read the Federalist Papers. You’d quickly see how important words and meanings were to those fellows.”

Mr. Evan’s eyes half-closed as he rearranged the open folder. I was now beginning to think that my script was all wrong. I was giving up much to much ground to this man supposing he had any idea of what I was talking about. He was more likely the sort given wholly to process and procedure; the heart of the administrative state. His kind had been captured well enough by Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables, in the character of Javert. The difference here was likely that Mr. Evans had never read that book or even seen the musical. His only reading of the Constitution was likely to have been to pass a test in the same class where he had refined his spitballs—a test on which he likely got a ‘B.’ ‘B’ for banal.

No? Perhaps not. He still didn’t strike me in the same way as his partner in legalized crime, Mr. Clifford.

But then, I was being insufferable, even to myself. All of this conjecturing was only an effort at self-defense on my part. I felt threatened. I was threatened. My livelihood was endangered. And my liberty, if they decided to put me in jail. My job here was to keep my own cool, not imagine his. All I could afford to do was be forthright. Had I said anything yet that might be considered a ‘cover-up.’ They were very hard on that, I knew. These days you could kill babies if you wanted to, so long as you freely admitted to it.

Mr. Evans flinched just a little, perhaps from gas, as he opened a second manila file-folder and then pushed another photocopied piece of paper across the desk at me.

“Does this reference to ‘The Keeper’ refer to you, then?”

I read it. The particular note was new to me. It was likely copied from an email but the name of the source was blacked out. ‘Redacted,’ you might say. It read, ‘I went to see The Keeper today. Got three good books to keep me busy while I’m gone.’

I shrugged. You have to practice your shrugging if you are going to do it convincingly. Given my usual and ready belligerence, mine felt stiff.

“It might. I don’t know. I’ve used that tag a time or two.”

“Do you know a George Reilly?”

“I do.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He’s a customer of mine.”

“Do you have any other relationship with George Reilly?”

“He’s a friend.”

“What is the nature of your friendship?”

“He is a regular customer. We chat when he comes in.”

“What do you talk about?”

“Books. Authors.”

“What does he like to read?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“This is a Federal investigation.”

“I understand. And what my customers read is none of your business.”

“That’s not for you to determine. I remind you, you can be arrested for withholding information pertinent to a Federal investigation.”

“I suppose. But I can’t worry about that. That’s something I can’t control. What new law the government has dreamt up among its tens of thousands of laws is not my business­—well, not unless you actually interfere with my business, I suppose. Objecting to all those laws would take several lifetimes and I only have the one.”

“You should make it your business.”

“My business is selling books. And writing them on occasion. No, actually writing them all the time but only getting them published occasionally. I can’t help myself about that. It gets to be a habit, you know. The writing I mean. The bookselling too, as a matter of fact. Selling books to people interested in ideas is addictive. If you’re looking to buy a good book, I’m your man. But aiding and abetting the activities of a Federal authority which has far overreached its just and proper Constitutional mandate to protect the citizenry is not my business.”

Saying this aloud made the lie too obvious, I thought. The context was not ambiguous enough to hide that. And I was sure he knew it, even if he had perfected the spitball by his sophomore year.

At that point, I could not tell if Mr. Evans was humorless, or simply not entertained by my answers. But the interrogation went on in this boring fashion for several hours, spread through the remaining morning and the afternoon. The lunch they offered was a sandwich of white bread, processed cheese and warm, greasy baloney. I thought that was quite appropriate. But I didn’t eat it. I asked for more coffee and some ibuprofen for my headache, instead.

Left alone in the room for a time with my baloney sandwich, I spent the half an hour looking for a hidden camera but couldn’t find one. There did not appear to be any one-way glass. The window looked out from the third floor onto the brick desert of the City Hall Plaza but would not open.

At 6:30 there was a dinner. This was something like the sort of ‘Salisbury steak’ I used to see in restaurants when I was a kid in the 1950s—that is, basically, a thin hamburger without the bun, apparently fried in a meal of some sort, and served with a cornstarch gravy, carrots and mashed potatoes on a plastic tray. I think it had been heated on the square plastic tray in a microwave. Again, appropriate. I did eat that, but in my memory, a Salisbury steak used to be a better thing.

And this, for reasons unclear to me then, reminded me of Michel de Montaigne. Long before Proust, he often felt nostalgia for simple things no longer as savory as they were in memory.

When the questions began again, belaboring the same points that were asked before, I misquoted a little bit of the Frenchman in my own defense.

“You’re like the judges who follow procedure rather than the fact and execute the prisoner even though someone else has already admitted to the crime.”

“Who the hell is Montaigne?”

“A sixteenth century philosopher.”

Evans told me to cut the crap.

It was a minor point, but I lost temper.

I said, “You’re an idiot if you think you can live without philosophy. There’s philosophy in everything you do whether you admit to it or not.”

I said this rather loudly. Evans appeared to be a little stunned.

This may have been too much for them to deal with. Not the weight of the thought, you understand. Most people will go whole lives without admitting to something like that. But that they had gotten no further with me in twelve hours than they had in the first.

I’m not sure why, but I was held for further interrogation until after nine o’clock. And still without a lawyer. I was assured several more times that I was only being ‘detained for questioning,’ another phrase I was oddly familiar with from watching far too much television in my misspent youth. At one point I inquired of Mr. Clifford, who had alternated with Mr. Evans and had made sure to ask each question again, if I was to be detained overnight—that my plants might need watering. And that was shortly before I was finally released.

But, other than my cell phone, I was in fact never made to empty my pockets, nor did they take my belt or shoelaces. Speaking of which, I had only spent two previous nights in a jail cell—once in Oklahoma and another time in Spain. This place was unlike those in every way. Still, I think this briefer incarceration should count for some bragging rights because I could not leave until they were finished with me. So, by my count, I’ve been in jail three times now.

At nine o’clock I was handed the plastic zip-lock bag with my phone, and released, still with no instructions, admonitions or cautions; and so I went home; only a short walk over the top of Beacon Hill. I was already tired, the shop would be closed by that hour in any case, and I figured to call Ardis and find out how she had fared alone as soon as I had a beer in hand and my own soft chair beneath by butt. Opening the phone, I saw immediately that she had tried to call me half a dozen times.

She answered pretty quickly. “Where were you? I was worried.”

“You knew, I was arrested.”

“Did they arrest you?”

“Well, no, not precisely. Sort of. I wasn’t allowed to leave until half an hour ago. I’m sure they were digging all the while through all the files they took in the hope of finding something. How did things go at the shop?”

“We were closed. They took me in as well. But they let me out hours ago. Around six. I went into the shop, though there didn’t seem to be much point in opening up at that hour. Everything looked okay. I just fed the cat and locked up again.”

“Who questioned you?”

“An asshole named Clifford and a dick named Evans.”

I had the immediate image of the two men going back and forth between two rooms, asking the same questions over and over again.

I told Ardis that and said, “Their lives must be a living hell.”

She answered, “I hope so.”

For the moment, hell seemed like an inadequate punishment.

The FBI had groped my apartment thoroughly, leaving nothing to the imagination. The disquiet of sitting amidst your own stuff when you know others have touched everything is terrible. It is chilling. The anger welled, at least for awhile, and only subsided when my eyes began to close involuntarily from the exhaustion of the day—and the jigger of bourbon I had poured instead of a beer was empty.

But while sitting there in my comfortable chair, with the reading lamp casting yellow illumination against the night, a fat Modern Library edition of the works of Tom Paine stared back, broad-spine, from the near shelf.

Reading has always been my comfort and consolation. However, in this instance, I was not helped.

In Common Sense, Tom says, “Men who look upon themselves born to reign, and others to obey, soon grow insolent; selected from the rest of mankind their minds are early poisoned by importance; and the world they act in differs so materially from the world at large, that they have but little opportunity of knowing its true interests, and when they succeed to the government are frequently the most ignorant and unfit of any throughout the dominions.”

But there was no one to whom I could complain. My circumstance was certainly petty compared to far worse violations that happened everyday to others—but this particular injury was mine! The nation that I lived in and raised to love was no longer intent on preserving even a semblance of its founding spirit, serving the individual citizen, but rather catering wholesale to the rotting carcass of its bloated self, first and last! These police were not there to protect me, but to serve the authorities.

And there, and then, sitting in my comfortable chair beneath that cone of yellow light, I suddenly and completely felt the indignation which had before been subjugated by my own vanity during the questioning of Mr. Evans and Mr. Clifford. I knew at last that I was truly helpless, impotent, emasculated, neutered, inadequate, powerless, enfeebled, and now wholly enervated. And it was from there that my exhaustion from the ordeal carried me to a shallow sleep.

I dream readily, even in short naps.

I dreamt that I was adrift on a crude raft of flotsam by a seashore. I don’t look for hidden meanings in such settings. I love the beach and that’s simple enough. But I could not actually reach this spit of sand because of the tide, and it was just far enough away to make me doubt my ability to swim the distance. Repeatedly, I paddled my way closer, only to be dragged back by the current. Frustration dreams are common with me—I suppose with everyone—just a way of working out the daily failures we feel more intensely. And as with most of my phantasms, the ingredients changed inexplicably in the midst—the beach was suddenly crowded, and I recognized many faces there at the waters edge, with Margaret among them, remarking critically on my stamina—aloud, no less. No subtleties in any of that! But, said in such a public place as a beach where anyone I could imagine might hear, this was a nasty abuse given her own chronic lack of interest in such things—the ready evidence of our children aside. And there too, on the beach, were my children. The girls must have assumed I would make my way to shore successfully, I suppose. They were apparently chatting happily about other matters. (Distance is no hindrance in dreams. You hear all sorts of things you would not otherwise.) But my boy Ben stood knee deep in the waves, exhorting me, and bellowing, “Common on, Old Man.” I was sure he did not mean it in the way a Brit might of done fifty years ago, so there was little need to psychologize such an obvious additional affront to my dignity. My subconscious is often engaged in worse subterfuge. All in all, I think it’s healthy. Slapped about in that way, I might awake with all the sobering and without the red cheek.

Still in my chair, I was awakened by this frustration, and the familiar sound of a car trying to park in the alley, and found myself thinking of an earlier hero of my youth, George Hayduke, and his old buddy, Seldom Seen Smith. And naturally, I thought of their author, Edward Abbey. I had featured his book, The Monkey Wrench Gang, at the front of the shop when I opened in 1975. I even wrote Abby several fan letters and got a response or two. A good fellow, all in all, if a bit difficult. He was what I would call a small ‘l’ libertarian and his book was important at the time because it helped me overcome all the blather I was getting from publisher’s reps and almost everyone else at the time about how I should run my business. Of course, they were correct—that is if all I wanted to do was make a buck. But there are certainly better ways to make a buck than to sell books. I wanted to change the world, and have some fun doing that. And Hayduke was, for a time, my exemplar. I wanted to blow the dam! I wanted too break the canonical logjam of authoritative deadwood that choked the literary waters.

So, to me, Hayduke’s desire to open Glen Canyon with dynamite then felt akin to my own want to break down the doors of the New York publishing establishment. Hayduke failed, of course, as did I. And the publishing establishment is even larger now and more concentrated, as it has passed though intervening years into the hands of four or five conglomerates and is no longer the forty of fifty publishing houses that existed then. It is thus far worse, after all, than what I faced as a young author in the early seventies (another example, I would argue, of the falsehood inherent in theories of entropy).

I had failed in all of that, and all the battle since. And so, at last, I climbed into bed in defeat. But still awake, lying there and staring at the dark, I thought of Herman Levi and his failed attempt to live his life in the midst, but apart.

I had once purchased the library of a very poor man, Herman Levi. His wife had left him. His children too (for reasons I could only guess). And he died, I think, from lack of care. Levi lived in a small house on Cypress Street in Newton, and close to the Theological Seminary there. The building might once have been a stable or carriage house for an estate behind, but was now surrounded on all sides by twentieth century architectural detritus of the faux and stucco variety. And this house was truly filled with books. Kitchen shelves sagged with volumes. Ceiling beams slumped beneath makeshift bookcases in the rooms above. Floors visibly wallowed. Yet, after twenty years of bookselling in Boston, I had never met Herman because he bought all of his books at library sales. A matter of frugality, perhaps. Or, just as likely, a realization of the fact that there is a finer form of natural selection that takes place when libraries discard what is deemed insufficiently popular. And he had a wonderful eye. There was hardly a volume that was not worth the weight to carry, even with the heavy-handed branding of the librarians on spines, endpapers and title pages.

I would love to have known the man, and even yet feel the loss of our missed trajectories.

Because I was still married at the time and could then prevail upon my wife, who was also our landlord, for the indulgence, I was able to use the inconvenient corners of the connected garage next door to the shop to store my purchase. (All the prevailing took place in the midst of one of our epic arguments, as I recall.) In those triangular allotments of otherwise unusable space betwixt tires and fenders I stacked over a thousand cardboard wine boxes filled with Herman Levi’s ex-library books. And it was thus that, and for more than three years afterward, I was able to set those carefully collected volumes out, box by box, on the sidewalk with the books priced at a dollar apiece. Each new lot brought the serious readers like flies. Our business flourished from the added attention. And through his books, I did get to know the man a little, and thus to further regret our lack of acquaintance.

Herman Levi was a philosopher. His mistake was not in ridding himself of his Xanthippe, or ignoring those misbegotten offspring whose minds had been hammered to lesser interests by a public school system that abhors the irregular. The greater error of his ways was in failing to write things down. Amidst all those books marked here and there with hand torn scraps of yellowed newspaper, or shreds of junk mail circulars, I found nary a note or a letter.

After some months of browsing the collection as I set the volumes out, often taking some of the books home to see what he had marked, I came to appreciate his mind then too—and a bright idea came to mine. I went up to the Andover-Newton Seminary at the top of the hill behind the little tumble-down house and spoke to an old friend—an instructor there whom I will leave nameless so that he is not scourged by my acquaintance—and mentioned Levi’s name to him.

Yes! My friend knew ‘Levi,’ as the man liked to be called. They had “spent long hours arguing over pins and angels,” he said. I asked him about Levi’s character. My friend grew serious. There were personal matters involved that he was not free to discuss. But this was a truly lonely soul, he said.

In the midst of a city suburb, Herman Levi had tried to live the life of a hermit, and failed. It was this failure that troubled my friend most, because Levi had been sure the fault was in himself, and my friend could not persuade him otherwise. My friend too regretted that Levi did not write, despite much prompting.

And I overslept.







What’s all this, then?

a post preamble




            This is my chance, then, to cast myself in the hero’s role. I’ve been a humble author and bookseller for all these years. (Allow me my hyperbole—at least I’m much humbled.) I don’t run into tall buildings to save women and children while other’s flee. (My knees have never been so strong, but it bears asking, do the women need the saving anymore?) My eyes are not good enough to fly jet planes or hit a fast ball. I sell old books and the few that are new that are worth the time, and write novels I cannot sell. And though the writing has been much ignored, it is a witness to what I do and what I’ve done—that is, for sixty-eight years I have done pretty much what suited me. And here, at last, is a chance to do what is arguably better if not best. The argument is not settled. That I have waited until now, when I have so little left to lose, may be some mitigation of your judgment of all this, I understand. Or that the overwhelming risk of failure at this point makes any effort too romantically futile (and possibly planned that way). That I should have done more to prevent what has finally come to pass might cast me into the lower ranks of Dante’s hell, but at least I won’t be letting a good collapse of Western Civilization go waste. There is a story here to be written, and if it transpires that there is no one left to read it, so be it. That is at least consistent with all else that I do. (The whine you hear is not self pity, but the wind in the gears.) I sally forth. My armor is the truth. I have a worthy truck for my steed. My companion is—well, we’ll work that out.


A doctor told me recently that he doesn’t read novels. I have encountered this before, especially among individuals with an above average intelligence.

“I’m too busy,” he said.

I said, “When did you trade being busy for being anything else?”

He looked confused. Consternated is the old word. I suppose he thought I was passing judgment of some kind, which is true. Doctors especially dislike to be judged. That is their prerogative, not yours. It took him a moment to realize there were other alternatives to the equation than to be lazy or unproductive.

“I’ve always been busy. I suppose it’s my nature.”

He said this while continuing to tap and probe.

I asked, “Have you ever read The Little Prince?”

“Is it a novel?”

“No. Not really, though it’s novel enough. But there’s a character in that who’s very busy with matters of consequence. And I imagine you think that what you are busy with are matters of consequence.”

“Sure. Sometimes, life and death.”

“Your own life and death?”

“No. Others. Even yours.”

“What about yours?”

“I take care of myself.”

“You work out?”

“Everyday. About an hour. And I run when I can. You should too.”

“But you don’t read.”

“I have to read medical texts. Extracts. There’s a lot to keep up with.”

“When did you come to believe that you were a machine?”

“I don’t understand.”

“A machine is a complex tool. What you’re giving me is an answer I could get from a computer—and more efficiently from a computer. I thought what made a doctor unique from a machine was their ability to make judgments where the facts are insufficient. I thought that was why they call it the practice of medicine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Novels can give you perspective on dry fact. They offer insight. They let you see things from other angles. They offer connective tissue and fill some of those gaps of ignorance that are so much larger than the little we know.”

Now, I was in this doctor’s office at the time. He had allotted me my fifteen minutes. This appointment did not include time for chatting about literature or the meaning of life.

“Well, maybe someday doctors will be replaced by machines. But for now, I have to figure out why your shoulder hurts.”

A familiar illustration of the body’s inner geography filled the wall in front of me.

“That chart is very neat and machine-like, and I’ll bet you passed a test on all those very same names for the ligaments and bones and muscles, maybe thirty years ago, because that same chart was in my doctor’s office well before that, when I was a kid. It was fascinating to me then. But I tell you what I thought then, and still know, that’s not me. It’s a drawing.”

He was offended. “I know that. . . . And I do have another patient waiting. What’s your point?”

“You still haven’t explained to me why my shoulder hurts. You told me that the torn ligament in my shoulder has nothing to do with the muscles that are causing me pain six inches away from it. I wonder how you know that?”

“They’re not directly connected to one another. You want a medical judgment. That’s it.”

I pointed at the names on the chart. “I can see that there. But the problem with the trapezius and capitis and all those other muscles began when that rotator ligament was torn. And though my posture leaves much to be desired, the muscle knots up and becomes painful only when I lift something with that arm, or extend that arm. And I am nearly always in pain because of it. And your telling me it’s not connected sounds like an absurd coincidence—something I might find on a chart in a text book. But it doesn’t fit my circumstance, and it does not solve my problem. Don’t you think that’s important?”

“I think it covers the matter admirably.”

“Yamamoto would approve.”


“An admiral who only listened to what he wanted to hear.”

That was a bridge too far.

“I don’t have time for games. You can put your shirt on now and take this folder to the desk.”

“Sure. My time is your time.”

“Are you being rude?”

“You have no idea.”

The rules are that you should never pick a fight with your doctor, . . . or your landlord, or a policeman, or the IRS, or a meter maid, or a city inspector, or a customer, or just about anyone who can cause you more harm than good. That’s the kind of life most of us lead these days. I’ve tried not to live that way, but I’m not that much different than everyone else. As with life’s other circumstances, the pain in my shoulder usually reminds me that I’m doing something wrong.


There is a wonderful quote from a fabulous movie of long ago, often repeated but seldom fully appreciated: “Oh, no, it wasn’t the airplanes. It was beauty killed the beast.”

Perhaps it’s strange to you that I apply a quote from a movie to the death of the book, which is the greater subject here. Then perhaps you should look more closely at that movie. It was not technology that killed the book, nor the internet, or digital reproduction, or any of those contrivances that you’ve heard complaints about. They were only means. Mere tools. ’Twas beauty. The perfect nature of the book itself—that physical vade mecum of bound pages, whether pulp or rag or vellum, sewn or stapled or glued, covered in leather or cloth or not covered at all—that was the reason and cause for its destruction. Such an empiric beast could not be allowed to survive in a fungible world of etext, hypertext, subtext, pretext, semiotext, nontex—whatever. No matter the subject, poem, novel, history, or tract, the book itself was the existential threat.

“Look!” My old friend Gary once said, interrupting a regular rant of mine, and long before I had wised up to the fact, “You don’t think they want evidence of their deeds lingering about, do you?”

“They? Who is ‘they’?”

“The intelligentsia, the self-ordained priests of the illuminati, the elite! They intend to survive, you know, and they don’t want evidence of their betrayal laying about on coffee tables. So long as the shelves are filled with crap, they’re fine. No one will look there. But their greatest fear is the book in the cupboard. The forgotten text. Some sort of palimpsest of their perfidy. . . . You like that?”


“The use of the ‘P’ words. I did that just for you because I know you love it so.”

“It’s fine. But tell me who ‘they’ are.”

“Who do you think?”

“Who? The President? I was talking about the Patriot Act. ”

“No. No. No. He’s a tool! Bush league. His very name is a sort of onomatopoeia. I’m talking about the ‘deep establishment.’ The ‘Dark State.”

“You mean the ‘deep state?”

“No. The ‘deep state’ is just the entrenched and ingrown establishment that’s always protecting its ass from encroachment or change. I’m talking ‘dark state.’ The guys that run things.”

“The minions of the George Soros types?”

“No, again! Those are just minions. True believers—followers.”

“Who, then?”

“It’s not a who.”

“I thought maybe they were, but so small only Horton could hear them.”

“No, idiot! It’s a state of mind. I’m not talking about the kind of people who want the government to take care of them. I’m talking about the ones who believe the government should. Look! Most people—most of us, can’t tell you what’s in the first Amendment, or what the branches of government are. No wonder we don’t vote. We don’t have a clue. And ninety percent of our politics is based on jealousy of what anyone else has and greed for what we can get for ourselves. The bad guys know this. It’s only the good guys that are too stupid to realize the truth about human kind.”

This was way back in 2003. We were killing the best of our youth again, this time in Iraq. A fine man, an honest editor and excellent writer, Michael Kelly, whom I had met in the shop on several occasions had just been killed there in his own attempt to see what was real and what was not. This sad news had brought up a gorge of complaint at the current human folly.

But I said, “Another conspiracy theory! You’re a paranoid!”

I should have seen what was coming for my friend Gary right then. He is shorter than I am but strongly built. When his hands fly into the air, it’s like an athlete flailing at the gods for his own failure.

“You’re wrong! Try to see it! Please! This is not one of your word games. This is for your life and the lives of your children. The bad guys don’t need to conspire! They all think alike. Haven’t you noticed. It’s like the Ira Levin novel, Stepford Wives. No. No. Better yet. The Invasion of the Body Snatchers! Pod people. They don’t need instructions. They know, like a bird knows how to build a nest. It’s in their genes!”

“Maybe that’s just because they all wore Levi’s back in the 1960’s. Something in the dyes.”

“Please! Take this seriously!”

But that was hopeless for me at the time. Poor Gary. I was still too concerned with my own malarky to see it.


With writers already sacrificing verity in favor of favor and acceptance, such a corporal art as the book, and the ready evidence it might reveal of their deceit when at last they are on the docket of the Lord, could not be allowed to co-exist beside the re-written virtual text of our time. Revisionist history has been the rage since old Woodrow Wilson started altering the meaning of events and the Constitution way back when he was just a professor at Princeton. With the very climate itself having been made political, the ‘author’ had become just another tool as well and the need for the book—that hairy sublime of existential fact and proof of our foolishness, the paper trail of what we had known or thought we knew, that existential tramp tattoo attesting to our previous love and indulgence—was made inconvenient and thus doubtful. With the advent of the internet and the ascendancy of nescience and the commutable labyrinth of the web, the virtual had now become the ‘real’ and the book was at last defunct. The anonymous authors at Wikipedia had redefined wickedness. All had been Googled. The Great Bezos had spoken.

Certainly the tag, ‘book’ will be carried on. And ‘pages.’ And ‘word.’ The ever prescient Orwell predicted all that too, as meanings are altered to suit the need of authority. But now we have arrived at that last moment in our picture of black and white. The great misbegotten beast that was the book lay dead upon the shadowed street in New York. And all of those things that the book once was, nasty and false and true and kind, were dead as well, along with that industry of editors and publishers, critics and agents and, not least, the mortal authors themselves who once believed in their own veracity and perspicacity. All gone! Deceased. As dead as the once wild beast of unfettered words that made them possible. A computer can now write as well as the graduate of a university writer’s workshop. Garbage in, garbage out. Compassion made to order. Empathy on demand. There’s a formula for that, don’t you know. Just keep it Strunk and White.

But it’s now all too clear. The death of the book was a suicide.

Art has now evolved beyond postmodern, to postmortem.

The ‘new’ book is boughten goods, as false as teeth in a jar and the pixelated tongue it speaks with.

And note, the movie industry is departed as well—not coincidentally, using the same recipe. A King Kong cannot be imagined today (I reference the 1933 masterpiece, not the modern abortions), only copied—and badly at that. Computer graphics can now simulate almost anything but real life—but then, that was once the subject of actual authors, not authoritarians.

The writing of these ninety-five theses, however pitiful, did not just begin with the recent indiscretions of the FBI. In one form or another, as a play, a vignette, a memoir, they were begun years ago. Certainly before my argument with Gary, when I still had only an inkling of what was to come. I was mainly troubled then merely by the quality of the books. At the outset, we had mostly been a new bookshop but I was made to buy more and more used stock in order to keep good books on the shelf. And then my argument was begun anew when I realized all the good publishers were finally gone and what was left were the international corporate monsters whose obeisance to the numbers on the bottom line made any semblance of publishing the best, out of the question. Alfred A. Knopf, or the ghost of its better half, was sold to Bertelsmann, and Holtzbrinck had bought Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Lo! The Germans had won the war after all, and I thought this was significant. And it wasn’t just here. It was happening there as well.

And you know where there is.

Canongate in Edinburgh sold out to a rich young fellow with pretensions back in 1994. Who would publish the odd likes of Alasdair Gray today? And there is no small bookseller on the banks of the Seine to publish a James Joyce in our time. Why bother when no one reads anyway. ‘They scan. They skate. They have no time to contemplate.’


And at least once more after that, I attempted my screed. That was when a former customer was leaving the shop one day and told me, quite frankly, that he was only browsing so that he would know what to look for on his e-reader. I told him, out loud, that I hoped he enjoyed fucking himself, because that was the only pleasure he would get out of that. However, the small pleasure I got from the look in his eye that day was not sufficient payment for the misery he made me realize was already mine. Perhaps I should have given him credit for his honesty. Like Walter Raleigh tipping the executioner to take his best whack. No?

Or was that Mary, Queen of Scots? I Forget.

Yet, here I am again on the storied slopes of Mount Helicon, looking for a horse.

It’s easy to write about detectives and space rangers. I find it most difficult to write directly about myself. Without disguise, making the most of so little is the real chore. But, for shame, I will try to hide the sweat.

With the advent of computer-generated imagery, the most popular films are now little more than cartoons. With the decline and decay of education, our history and literature, as well as the language necessary to understand them, have devolved to idioms, memes and iconography. With the rise of authoritarian politics, the expression of free-thought has become hate speech and virtue signaling has replaced virtue.

I read years ago that the actor Steve McQueen, a favorite of my youth, refused a movie role because he would not cry on demand. I respected him the more.

It is in that spirit of not crying on demand then that I write this book.

You are here, at a rest stop. Beneath the finger smudged glass, an arrow marks the spot on the highway map.

‘All hope abandon, ye who enter.’

Dante said as much.

But, if you would permit, I would like to say a little more.








A circumnavigation of sex

in the rear view, cymbalism may appear louder than you think




And I forgot to mention: we are open nine to nine, six days a week; eleven to seven on Sundays. (I often forget that bit when I’m speaking publicly). But being closed all of a sudden in that way, on the day the FBI came for us, made more of a stir than I could have expected. And seeing those unmarked white SUVs out front at least gave some people the right idea. A Boston Post reporter who comes in frequently, Deirdre Roberts, was practically waiting at the door when I opened the following morning.

As if genuinely concerned, she says, “Were you sick?”

The interest on her face looked real enough. She had always, and determinedly I thought, ignored me before, in spite of the many times I’ve chattered her up. But I cannot remember that I was ever too sick to open the door.

“I don’t think so. I feel a little queasy from eating breakfast too fast, but that was only so I could get over here on time. I over slept. Maybe that’s what you’re detecting.”

She appeared as humorless as Messrs. Clifford and Evans, but it was still early. She asks, “Why were you closed yesterday?”

I shrugged, still unaware that she had seen the hovering SUVs, but with that shouldered gesture down from the day before. There was no avoiding an answer.

“The FBI has the cockamamie idea that I might be running some sort of subversive organization out of here.”

From her left coat pocket, her hand appears holding a small notepad with the wire spiral at the top edge. A pen is magically poised in her right. I see immediately she uses the same brand of pen I do. My estimates rise.

She hesitates a moment—sort of wobbles on her feet—her way of emphasizing sheer disbelief, I think. Then she says, “How did they get that idea?”

I said, “By reading other people’s emails. That’s the kind of thing they do nowadays.”

“Does that mean you are doing something like that?”

“Sure! I run a bookshop. How subversive can you get?”

“You mean, you’re selling radical literature?”

“Maybe. Depends on your point of view, I think. But probably so.”

“What is it, exactly, that they’re unhappy with?”

The list was long. Where to begin?

With another shrug, “I use a mechanical cash register.”

She backed up a step. I’ve noticed since, that’s among her own antics when she hears something she doesn’t expect. She’s one of those people given to the simple dramatic arts. The small physical gesture of emphasis. Cute. But I expect, this being Boston, she hoped I was selling a banned book or two. There was always good copy in that.

She says, “Other than the fact that it’s as much of a pain in the neck for customers who have to wait in line a little longer as it must be for you all here to ring in sales that way, why are they unhappy with it?”

I like it when people tell me two things with one question.

“Because I don’t keep electronic records. They can’t tell what specific customers are reading.”


I looked up right then from my usual opening procedures at the desk and caught a look on her face as she nodded. Deirdre Roberts reads romance novels. The worst kind. The ones with guys on the covers who evidently don’t have jobs because they spend their days at the gym and thus cannot afford the price of a shirt but are depicted there in livid color clutching at women who are over-endowed by nature and wearing expensive looking dresses in danger of falling away in a light breeze, that is if they are not already in dishabille. I can bet Deirdre would be very unhappy to hear that anyone else knows about her habits in that regard.

Keeping a disinterested tone, she says, “What sort of subversive organization do you think they could be looking for?”

I shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

In truth, never mind the impulse to flirt as Deirdre grilled us, I was pretty busy with helping Ardis check around for any mess the Federales had left but I couldn’t rightfully turn her away. She’s been buying books from me for twenty years, at least.

Ardis remained quiet through most of this interrogation. She had tried to call the night before and become upset when I didn’t answer, perhaps thinking that I might actually be under arrest. When I later told her that I thought everything was pretty much okay, she sounded greatly relieved—as if the proverbial great weight had been removed from that very healthy chest of hers—as if she was more worried than I was—but then she became even more unhappy when she learned that the FBI had neglected to have her stay and eat the Salisbury steak as well. She has a healthy appetite too.

What I’d told Ardis then was that, to my knowledge, and given the number of laws on the books, they could probably find something to arrest me for, but they didn’t. And that the Salisbury steak wasn’t worth the bother. I also said I’d see her at her usual hour, 11 o’clock. But she was already there at the shop when I came in at 8:30 to survey the aftermath. And I thought she was acting a little sullen.

Police, plumbers, carpenters, electricians, and the other trades generally have very poor domestic habits. They don’t clean up after themselves. I would say that I pity their wives, but that would be politically incorrect, so I will. And the FBI can only aspire to that singular community of worthy tradesmen. As an offshoot of law enforcement, a sect, if you will, they have simply lost their way, I think. Or maybe the bad habits have been trained out of them by the progeny of Mr. Hoover’s anal imps. There was no mess in the shop, just as there was none at my apartment. Everything appeared to have been left in its proper place, or nearly so—except of course for the business files which they still had in custody. The mess they’d left us instead was more subtle. It had to do with things being akilter, out of whack and in odd fettle. The cat, Tom, a sensitive creature (or so I am informed by Ardis), had evidently leapt into her arms when she arrived, as if still upset over some discreet but unsettling alterations made by the intruders in his home.

For instance: It is assumed by the public that the business phone we use—it has a dial, not buttons, and is made of black Bakelite, being the same exact one I had the day we first opened back in 1975—is kept at the front desk, right beside the computer monitor, as a sort of functional ornament. For contrast perhaps. A bit of 20th Century kitsch, or nostalgia, like the mechanical cash register. (The register is far older, however, and was taken out of the back room of a defunct drugstore on Massachusetts Avenue.) Browsers are always looking over at me when I make a call on the phone. The dial, ticking back after each number is spun, and the quivering coil of the cord to the receiver, draws their eyes. The fact that the sound reproduction on this old Bell Labs model is far better than the weak and tinny dribble from my cell phone does not occur to them. (Though I had to pay extra for the converter to keep it working that way.) Nor do they comprehend the full value and physical worth of slowing down for that dial to return to its resting place after each digit is spun. Time enough to consider in advance what will be said. My own attitude is, and has always been, more instant communication is likely to be more thoughtless miscommunication.

But this particular artifact seems to have caused the FBI some greater degree of difficulty when they tried to play with it as well. The phone was still perched at the very edge of the front counter when I arrived, almost at the end of its tether, where I could imagine some younger officer had tried to make a call. I expect that would have been like watching one of them use a stick shift in a car. At least that much was a laugh. Still, I was wondering if they’d bugged it. I’ve seen that done in movies too.

The computer fired up immediately but was not on the usual opening window. I mentioned that to Ardis and she said she would call Jack about it. Jack Holt is our dogsbody and her boyfriend and thus usually at her beck and call and the one responsible for all our more ephemeral technology. What bug might be crawling inside there I had no idea, but he would likely find it. Jack is fond of such insects.

We both noted that someone had gone through the place and looked at each one of the old radios we have scattered about on the shelves as filler and decoration. This much I could tell by the fingerprints in the book dust. Jack has installed a wireless speaker behind the grill on several of the models and we use those daily as our ‘sound system,’ but I seldom get around to dusting any of them.

There are half a dozen old typewriters set out on the tops of the lower shelves to brace the book ends for the taller volumes, and these do get handled more often—especially by the kids who come in and have apparently never even seen one of those mechanical marvels before. But the sheet of paper we’ve rolled into each of them to protect the platens had clearly been removed and then put back. None of the sheets were properly aligned. My immediate conjecture (paranoid fancy) was, again as seen at the cinema, that the Federal boys or girls had taken a typed sample from each machine to match up with any nefarious correspondence they might get their mitts on. Perhaps an expected ransom note, or a coded message. This is probably overthinking it a bit, as that is mostly the sort of thing done in black and white movies and long before the advent of the laser printer. But then, I am not sure you can overthink the machinations of such minds. Their purposes are so entirely their own.

I hear the rat-tat-tat from the typewriters periodically throughout the average day, and it is deeply comforting to me and an audible key to my pre-arthritic past. Once a year we have a story contest on those machines. Would-be authors come in and pay $5 each to whack out short stories in one hour or less and we post the results in the store and on our website. The winner by acclaim receives a $200 gift certificate, runner-up gets $100. Third place $50. It’s very popular event. But other than that, I’m not sure what all gets written on them. I suppose a ransom note or two might have been produced. Or a letter to some editor. A love letter. Or a shopping list. The joints on my fingers don’t let me use a manual anymore. I use the computer now to write, just like the rest of my fellow eunuchs.

There are only six typewriters set out at any one time. I have more than two-dozen that I’ve found in attics through the years, while out and about scouting for books, but they are not all in working order at any one time, given the pounding they get from the curious. The rest of those are in the back room on the steel racks along with the boxes of overstock. Those too had each been moved as well, though that might have been done to get access to the boxes beneath.

Deirdre follows me around the place as I check these things out, asking questions like, ‘Have you ever been arrested before?’ I told her about Spain and Oklahoma. Generalissimo Franco did not like vagrants any better than the authorities of Ponca City and loitering is still a crime in Oklahoma, or was, forty years ago. But she brushes all that away in the air, with a sweep of an impatient hand, as being besides the point. She wants a story for her paper before the word leaks about this FBI ‘raid’ to anyone else. She stares into the empty drawers of the file cabinets in the back room as I open them one after the other. The physical vacancy, so much more palpable than whatever was taken from the computer, has visual effect on her face. She is solemn.

I tell her, reassuringly, “That’s mostly just the stuff the accountant makes us keep for seven years to satisfy the IRS.”

After talking awhile with Ardis, Deirdre is still standing by and trying to think of a few more smart questions, when Mr. Clifford shows up once more.

There are half a dozen customers in the shop by then and Mr. Clifford would like to speak to me privately. I tell him I can’t, unless he wants to close me down again. I have to stay at the desk.

“What about your assistant?”

“She’s helping customers, but she’s not even supposed to be here.”

He moves in against the counter and speaks in lower tones.

“We’ll close you down again, if that’s what you want.”

There’s no strain or anger in his voice. It’s the calm that threatens. I glanced over at Deirdre before answering.

“I don’t want that. I just want you to leave me alone.”

Mr. Clifford sees Deirdre taking a special interest from over near the racks of greeting cards.

He turns to her and says, “This is a private conversation.”

She says, “I’m a reporter for the Post. And Mr. McGeraughty doesn’t appear to be wanting a private conversation.”

Mr. Clifford stands away like he smells something unpleasant near by. “That’s too bad,” he says and then he simply leaves.

Deirdre raises an eyebrow and says, “I’m afraid you might find some visitors waiting for you at home this evening.”

I say, “Maybe I’ll just go to the movies instead, if only to keep them waiting.”


As I mentioned, I’ve written about the shop dozens of times. It’s about the only advertising publicity we can afford (free), and the papers always seem to want to run another story about the demise of the old-fashioned bookshop, or the death of the book, or something else along that mordant line—the sort of nostalgia article they can keep in a file and run as filler whenever they need it because none of the Brit Royals are pregnant, a Politician has not been caught pestering the au pair, or a Hollywood Star with a movie just opening has not spoken out on an important issue of the day. But it finally occurs to me, with Deirdre standing right there, that I should think of some angle that will get a larger story now, sooner than later, out of this situation. To show you what old age can do to a brain, it took me nearly an hour to realize the potential.

Finally, I say, “Revolutions just aren’t what they used to be.”

She perks right up. She is a tall blond woman who has hit her fifties with a relative ease on the eyes of others. When she’s suddenly attentive to something, her backbone goes straight and everything else arranges appropriately.

She says, “What kind of revolution do mean?”

I answer, “The revolting kind. They used to have firing squads and straight-back chairs where they could tie your hands behind and put a blindfold over your eyes. Now they give you a dry scrap of Salisbury steak.” I can see in her eyes that she thinks she should understand some literary reference for the Salisbury steak. I let her off that hook. “Bureaucrats don’t want to be responsible for anything, even a decent meal. They took all my records and I’ll bet they return with them in perfect alphabetical order even though they weren’t that way to begin with.”

Now she thinks I’m holding something back. She drifts over to the counter and presses up close, just about where Mr. Clifford was before. “What kind of revolution would you like to see?”

When you fish with a red and white bobber, of the kind I am want to use for lack of greater skill, it’s pretty clear when the perch are nibbling.

“A quiet one. I don’t like loud noises the way I used to.”

She says, “Is there something specific you’d like to see changed?”

She has blue eyes but they are not as royal as Mr. Clifford’s. More of a softer hue. Periwinkle, I think. And a flash of irritation has darkened those. My flippancies are likely wearing thin.

So I say, “Yeah. Firstly, I’d like to get rid of the IRS. They are an outlaw organization in every respect.”

“Not the FBI?”

“No. Not the FBI. They could be knocked down a notch so that they have to obey the same laws as everyone else, but I think we’ll always need some sort of police force that can roam from state to state because the real bad guys like to move around.” She actually wrote that one down. I had not yet gotten to my point, and she was writing something down. I’d misfired. So I followed up before she could ask another question. “No. My bugaboo is the corporations. Especially of the globalist variety. Those dinosaurs roam from state to state as well as nation to nation and get to play by their own rules, obey a different set of laws than the rest of us, and pay taxes in Delaware, or the Bahamas, or wherever the cheapest place is for what they do, while they bank their dough in Switzerland. I would do away with corporations altogether. If they want to be treated like persons under the law, let it be. Let the people who run them take personal responsibility for what they do. Let them declare their citizenship and obey the same laws the rest of us do.”

That got the knowing smile to drift across her cheeks. What fools these little shopkeepers are. Don’t they realize we live in a modern age?

“Is that the basic objective of your revolution?”

“Oh, no. It isn’t my revolution. It’s yours. You just don’t know it yet.”

The backbone went straight again. She must have my son Ben’s ear.

She says, “I’m not sure I believe in revolutions. At least, not since my college days. Not anyway.”

I detect the patronizing in her voice—or is that matronizing, in her case?

“No. I understand. Most people don’t. People can get killed in revolutions. But they’re necessary. Like Mr. Jefferson once said. ‘God forbid we should ever be twenty years without a rebellion.’ ” I attempted to gather pieces of that quote out of the brume closet and took a breath to line up another portion. She looked up at me with growing suspicion. I continued, “ ‘What country can preserve its liberties if their rulers are not warned from time to time that their people preserve the spirit of resistance? Let them take arms. The remedy is to set them right as to facts, pardon and pacify them. What significance is a few lives lost in a century or two? The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is it’s natural manure.’ ”

Deirdre now looked a little distressed. “So you ARE advocating some sort of violent revolution?”

“No, I was just quoting Mr. Jefferson.”

“You seem to know that quote very well.”

“I’ve used it before in one of the my own books. I think that’s the best part.”

She shook her head just a little, as if to say that shaking it any more would be a waste of time. “But the world has changed since 1776.”

“But that quote was said later. In 1787, I think. Jefferson had just received a copy of the newly minted Constitution then while he was in Paris.”

Her chin was down now, as if to indicate she would not be taking history lessons from me. “That same Constitution ratified slavery, didn’t it? Your Mr. Jefferson himself owned slaves.”

And there I was, asking myself again if this was all anyone knew about Thomas Jefferson these days? Is it all they teach in school anymore? Or, worse to some minds, the unlikely chance that he might have taken immoral liberties with a slave? Gads! Wasn’t the slavery itself bad enough?

“A fact! The Constitution was certainly not the word of God, even if some conservatives act as if it might be. You’re right about that. But they did believe the idea of liberty that they were attempting to define was God given. The rights they promulgated were inalienable. They say it over and over again to make the point. And besides, that one terrible flaw was, soon enough, the inevitable cause for a whole lot more pain, and cost quite a few more lives than the original Revolution itself. Because of that particular wrong, we the people were killing each other again less than four score and seven years later. Just a little more than two generations, in fact. About the same distance in time as World War Two is from us right now.”

The slight shake of the head again. Yellow curls bounce. “So, is that what you advocate now? Revolution. Shedding the blood of tyrants?”

“If you mean some sort of revolution? Certainly! We’re all slaves now to a government that’s grown way beyond our control. Something should be done. Don’t you think?”

She paused a second as she caught her balance. I saw the shift of color in her blues. Wasn’t she supposed to be asking the questions?

“Like what?”

“Hmm. Like what? Lets see.” Could I be too serious? Should I be? “Take taxation without representation, for example. There was one representative in the House of Representatives for every 30,000 citizens when we began this enterprise in 1790. You’d have to check the figures. I haven’t looked them up recently. And that was only accounting for three-fifths of the slaves, remember, and of course only white male property holders could vote. And there were about 120,000 citizens for every representative in the 1860s. But there are about 700,000 of us looking for representation from each Congressman today.” Her mouth was open. I saw that she was not writing any of this down. I persisted. “Allowing for the fact that there were well over 308 million of us by the 2010 census, we should have about 2500 in Congress today just to match what we had during the Civil War.” My impaired math skills had been applied to that topic only a couple of weeks before, while arguing with a friend. “What about we start the revolution by getting a little more representation. That would give people a better voice in their government and make it that much harder for the corporate media, political PACs and labor unions to buy the favor of every congressman.”

Her smile was uncertain. “That doesn’t sound very revolutionary. In fact, it sounds a little cumbersome.”

“No! You realize, it’s just a little more than three times the current size. But do you think all those 435 well tanned Congressmen with their special privileges are going to give up their sinecures without a fight?”

She bounced back. “So you do want to overthrow the government.”

“Certainly. Why not? They’re tyrants! No better than the Peisistratids of ancient Athens. Besides, isn’t that the real downside of birthright citizenship? We’re all born subjects of our governments. That’s just what Jefferson was talking about! Just because you were born here, does that mean you’ve got to obey the laws your grandfather was stupid enough to pass? We are not slaves! Well, we are to an extent, but we shouldn’t be! I’d be okay with representative government if that’s what we had. Right now we have a government that only represents itself and only acts to increase its own power.”

She had started shaking her head at the odd word ‘Peisistratids.’ She would not be misdirected!

“But the Congress was elected!”

“No. They were appointed. Selected, at best. Incumbents are rarely unseated. The two party apparatus sees to that. Presidential candidates are puppets to special interests. The political party doesn’t support anyone who’s not willing to go along to get along and support the status quo. Anyone foolish enough to brake their rules will be destroyed. These aren’t the citizen representatives the Founders wished for. There are no farmers or shoemakers among them. No shopkeepers. No booksellers for sure! They’re all lawyers. The election is just for show. Not much better than a poll. Oft times worse. It’s the media conglomerates that rule the roost. They make and break. Since the days of Nixon they think they are a superior branch of government.”

She shakes that off, eyes wide “Now you’re blaming the messenger. The Press is only reporting on what’s being said. Anyway, polls usually show that people are satisfied with things the way they are.”

Ah! And now she was hoist with her own petard.

“Well. You can blame yourself for that. You can’t deny that the Press these days is in the business of supporting the powers that be. Being close to power gives them a thrill down their collective legs. They all belong to the same club—the ‘we know better what’s good for the public than they know themselves’ club. Apparently the theory in the editorial office is that what the public doesn’t know won’t hurt them. Don’t ask how the man behind the curtain got so rich while in office. Tell them instead what movie star is sleeping with whom. And given the meager public school education of their readers, they may have a point. The public usually goes along for the ride. Half of them don’t bother to vote. Half of them don’t even pay income taxes. It’s just petty self-titillation, with the other hand always out for a share of the spoils. The politics of the press is pretty much in line with the elected officials, in any case. Saves time and bother. You just report the government press releases as news and then go home to the assumed safety of your beds at night, protected by the sons and daughters of the very people you’ve lied to.”

The blues flashed with a couple of fast blinks and a tightening of the cheeks in sudden outrage.

“That’s not true! I’m here right now talking to you! Am I not?”

I waved that one off. “This isn’t news. It’s a man bites dog story. A curiosity at best. A bit of color. Certainly not as momentous as a first term senator standing up to his party leadership. If some unapproved candidate were ever to break through the blockade of press coverage, they’d be pilloried, scorned, and ridiculed until they were forced to withdraw or else be ruined. I’ll bet you a corned beef sandwich a story like this doesn’t get as far forward as page three. Nobody gives a damned about books anymore. Books are yesterday’s business. Besides, I’m a baby boomer! I can easily be pigeonholed as just another leftover 1960’s radical turned grumpy old man. My travails and discomforts would barely qualify as a humor piece.”

She closed her notebook. “Maybe I was giving you too much credit. You don’t deserve the attention.”

I nodded some agreement, “I can see how you might think that.”

And so she left to a sudden silence.

First thing Ardis says is, “You were hitting on her.”

I had to smile at that. Ardis doesn’t miss much.

“Maybe a little.”

Ardis bounces her head at me. “I could tell she knew it.”

Ardis is an astute judge of her fellow man (and woman). Her red hair is far too bright for the dark thoughts she harbors. I seldom spot the book thieves before she does. I can be busy keeping an eye on some poor bum in the first aisle who might just be looking for a corner to pee in, while she’ll be stopping a wallet thief from shoving the emptied remains of his latest score in-between the shelves in aisle four. She has a belt of one color or another in Taekwondo, but she is not so good at chatting about the relative minor significance of a Jonathan Franzen or a Michael Chabon. She couldn’t even finish the latest Donna Tartt book. (Though she has read every one of the Harry Potters and I haven’t read even one.)

I say, “I was thinking about inviting her to go with me to the movies tonight. As a sort of bodyguard against the Federales. I guess I’ll have to give up on that. We’ll just have to wait and see if I overplayed my hand.”


I will drink alone. I’ve been known to. I keep a little beer and a good bourbon at home. But unlike my lost friend Herman Levi, I prefer to pay the price and drink in a public place. This is a habit initiated upon the advice of another of my uncles when I turned eighteen, to the effect that shame and expense might thus combine to keep me from becoming a drunkard. I’ve added my own addendum to this, for the benefit of my children: that if you have no shame, you shouldn’t drink in any case. There were no movies playing in the theaters that I would pay to see, so I spent my funds that evening at Duggin’s.

Duggin’s is not an exceptional tavern. It’s only the best. Mostly because of Duggin. But he is not talking to me at present, so I settle for his comely wife, Doreen. Doreen and I have conspired to run away together many times—always, mind you, within the grab of Duggin’s ear.

Doreen has, more than once, chosen me as an exemplar of true manhood with which to taunt Duggin into fulfilling his proper duties as husband. I am not speaking of the finer conjugal matters here. Duggin is twenty years younger than myself and now far more capable in that territory than I am, I’m sure. (Otherwise, I imagine, the comely Doreen would have moved on long ago.) No. Not actually that. But I am talking about the decision to have their first kid. Which was the cause once of Duggin not talking to me for nearly a year.

They have four of these Cheerio eaters now and Doreen’s mother, Estelle, (who is divorced but not unwilling to make the same mistakes again) has moved into their house and taken over evening duties in the childcare department. (I have thus avoided several recent invitations to dinner there). No. I am actually talking more about persuading Duggin into taking her to Nova Scotia, which he finally did last summer. Or, some years back, buying that bit of heaven they have in Eastham, on the Cape. Actually, Margaret sold them the property. I was just the one to actually talked them into it.

Doreen is at the bar when I come in. Her eyes are turned up at the television and she is trying to answer a Jeopardy question. But she can’t get it out. I shake my head in pity.

“Quick, then!” She says to me, “What is it?”

I say, “What is the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo?”

The contestant says the words right behind my own.

Doreen says, “Why ain’t you rich?”

“I thought I was.”

“Ah!” She says and pulls an ale for me.

Because they don’t serve meals there, the after-work crowd begins to thin by about half past seven so it’s a good enough time to catch your breath after a long day.

Doreen leans into the bar, which can be disturbing to the male libido and something she does unconsciously, I think. “Jimmy said he saw a pack of white SUV’s out in front of your place, blocking traffic. What’s up with that? I called but there was no answer.”

I got half the glass empty before I could say, “Nothing much. Just a raid.”

Jimmy’s voice wafts then from the far end of the place where I can’t see him.

“Pornography? You selling pornography again, Michael? Told you not to do that.”

The sound of his voice is loud enough to get pretty much everyone’s attention. Other voices quiet. All eyes turn my way.

I say, “If you’d picked up the last lot you ordered, they wouldn’t have found a thing.”

Finally someone laughed, and then a few others did too.

Jimmy stood up from a table of heads in the corner, nodding as he came forward.

“What were they after?”

“Names. Addresses. They don’t know.”

“What have you done?”

“Is this just between ourselves, Jimmy?”

Jimmy waves a hand at the twenty or more faces still paying attention.

“We’re all friends here. So, what was it then? Were you talking a little treason, again?”

“Only what any good man might do.”

Jimmy pressed close at one side of the stool. He’s a large fellow and he has a certain physical gravity about his person. He spoke in a loud whisper.

“What did the buggers want?”

“Just what I said. Names and addresses. It appears I have a bad reputation among the authorities. They think I’ve been consorting with revolutionaries.”

“Good on ya, for that. What we need is a little revolution. Maybe a big one.”

Doreen was back from serving someone else and takes my glass and fills it again as she gives Jimmy a shoulder. “Listen to him that can’t even get up in the morning to go vote! Tell us Michael, did they get anything?”

“They took all my files. But I don’t think so.”

“And your computer?”

“They didn’t take it away but I think they copied the whole damn thing.”



Jimmy waved at the air as he moved away to get behind the bar next to Doreen.

“Then you’re likely safe. They are the most corrupt of the lot, but also the most incompetent.”

Doreen says, “Can you sue them?”

I tell her, “You can’t sue the government unless they give you permission to do it. I think Chief Justice Marshall saw to that in 1803.”

Jimmy throws up his hands, “Jesus, Michael, is everything a history lesson? Can’t we have a nice bloody revolution without all your lovely books.”

“Sure. I think I’ve read about something like that too.”








In ancient mundane

the beer was fine, the work was sweaty, and the women, very, very pretty



On second thought, most of you, however few it might be, should not be reading this. It has politics in it and, I’m guessing, if you have matriculated in the public school indoctrination system, not of the sort you’d like. You’ve better things to do than argue politics with a stranger. Worse still, I think, if you actually knew me. Likely, the only politics you’re interested in are your own. And in any case, you’ll be told by the authorities that this is only a yarn. A novel, of sorts. An odd sort, granted, but not to be taken seriously. A mere opuscule from a minor life. A narrative of unlikely events, perhaps unfortunate. A clothesline of fabrications strung out to dry. A bildungsroman of miseducation. A catachresis of wrongheaded parrhesia. A faction, or, more likely, just a fiction of bad ideas. But, I say in return, it is at least as accurate what you’ll read in the morning papers, or you’ll hear on the nightly news, and far more true.

For example, do you notice how human flaws often manifest themselves around human virtues? The beautiful woman who fails to develop her mind is a cliche, for a reason. Bright people too often fail to study, relying on their innate capacity to understand and thus fail the rest of their lives, while the greatest athletes are often those born with average physical abilities but an extraordinary desire.

An archetype of this is the Welshman Ernest Rhys. His father and family worked the coal mines of Carmarthen and Newcastle. Though first trained in the ways there, he found his true love in books. Largely self-taught, he went to London and lived out the rest of his life as a great and provocative litterateur amongst the old boys from Oxford and Cambridge. Always poor, his keenest pleasure was in helping other authors, and he was a friend to many of the greatest in his time—W. B. Yeats, G. B. Shaw, Edward Thomas, and D. H. Lawrence among them. His own writing was very good, both poetry and prose, though not perhaps of the very best, yet he never showed the sort of literary jealousy you can readily see in our own time in the pages of The New York Review of Books, for instance (or almost any book review for that matter).

It was Rhys persistence that caused Joseph Dent to establish the Everyman’s Library with the aim of publishing 1000 of the greatest books ever written in a small and affordable format. Simple genius! This one successful effort changed Twentieth Century letters by more than a hundred Ezra Pounds, making the best literature available to everyone who cared, and was copied over again many times with small variation by others, including the Modern Library of Albert Boni and Horace Liveright in America. It certainly sparked my own desire to fill my shop with the best literature that I could find—to establish my republic on existential terms as a physical rampart to my own castle of dreams. Importantly, you can read his self-told story for yourself. Among Rhys best work, Everyman Remembers has been available in many fine bookshops since 1931.

            In establishing the Everyman Library, Rhys wrote a short introduction which offered the raison d’etre of the effort. This essay was keenly entitled A Republic of Books, and was, for me, my first encounter with such an idea—another reason for the naming of my bookshop that I neglected to tell the FBI. Let them find it out for themselves.

“The average man, the man who does not read anything but newspapers, thinks of books as the sealed packets of an exotic intelligence, which it will not do him much good to open. He knows nothing of the fine salt-reek in the pages of Hakluyt, or the hearty strain of the ballad-book. . . . ‘It fell about the Lammas tide / When the moor-men win their hay,’ But by this neglect he leaves unused his sixth sense—that which quickens all the others, that which can add rooms to his house and a region to his brain. If over-night he had been in Nantucket with The American Farmer, De Crevecoeur, or walking the Edinburgh Canongate with Sir Walter Scott, he has a fresh vista to his street when he turns out in the morning, . . . In this faith, some six or seven years ago, we set out to build a new republic—a Library-in-Being, that should have in view throughout the play of literature upon life.”

The only mistake I can see there is a matter of the ages—the men (and women) of our time no longer read the newspapers—for good reason perhaps. There is too little worth reading in those pages as they have generally become the Pravda and Izvestia of our time. The ‘average man’ has lazily turned, these days, to the easier consumption of the internet and television; and there only to find a dilute juice of outrage, sensation, or pathos, politically strained of harmful pulp and nutrients, while leaving their deeper knowledge of the greater world to the 140 characters of a thumbed text, or worse, the spew of others with little interest in truth but always great want for attention.

Rhys was a ‘socialist’ of an old sort, in the mold of Victor Hugo and Goethe. He had faith in the ‘elective affinities’ of mankind—Max Weber’s dynamic between Protestantism and capitalism as seen through a literary prism of individual value that would level the playing fields for all. I have believed it to be a benign philosophy at root and far far from the horrors of National Socialism and the communism of Soviet purges, even if it does presage all of that horror. At least, in that older socialism, government is not the source of good. That, Rhys believed, could only arise from the hearts of men. And literature was the tool.

Ernest Rhys would not recognize the literature of our time. Even as a tool, it is a cheapened device made of base metal; a shiny appliance of the modern G.E.—that is, of a general education that brings all minds to a common political correctness and acceptable mediocrity as a norm; certainly not the fruit and harvest of free souls that Rhys imagined. Near all of it is now soiled with the scab of cynicism. And given the enervated putz of a tool our literature has become, there will be no progeny. The literature Rhys loved—the novel, the essay, and poetry—those small books on a neglected shelf—are but a shade of those generations past. The modern iterations, their pages cut to fit the pad, or the tablet in procrustean sameness, are filled with complaint without resolution, criticism without consequence, and glee at the misfortune of others.

The greater excitement in words today is found in the headline, the tag line, and the click bait. The malleable photo, well shopped, is now the bleated key to enlightenment. The text is no more than a Strunk & White reductionism of language to what will least confuse the publicly educated masses.

What is a ‘Lammas tide.’ Who are the moor-men?’ if you have to ask you should not use the allusion. Keep it clean. Keep it simple. Remember, you are writing for minds that had been shaped by G.E.

What of Dr. Johnson’s instruction, ‘Be as wise as you can.”

I admit then, that until I read Mr. Rhys essay about his envisioned republic, I had not read Johnson, or Boswell. By that time I was used to escaping from the clutches of the G.E. by reading Dumas, and Stevenson and Twain. And when I first came upon the little book, found in a used bookshop on 49th Street in New York, that contained those thoughts from Ernest Rhys, my world exploded, as from a bomb—an anarchist’s device. The peaceful Fabian, Mr. Rhys, had finally sabotaged my public school education. Perhaps in the nick of time.

Naturally, the newspapers did not contain an account of that detonation. Lives were not lost—they were found. But I am sure I was not the first casualty, nor the last. And I would not have been ready to understand the import of this blast had I not first read, more than once by then, the accounting of his own adventures by one Huckleberry Finn. Nor, perhaps, could I have accepted my new found independence of spirit without the prior examples of a David Balfour or Jim Hawkins. Certainly, I was already a disciple of Mr. Doyle’s elementary wisdom, “when you have eliminated the impossible, what ever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” It appeared clearly to me then that what I wanted was not an empire, or a kingdom, any more than a club, or a fraternal order, or a clique. What I wanted was a republic—a commonwealth built upon a solid constitution. And I quickly found the principles to make it work.

Not incidentally, my search for those tenets of conduct led me through the Everyman jungles of Aquinas and Descartes and the deserts of Plato and Kant, as well as the vast somnial plains of Hobbs and Hume, before I found both compatriots and provender in the gardens of Thoreau and Montaigne. Admitting that I was of a simpler mind was the key to all that. If life required too great a study, it could not be lived by the mortal likes of me. I was not a monk. Nor was I ordained to follow. I had been set on the road less travelled by the Everyman Classics, that embodied figment of a coal miner’s son’s imagination.

My own ‘light out for the Territory’ from the authoritarian clutches of Aunt Sally became the lesser exploration of ideas and this naturally required a grasp of the history that made them possible, watered them with the blood of saints and sinners, or, if necessary, excavated them like bones from the dust. For several years I could not read fiction but for the greater need to find out what happened next, and why. History can be compelling in that way. I consumed Gibbon one summer while mowing lawns to pay for my addiction. Well, how did all that happen? I found Herodotus and Thucydides, to explain. I went on a jag and read three biographies of Lincoln all in a row, and that after finishing Bruce Catton’s accounting of the Civil War during my last year in high school. (I was barely allowed to graduate for lack of the proscribed credits). And it has continued on like that, through all of my life, though I did soon enough return to fiction, because even the best historians have trouble understanding the human heart.

And it was amidst this revelry of words, that I found myself.

But none of this is news, really. Each of us have our own trajectory. Landing safely, is the thing. But a fear of flying, or at least avoiding the crash, can keep some people on the ground forever. Not a deep thought, just a fact.

Mr. Rhys had spoken of “The average man, the man who does not read anything but newspapers.” Where was he, or she now, in fact, without even those pulpy rags to clutch in the air above their morning cups of coffee. Lost, perhaps, in the wood that was never harvested for the pulp that was never ground for the pages that were never made? Lost entirely to that small fraternity, the self-chosen few, ‘the reading public’ that might have been a customer of mine.

Why? Simply, because the newspapers no longer carried ‘news.’ They have long since taken up the larger mission of converting the heathenry to the correct political persuasion.

When did the papers become such blatant propaganda? I grew up knowing things were slanted one way in the New York Times, and another in the Herald Tribune, but I was still deluded by the ideal that the ultimate intent of either was to find the truth that was there—to report what had happened and not what was wished (though I have read that the press was even more scurrilous in Jefferson’s time and we still live with several of those lies told then, the truth be damned). But I will not be telling you now, here, what is history and what is supposed. As I’ve suggested, that is for you to judge, if you will. All of it is literal, as best I know it, even if cast at last as flotsam upon the littoral margin of that great sea of ignorance I call my own.

To the beaches then! “To fight unto the last spit of sand, and defend the truth of it there, though the tides will clean the slate of our spilt blood by morn.”

And thus I recall. “Far and away, in ancient mundane, there lived a man who was not quite sane.” As both the fabulist Cervantes and the fabulized Munchausen well explained, mere sanity is not the standard in an age of madness. (Of course, I have also seen that psychiatry, like journalism, is often used for nefarious purposes. And I would doubt my own sanity, if it weren’t for the prior doubts of others. If they are wrong about so much, why should they be right about this? That is especially so if I am speaking of Margaret.)

No, the battle is joined on a previously hallowed ground. Too many have knowingly died for me. For me! As if they could see across the centuries!

This then is the argument. Is our freedom given, taken, or made?


I readily agree that the origin of philosophy may be found in religion. But that is only akin to recognizing that the beginnings of science are in alchemy. In any case, there is little comfort to be had in lead poisoning, or warmth to be had in gold. Nor is this to say that religion has been surpassed. No. The gaining and keeping of knowledge through the written word has only just begun—a few thousand years at most, amidst eons—and faith will be needed to survive our mistakes, or good whisky, if nothing else.

Ho! Imagine the mind of man before zero was believed!

Already, our schools are severing that tie between words and meaning that made what little civilization we have possible. Again we have begun to melt down the presses to make bullets as we reduce all literature to the gossamer ephemera of bites and bits, albeit safely stored for our own good, as we are told by authority, in clouds—in clouds, mind you! Why, only the Shadow could cloud men’s minds in such a fashion!

In your time, as it was in mine, I expect we will poison ourselves anew with rage. Convictions will be lost and found. And though faith is born of fear as much as remorse or revelation, we will have some few successes along the way with which to fortify ourselves—that is if we, the lot of us, survive long enough. And if we do, we can always reconsider our reasoning to fit the circumstance, and reckon again from that zero sum that we cannot see, or touch, because, once appreciated by its absence, we know that ought is there, and too, whether or not we can count on it.

In the great movie, North by Northwest, the agents of evil have mistaken Mr. Thornberry for another fellow entirely. The ensuing chase is a wonderful Hitchcockian confection and I have watched it a dozen times with unwaning delight. That is including the previous Saturday night, which is generally my reserve evening for such things. But I was convinced now that I was not the wrong man, but rather, the right man for the wrong reason.

I had written a novel once, that was intended as a sort of reverse on Orwell’s 1984. The idea was simple enough. What if there had instead been a more perfect world in that past imperfect year (which still lay ahead of me at the time I wrote the idea down). If Orwell can see the future so clearly, perhaps I could witness the past! Utopias are by definition impossible, if for no other reason than the inherent intention of perfecting the human beings who are the citizenry. Human beings are not perfectible, no matter how they are culled. It is a key flaw in the Catholic theory that we were made in God’s image. Millions of words have been churned by righteous scholars on that account alone. But, made by God or not, we are certainly not his doppelgangers, especially the stinky bits, and no more silkily perfectible than the overused and now threadbare sow’s ear.

Note: this is just one of several commonalities that Catholic theology has with Marxism, and why the two religions have grown so closely in the last hundred years or so. Marxists too believe that man is perfectible, or should be. But all of that is perhaps besides my real point in that novel of thirty years ago. I simply wanted to see what the real opposite of a ‘Big Brother’ society might entail. To think it through and see for myself. That is the fun of writing a novel, you know. I suppose this is something like the pleasure a mathematician gets in working out a theorem. Only, there is very likely more sex involved in what I do.

“Why don’t you write something more positive,” my mother once asked. I responded that at least I was positive what I was saying was true. She didn’t think that was humous. But the question begged a better answer. She was of a generation that survived a Great Depression, and a World War that, as I saw it, had yet to end. She had done this, against all odds, by keeping a positive attitude and avoiding personal depressions. Here I seemed to be wallowing in the very stuff she had managed to avoid.

Once, when we were at a museum, she had criticized some over-lauded piece of modern art—I think she called it childish—I had leapt to confirm the statement and tried to communicate my own mission to her. I thought she would be pleased to hear that I agreed with her good judgement, and that I saw my own writing as an antidote to such gormless and vacuous waste of oil and canvass.

“But someone must like this, or it wouldn’t be here.”

She was an artist herself and wanting very much to understand. I remember that clearly, more than forty years later.

That was the nut of the matter to me. Someone liked The Great Gatsby, despite its nihilism and vapidity. Why? Because of technique? Mechanics? Was there any character in that short novel you’d like to know—would love to be friends with? Gatsby himself, perhaps, just for the vigor of his determination. But the rest were simply and determinedly sad ciphers in an artificially sordid world. What made this worse to me was the lack of any reality. The balance of mankind, working for the best they could do, were ignored. It was a Hollywood world with no hint of appreciation for the craftsmanship of the fabric used to clothe it. Someone had liked the clean neat prose of Mr. Fitzgerald enough to ignore what the words actually said. This astonished me. How could that be! Why could it be?

The questions themselves troubled me, for how could it be left to me to ask?

But then it was a child who had once observed, “The Emperor has no clothes.”

The issue to be taken in our daily lives, as mundane as those might be, is simply whether all is well so long as there is sufficient beer, and work enough to pay the bills, and women to please. (And, I suppose, the women might equally want men to pester, though I am often unsure why.) Does it really come down to that? I still don’t believe so.

The dictate of an oligarchy of five Supreme Court justices who think themselves wise enough to overrule the collected wisdom of three hundred million citizens is the sort of hubris common to our age. As is the dictate of a President who can mock the Constitution by executive order, and a Congress that will let him do it repeatedly, in order to gain some special political favor for themselves. The divine right of kings was more benign. It’s just the sort of subjective malice our forefathers attempted to thwart by devising a balance of power between three branches of government. But that device would only work in practice, as they well understood, if there was good will. Being of a Christian frame of mind, they dearly believed in good will. They did not dictate a particular religious viewpoint, but they did assume that it would be drawn from the Western culture they knew. This is obvious by any reading of the words they wrote. Even the atheist Tom Paine saw that!

Rather than the nepotistic rule by oligarchy to which we have degenerated, or the chimerical vagaries of democracy (rule by the mob and the many), or monarchy and its constituent aristocracy, or the much simpler autocracy of dictatorship, or even anarchy (if an absence of government, i.e., zero, can be counted as a system), we were given a representative Republic with our rights entailed by a Constitution! Had—as in past perfect, imperfect as it might have been.

You often hear, if you are interested in such things, a libertarian of some stripe or another make the assumption that free markets will make free minds. A catchy turn of phrase. Well enough, such economics might at times. But too often this proposition is described by using the word ‘capitalism,’ as Max Weber did, or as Ayn Rand did. (Of course, in turn, she abjured the use of the word ‘libertarian,’ even though she appropriated so much of that particular faith.) Now, thirty years beyond the assumption of another sort of capitalism by communist China, and sixty years after the Nazis war machine used a variant of that scheme of things with government command and control to obliterate many millions of lives, and one hundred and fifty years after Karl Marx invented the very word ‘capitalism’ to describe the larger market mechanism of capital accumulation (and thus unleashed, by mere publication, this most horrific nightmare of political philosophy and the consequent holocaust upon mankind), there are still many who think of using that tricky terminology to describe free and open markets. I bring this up not only to touch again on the power of the written word but as a nice example of how words can be used and abused. The accumulation of ‘capital’ is merely a function, as is investment. Banks do it daily, and show little interest in free markets so long as they control their own interest, and ownership itself can be willed by a king, or a city council by eminent domain, and still, the exchange of accumulated wealth between individuals is conducted within the most primitive tribe. Such activities have nothing necessarily to do with any precept of liberty. Markets are not ‘free,’ by definition, else there is nothing to sell. This is not semantics. This is a demand that words be used more carefully. Grammar aside. My little shop around the corner exists ( has existed) in a nation of relatively open markets—comparatively free in the sense that I can still trade, for the most part, with whom I please. In other words, I exist now by a mere linguistical qualification. But too, my blood, sweat, and tears are now shed by permission as much as choice.

All of this matters here, and to me, because I am thought to be a traitor by my government. To what? And in what way? I parley words. They traffic in lives. Am I the traitor, or are they?


And that night, the FBI was not waiting for me at home. I looked for a dark figure within the shadows of parked cars, or cigarette smoke curling somewhere beneath the gaslights on the street. Nothing.

I could only try to sleep.







Truth or Consequences is not just a town in New Mexico

nor Denial a river in Egypt





The story was on the front page of the Post the next day, below the fold— nevertheless, right there in Caslon Boldface, for all the world to see. ‘Bookseller questioned by FBI. Michael James McGeraughty suspected of promoting revolutionary ideas.’

This was lovely. Truly. The ideas were not really mine and the FBI did not question me about a single one of them, but it was as close to the truth as the newspapers seem to get it these days. I figured from some of the detail in the story that Deirdre must have spoken to Mr. Clifford, or Mr. Evans, after leaving the shop in a snit over my rudeness.

I also wanted to give her a kiss for the word choice, though I knew that was unlikely. I’m getting a little old for that kind of thing, after all. Still. She had written ‘ideas,’ not activities, and she hadn’t used the word ‘radical.’ I was not just another dime-a-dozen subversive. She had described me as a ‘revolutionary,’ and I was tickled pink.

The bookshop was actually crowded by lunchtime. True, it was Saturday, but Boston has always been sympathetic toward revolutionaries. Even if sympathy is as far as it gets. I soon had to put up a little sign by the register that said, “Revolutionary ideas can be found in the philosophy section, aisle four,” just to allay the questions.

I suppose the regulars have heard enough from me through the years. They only smiled, or in a few cases, winked. But a repeated inquiry by the new faces was, “What exactly did you do?”

My answer was, “I’m not sure. They haven’t told me yet.”

This was fine and dandy—we were having our best day since Christmas—that is until Margaret showed up.

After six months gone, she comes in directly from the door, without a ‘Hello,’ puts a copy of the Post down on the counter as if I might have missed it, and says, “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know. Good to see you, too.”

She has her hair cut short, same as Deidre, but the little gray in it that I always thought made her look smart has been blackened with the rest. The hand on the hip with elbow out is a classic Margaret pose.

She says, “What are you up to then?”

I say, “Same old, same old.”

“Is it a stunt? You know your last stunt didn’t work out so well.”

“Which one was that?”

“Giving the books away.”

“No. You’re right. That was pretty dumb. How are you, by the way?”

“Not so hot. You’re late with your rent again this month. And I had a fellow named Clifford knocking at my door first thing this morning.”

“He’s a pest. What did he want?”

“He wanted to make sure you weren’t living there anymore.”

“Well, I’m sure you settled that.”

She sneered at the thought. “He also asked me if I knew a George Reilly.”

I could not remember if George had been coming in regularly before the divorce, so I asked, “Do you know George?”

Her voice rose, “Then you do know him!”

“He’s a regular.”

“Is that all?”

“So far. Though I should give him some credit for this,” I waved a hand at the crowd in the store.

I’d asked Stella Daikens to come in early. Her classes were over for the semester and given the state of her own economy, she was happy for the work. She was already at the register punching the keys down with her usual one-fingered flare. In front of her a short line of young men formed, patiently waiting, seemingly just as happy that she was there instead of me.

I said to Margaret, “Maybe I should hire George as my publicity agent. On commission, of course. Maybe ten percent of any increase year over year. We were having the worst May in our history before this happened. He could clean up.”

Margaret was not amused. All she could manage was, “Very funny.”

She stood there at the end of the counter closest to the door, her own impatience making her appear a little stiff, as I answered a question from a customer about the difference between John Updike and John Cheever. I said something cheap about Cheever being a better swimmer but got no reaction, and then recommended the collection of Updike short stories we had in. I actually don’t like either author, but the fellow was not asking my opinion, so I was just cutting him a little slack.

When he was gone, Margaret says, “You don’t change.”

I tried to sound sincere. “I’m sorry.”

She heaved a pretty deep sigh. Still pretty. But she was not close to being recovered from nearly thirty years of marriage and not yet interested in any apologies.

She said, “I talked to Mr. Clifford for almost an hour.”

“He must have enjoyed that.”

“I got the feeling that he really wants to get something on you.”

“I was rude to him before. He’s a prick. That sort likes to get revenge. I’ll check my Sun Tzu. Maybe I can use that as a weakness to my advantage. Anyway, when did you get in from Florida?”

“Thursday. I came by here to give you a helpful reminder about the rent, but you were closed, and I was suddenly possessed of the wonderful idea that you had finally given up the ghost.”

“A nice choice of words.”

She dipped her head and sighed wearily. “You know, I was wondering, was that the first day the store was ever closed?”

“Maybe, since the blizzard of ’78. Do you remember that! No one was ready for that. A few years later when we lost electricity for three days I had our camping lamps in here and we stayed open the entire time.”

“I remember.”

“Sure you do! That’s how we got Ben.”

She gave me that mixed frown she does. Benjamin was our third. Margaret had always only wanted two, and was happy enough with daughters before a snatch of passion by camp light had overcome us in the darkened aisles. But then she became a fool for her little ‘Benjamin.’ It was Benny who kept the marriage together as long as it lasted.

Thankfully, Stella Daikens had agreed to start working full shifts immediately. This is fine because she loves books and knows more about the current authors than I do, but she has a manner that is difficult to deal with at times. She answers questions with questions. She’s a very sexy young woman and she knows it and wants every one to appreciate the fact. The whole time I’m talking, I see Margaret’s eyes turning over to where Stella is working the register for each sale and I know that what Margaret sees are Stella’s boobs quaking beneath her décolletage each time she punches one of those levered keys down. I kept my back to it, as I usually do. I don’t need the distraction. But Margaret has never met Stella before.

Instead I said, “Do you want to go out for a sandwich?”

Margaret says, “No. I don’t. I would like you to consider the fact that you can’t pull off a stunt like this every week, and then you’re going to be right back where you were, even before the next headline. Maybe you should finally quit while you’re ahead.”

A long time regular, Morris Dunn, heard this remark and without remembering just how much Margaret enjoys being interrupted, he interrupts.

“You can’t quit, Michael. Who in the hell sells westerns around here except you?”

I answer, “I won’t quit, Morris. Gonna die with my boots on.”

Margaret scowls and turns on him. “Nobody in Boston gives a God damn about Louis L’Amour except you, Morris. Is Michael supposed to keep the store open just for you?”

That’s Margaret for you. Never polite but always possessed of the steel-trap mind. She remembers my every misdeed, and she even recalled Morris’s favorite author.

But then, Morris is no slouch. He has a full pension from the MBTA and he’s under sixty. He says, “Why not. Beats retirement, I’ll tell you.”

And just then Deirdre walks in the door and she’s holding a copy of the Post out in front of her, clasped in both hands, and open to the lower half of the front page.

Without a pause she says, “I think you owe me a corned beef sandwich. And I’m hungry.”

Margaret’s face is instantly frozen. But I’m long past being intimidated by that death stare.

I smile and say, “Terrific! I’ll be free in just a little bit.”

That was when Deirdre finally took notice of Margaret and the two of them faced off for one brief instant. Morris was still standing there and got a good idea of the situation without being told. He disappeared into the stacks. Margaret left.


The best corn beef around is at Michael’s deli out in Brookline and I offered to drive Deirdre in my old pick-up because that sweet little truck could easily make up for whatever charisma I lack, and it’s parked right at the back, but she has her car with her and it’s at a meter and she doesn’t want to risk a parking ticket.

Her car is a sensible little Subaru—the sort of vehicle that’s all common sense and no whimsey. I thought I should be disappointed. And on the way over, she’s all business. She’s sure there is something more to this story and she is going to get to it.

Her argument is summed up by, “The FBI does not conduct a raid because of idle chatter.”

I looked at it differently. “I suppose not. But at the end of the day, that’s all it is.”

“Why do you think they’re doing this?”

Maybe it was Margaret coming in the door the way she did, without even a ‘Hello, how are ya,’ and the thirty years behind that, or just the disappointment that Deidre didn’t drive something more chancy like a Jeep, or mischievous like a sports car, or perhaps it was a lack of good sleep, but my equanimity was suddenly lost. I snapped—like the proverbial twig.

This is 2014. The post-modern age. The ‘pale epoch.’ The end of history. Will I ever come to grips with that ontology? Why can’t I accept the textuality of my life, be sensitive to the complexity, and allow the diachronic deconstruction of my aporias reveal the genesis of my synchronic anxiety? Probably because I have never acquired a taste for bullshit.

I came of age when all of that garbage was the business of PhD’s seeking tenure, irrelevant to the real revolution—history was being made, not played. There was room for everybody on the bus. Sure you had your Marxists, but you had Objectivists too. Often in the same bed. Conservatives just used longer words and multi-claused sentences. Progressives talked down to the masses and insisted on simplicity. Catholics believed in free love, and atheists wanted to charge for it. Playboy magazine argued for women’s rights and actually published literature. Novels were both longer and shorter, but plots were not for being serious and resolutions must always be ambiguous. Cops were pigs and some pigs were more equal than others. Politicians were ‘the man.’ You were supposed to judge a man by his character, not the color of his skin. And being color-blind was the cause of wearing a turquoise jacket and avocado green pants—at the same time.

The thing about all that was, you could still argue for what you believed. Political correctness had not yet stifled all inquiry.

I have tried to practice what I preached. Have done. But I’ll admit, over time, I have quieted. Perhaps that is just age. Or some symptom of exhaustion. But I don’t preach from the bully pulpit of the front counter as often as I used to do. And I do believe some part of that self-suppression is rooted in disappointment; the defeat on my part to have personally made the difference. People have too little interest in those things that interest me any more. And ever less with the passage of time. Too many sensibilities are now bought and paid for by advertising that is often more canny that the product. People take irony pills. Are there any desires left still neglected by advertising these days? I suppose, only those that carry a jail sentence.

I think it is the speed of things that has much to do with the quality—just like sex. The general purveyor of our age is a soulless internet, not the Woolworth’s the five & dime. The redolent smell of dank fish tanks pumping silvered bubbles amidst dead gold fish in the corner, and the sweet aroma of wax lips and Bazooka bubblegum at the counter is forever lost. The sensibly clothed, literature proselytizing librarian of old has no role in what we read now. You won’t be scolded for pouring over the pages of the old bound National Geographics or even denied the privilege of checking out something by Henry Miller, no matter your age, because they aren’t there to be snickered at any longer. Computer monitors fill the spaces where aisles of books once stood, wall-like, against the barbarians. Earbuds stifle the songs of the birds and the sough of the wind. The journey is now a bore, with strip malls and well micturated rest stops along the way. The destination is the event, and even that is not what it used to be. A work of depth is anything over 140 characters with a selfie attached.

Suddenly, there in the midst of student traffic on Beacon Street, whatever anxieties had been building in me over the last few days spilled out in a torrent of anger and misgiving. Deirdre was not the person I should address with all of this, but she was there when the branch broke, or was it a twig—and I fell.

All she asked was “Why do you think they are doing this?”

“They’re all fucked up! “ I explained. “The whole world is turned up side down!”

That was it. That was my case. That was the whole of it, in fact. And I should have left it at that. But I said more. I said much too much! Once started, I sort of spilled the beans and let the cat out of the bag in one go. All inhibition and regard for political correctness went out the car window. Here I was talking to a reporter from the Boston Post—the bunker of Progressive ideology, for Christ’s sake! What the hell was I doing? This was no longer a ploy to spark her interest in my whimsical mind, much less my aging carcass. This was a paroxysm!

I’ve run the shop here for nearly forty years and usually kept this sort of thing in my hat—most of the time. Really! In Boston, with all it colleges and universities at the heart of left-wing orthodoxy, in the same way that Hollywood is at the groin of it. The erstwhile ‘Athens’ of America is an acropolis of failed socialist engineering and influence mongering, and this veritable Marxist mausoleum was not in the least interested in my recidivist frothings! How could I expect to be running an open bookshop here, anymore than Red Square!

As a libertarian I was tolerated as an eccentric and impotent in a world of power brokers, media frenzies, and mass movements. Hiding in plain sight, my more regularly expressed titbits of extremist thought could be ignored, or dismissed as ineffectual color commentary. But nevertheless, coward that I am, I commonly avoided saying anything aloud that would raise the larger defensive hackles. I assiduously avoided the anti-science of the global warming enthusiasts and their government sponsored attempts to manage the air we breathed by promoting that particular cult of doom as a means of political control with their oxymoronic blather about ‘settled science.’ It is a fact however that several such true-believers had recently broken down in rage over my innocently saying, when asked what I might have of that stripe, that I wouldn’t knowingly carry such propaganda in the shop. But nevertheless. . . . I would never mention abortion. Seldom did, anyway. Not without provocation. That death cult so fundamental to feminist religious doctrine and their belief in a woman’s right to control her own body while denying any responsibility for her own actions, in order to promote government controlled feticide, could not officially be discussed by half the human race—that is, by any man. As a matter of fact, I almost never talk about religion, per se. Sure, I said, ‘Merry Christmas,’ in season, just to annoy the smug atheists, and I know that some libertarians twist themselves into knots even to avoid an admission of the origins of that holiday—leaping for the secular boughs of the fir tree and nordic mid-winter celebration instead before extolling the merits of Bach’s Messiah. I seldom even suggested aloud, certainly not as often as I once did, that Western society, as well as the now ancient and nearly extinct American Republic, was built on a Judeo-Christian foundation—unless, of course, I was looking for a verbal attack by a twisted face suggesting that the genocide of the Native Americans, the origins of slavery as well as the oppression of people of color were all the result of my misogynist Western parochialism and rested uncomfortably on the heads of our benighted Founding Fathers. The words ‘Big Government’ were certainly avoided. It didn’t matter that every progressive tenet depended for its execution on an authoritarian state—the fabric of that contradiction, or lack thereof, much like the emperor’s missing clothes, should never be spoken of. The entire fascist enterprise of left-wing globalizing should simply not be addressed aloud lest I be told that it was all a plot multinational corporations. I knew all this. Naturally. But the very idea that the same government which taxed everything I did and demanded records for my every action so as to be sure I had toed the line, had now confiscated my records on the pretext that I was some sort of criminal for expressing an innocent idea such as the simple need for an actual revolution was simply too much! It was more, at last, than my tattered mental constitution at that moment in time could stand.

At some point then, and there, in Deirdre’s small car, with entirely insufficient room for adequate gesticulation, I simply left the tracks. My ‘hate speech’ ( for that infantile epithet of political correctness is what all of this sort of thing was now labeled) flew in the air like my spittle, as if I were speaking in tongues (mostly American regional English punctuated by scatological reference), and the rhetoric became incoherent. I can’t even recall what I said, except that it was drawn from all of the corners of my being and included vociferous attacks on the poorly fitted news sheets of the New York Times and the hypocritical preaching of Hollywood’s Riefenstahls, as well as the medieval absolutism of Islam.

And I think I managed most of that without taking much of a breath. It came to an end only when I was suddenly overcome by oxygen depravation. So I ended on a weak note.

“And here the FBI is worried about whether I’m trying to foment revolution in a bookshop on Charles Street. Go figure.”

I was now exhausted. I felt my age. And I was embarrassed for that fact more than anything I had said.

Deirdre had parked, closed her eyes, and waited out my rant without a word. When I’d stopped, and the silence made clear that my fever had run its course, she finally spoke, “So, the world is a mess. So let’s just try to focus on our small piece of it. Okay? One thing at a time.”

Very sensible. I suppose it’s only natural for reporters to focus on one story at a time. But novels are not written that way. I was more interested in the larger narrative. But the idea of creating order out of the sudden chaos of my worries did appeal to me.

“If that satisfies you. Fine. That’s the attitude of most people, I guess. I’ve noticed that you avoid reporting on politics these days—not like you used to. You do your personal interest stories and you don’t worry about anything but your own patch. That’s certainly the way I’ve lived most of my life too, I guess. But it’s also pretty clear there has to be an end to it. I suspect we’re almost there. Especially when the Feds are raiding bookstores.”

Her eyes opened.

“You read my columns? . . . Really?” Then she squints at me to show her reserve of doubt.

“Yes. But not for the politics. For the characters.”

She bounced her head at that. “I had my fill of the politicians a long time ago. That’s all just so much jobbery. The air at the State House is as putrid as City Hall.” She looked into the sun glare on the windshield. “You know, I woke up one morning from a dream—a nightmare—and I couldn’t breathe. Something like you said. So I just try and to stick to stories I do about people busy living their lives. Actually, people just like you—” She seemed to reconsider her words—as if she had admitted too much. She frowned. “But the person I’m especially interested in right now is your Mr. Reilly. All of this probably has more to do with him than you. Doesn’t it? He might be the real cause of all this.” She looked at me as if I should have something to add to that. “Are you sure you don’t have any kind of an address for this guy?”

When she had simply rolled with all of my blather and bloviation, the way she did, and didn’t lose track of what she was about, I should have known right then and there that something was different about this woman.

“If I knew anything more about George, I wouldn’t tell you, so that doesn’t matter. When the FBI have satisfied themselves about that fact, maybe I’ll get my files back.”

But she was not going to let go of it. “His contact info isn’t somewhere on your computer?”

“The major thing we use the computer for is the store website—to list as much of the stock as we can so we can get a few mail orders to supplement the cash flow. That, and for information searches. And for the email inquiries, of course. And for the book orders. But George doesn’t order books. He always comes in the shop to get what interests him. And my writing, of course—but that only takes up a little space. Even so, the Feds took a dump on all that too. Like my friend Duggin says, maybe they’re just looking for me to ‘talk a little treason.’ But then again, maybe one of the pigs they hire to root through all of it for truffles will read one of my trifles and become a fan.”

“Your writings? You still write novels?”

This is a point of some pride with me. If I can’t sell the damned stories, at least I can enjoy a little personal pride in having written them. It’s a baby boomer sort of thing, feeding my ego with visions of being read. But now here I was dangling it out there now like the lecherous artist does with his etchings. By simply playing the quaint romantic role of the curmudgeonly bookseller (the only role I really know without a script), she has never seemed to have an interest in me before. But now, I’m a potential revolutionary. An author of rebellion, perhaps. Maybe the part of aging but still aspiring author is worth a little more of her attention. At least it offered the pretense of virility. I recall that T. S. Elliot did well with that routine. At fifty-six, using a little bit of verse, he married a woman less than half his age, and really, that’s not much more than ten or twelve years younger than I am now!

“Yeah. I do!”


Either she was putting me on or an entirely new field of conversation had suddenly opened.

“In the mornings. I try to get up by six and get an hour or two in. And I write at the desk when the shop is quite. I do most my research there.”

“But I saw on-line that you haven’t published anything since 1993, and before that, way back in the 1970s.”

“That’s a sad truth. Not that I haven’t tried.”

She screwed her face up with skepticism.

“And ever since then, you’ve been writing anyway? Really? . . . Why?”

“I enjoy it. Keeps me sane.”

“How many books is that? How many have you written that aren’t published?”

“Not including the three that were, twenty-four, I think.”

Of course, I knew exactly.

She sat back for dramatic emphasis, “My God! Twenty-one unpublished novels! You are some sort of masochist!”

“And a few short stories. And a couple of plays. But no, like I said, I enjoy it. It’s almost as good as sex.”

“A masochist enjoys the pain.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Pain is pleasure to a masochist.”

“There is no pain. I stopped thinking about getting published years ago.”

“Then you are nuts. Nobody writes for pleasure. It’s work.”

Was this, perhaps, another disappointment to go along with the Subaru?

“That’s really too bad. And you think I’m nuts? You write everyday yourself, and you don’t enjoy it? Life it too short to waste it doing something you hate.”

She shrugged that off. “I don’t hate it. It’s work. You sound like the usual baby-boomer complaining about the mundane necessities of life. What’s to enjoy? Maybe the stories I cover. Sometimes. But mostly, it’s just work. And, I get paid for it!”

It was a familiar complaint, actually. Baby boomers were not the only generation looking for a reason to exist. “You know, E. B. White realized the very same thing once. It was why he quit a great job at the New Yorker and went off to live on a saltwater farm in Maine.”

She seemed surprised at that.

“But he kept writing for a living, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he could do more of it then for pleasure.”

She rejected that with an unconvinced shake of her head. Literary history was no more her object now than literary theory.

“Why won’t they publish your novels? I mean, why do you think? What are your novels about?”

“The things that interest me.”

“Like what?”

After twenty years as a customer, she doesn’t really know me at all. Not yet. I have to keep in mind that, to her, I was just the odd fellow behind the counter. But I can’t blame her for asking. And I might as well get this matter cleared away so she doesn’t make the mistake again. Besides, it was another opening to other possibilities.

“The last one I finished is called ‘The Keepers.’”

Her eyebrows arched and she lengthened her jaw skeptically, “Like the name your Mr. Reilly used for you. What a coincidence!”

The sarcasm was a bit thick in her voice as well. I admitted my own thought there. “It’s not a coincidence. I’m just not sure of the connection.”

“What’s it about?”

We walked to the deli while I told her.

“It’s about a fellow named Charley who returns to the earth after a long voyage—he’s several hundred years old but he hasn’t aged on his journey because of something I called ‘cold-sleep.’ But when he arrives home he’s greeted only by robots. All the humans are gone. There’s been a catastrophe. Disease has wiped mankind out here on Earth. Yet, everything looks much as it did when he left. He’s confused until he learns that it’s the robots who’ve preserved human culture by carrying out the various tasks necessary to support the infrastructure, even maintaining the libraries, and shops and the manufacturing facilities. All of it, awaiting the return of humans—the robots are positive that there will be a return because there were human survivors who fled and they know that some explorers, like Charley, were sent out before the holocaust. They also realize that their own survival is dependent on the very same infrastructure and they don’t want to change anything because it might result in a chain reaction of failure they cannot resolve. It’s sort of the same way people today are afraid of change, even though the whole social organism evolved to handle the disruptions of evolution long ago, or else we wouldn’t be here to begin with. But the real problem in the story is that by performing these mundane human tasks and the daily effort of caring for human things, many of the robots have gained a human self-consciousness. The very effort to act like humans has made them human. And some of these self-conscious computers are now unhappy with the idea of actual human return because they know mankind was always fond of slavery—people always wanted someone else to do the work for them if they could get away with it—and they’ll want to use the robots as slaves again. So Charley’s life is now in danger.”

She was listening rather intently. This was worrisome. I had to consider my situation. I wanted her to keep her interest in me as well as the shop. If I told her the plot of the whole thing, she might not like the way I resolved my little story. In fact, I should get her to read it. Telling it to her aloud would not be the same.

But then she asks, “Can I read it?”

“It’s on the shop website. All of them are. I self-publish them there first.”

Unfortunately for her, someone in the deli recognized Deirdre and came by the table just then to compliment her on the story in the Post, all the while eyeing me. Deirdre thought better of the idea of my publicly buying her lunch, so she paid for her own corned beef sandwich, and we left.

In the car again, she says, “So what happened to Charley?”

I told her, “I think I’ll save that for another lunch. Or dinner, maybe.”

She squinted out at the road ahead and kept her thoughts to herself.







The lovely Ardis

more than I knew




Back at the store, the lovely Ardis has her own ideas.

Ardis Cooper is not a fan of Margaret’s. They have been at loggerheads before—ever since Margaret accused her of sleeping with me. Actually, Margaret accused me of sleeping with Ardis, which is worse in the scheme of things, at least as far as Ardis is concerned. But that was some years ago, back when Ardis was still flirting a little more with any male that came in the shop and Jack was not yet our strong arm.

This is part of another story, but it’s a good aside.

Jack Holt simply came in off the street one day and asks me if I wanted any grunt work done. He was short on cash. I always do need such help, but this was about the time I was first starting to really feel the years in my back. Then and now I’ve usually hired women to work in the shop. This is sheer prejudice, naturally. Women tend to read more and they can take the edge off with customers when I’m feeling grumpy. But the trouble is, they are more likely to gripe when I ask them to lug too many boxes around. Jack is not tall but he is all muscle. He can lift his own weight and then some. For a period of time after I hired him, Jack would simply show up on Tuesdays and take care of this and that, and our cash arrangement stuck. Tuesdays are one of Ardis’s days off, because it’s slow, so it was good to have the extra pair of hands around. But soon enough I started asking Jack to go out with me on the house-buys; especially the ones involving attics and basements that could really take the vim out of me. And Jack was good company. At least he appeared to like to listen to my jaw-boning.

We talked about a lot of things but one of them was the store computer, which was always giving me a pain, and the elimination of that discomfort had soon become one of Jack’s additional blessings to our daily lives as well. It turned out hat he has the affection toward such devices that I reserve for books and dogs. Better yet, he seemed to know everything there was to know about such pesky beasts.

Then one day, not a Tuesday or Wednesday, Jack came in to clean up yet another mess that I’d created on the web site and he and Ardis met, and that was that.

Now, Ardis has overheard the conversation I had earlier with Margaret and she has an idea.

She says, “Margaret is right.” And right there she has my full attention. I cannot remember a similar statement from her lips. “This is all going to blow over. It’s not much of a story, after all, is it? You haven’t done anything! But what you need to do is keep it going.”

“How do I do that?”

“You blog it!”

“My arteries are blogged enough.”

“I mean it! You write every morning, anyway. All you need to do now is write maybe once a week or so about what’s happening. Keep the customers informed. Use your usual odd wit, so they know its really you. Jack can set up something just for that, I’ll bet. It might bring people back to the website more often and then some of them may even come in the store.”

There was a hitch in this.

“I don’t understand. If it blows over, what will there be to write about? Quaint little tales about the exciting and colorful life of a bookseller aren’t going to interest anyone in the age of the personal digital assistant. Anyway, a thousand booksellers have already done that. The internet is already clogged with the sentimental stories of bookselling as it was. Hell, I’d have to at least throw in a murder or two just to keep any interest going. And what do I know about actual murder? Or who do I kill?”

“Listen! You write about anything that moves, anyway. Just be creative! Try to imagine some reasons why the Feds might want to find George Reilly. I mean, really—George Reilly?”

This had been a recurring thought of my own, the past couple days.

“He doesn’t strike you as a revolutionary?”

“He doesn’t look like he can lift triple digits. No!”

“He’s lean, but I’m not sure you’re right about that.”

“He’s skinny.”

“He’s smart.”

“Why? Because he reads Montaigne? That doesn’t make him smart. Look at you.”

She says this without a flinch. I flinched for her.

“No. Maybe not. But he takes my recommendations for books. That makes him brilliant—By the way, did you tell the FBI that George reads Montaigne?”

“No! I told them to go fuck themselves.”

“I think they already do that, so they probably missed the point.”

But the point was well taken, by me.

A day later Jack had a blog column installed on the shop website with various automatic links to other literary sites and stores I often visit.

My first attempt was a little tendentious:


Perhaps it is an indicator of my own inadequacies in the face of adversity, but too often, presented with meanness or cruelty in this small corner of the world I live in, I cannot help myself. I rant. Aloud. In another age I might have penned a missive to the Times (the London version—not the New York parody which has long been an organ of Marxist propaganda). However, in this moment of the internet age, the medium is the blog. It’s a pale semblance of the better literary institutions of the past, but it is what we now have, so I will live with it. The way we live now is the real matter, isn’t it. I can’t imagine that many will read this in any case, but the effort must be made, and besides, I see that I feel better for it. It’s at least a palliative to my own pain. One tablet of ibuprofen and one of acetaminophen, taken before blogging, and I feel much better already.

I often see that, beneath the veneer of a smile in this post-modern age, there is a sneer. And it is just this hollow-hearted aspect that is so easily detected and rejected by the average person who has not been properly educated (i.e., compromised), by the specious philosophies of our time. (I use the word philosophy in an ironical way, understanding that actual philosophy is a study and explication of knowledge, reason, and understanding.) The insincere and contemptuous snigger that is so often caught in any liberal arts classroom today is enough to drive anyone who values their own virtue to a study of hard science, math, or medicine. Snidery is the modus operandi. Irony is its coin. But what has always astonished me over and again whenever I encounter it, as if I have never seen such unkind stupidity before, is just how mean it is, and so unfulfilling for the perpetrators. These spiritual zombies occupy a sepulchral zone between the good and hell. They live in a nasty world where no one is to be trusted, love is sex, fame is fortune, money is value, and power is the goal. Most are mere wannabes, matriculated by the public education system to fill a roll in the machinations. They are often bright, these parasites, and that gives them the false idea that they might rise above the others. But that too is their role. To rise to the top like a bubble in such a cess pool allows for the muck to churn. Often, these drones understand early on that they are mediocrities, so the definition of success for them is only to climb above other nonentities and, if the chance comes, to take down the first rate, the superior, and the excellent, as if they were taking a scalp and this is something of an accomplishment, or if they can, to plagiarize it. The post-modern is indeed built on that poaching of form but without the substance. What is most interesting to me is the way they so carefully avoid stealing from the modern, and instead return to the style of a better past. Interesting to me because it is an easy indicator in current literature of where I might find something actually worth reading, or seeing. Most of these metaphysical thugs understand instinctively that they cannot peddle the brutality of the modern and, though they despise the ‘masses,’ they must give them meat in order that they both have the protein to survive. Thus, they pretend their multivolume epics, and their confessionals, and their ‘stories,’ while thieving from their betters, mouthing the songs, and always, when given the choice, degrading whatever might be worthwhile as a means of showing their own prowess.

Other than that, I don’t have an opinion on the matter.

More anon.


Ardis was not impressed. She has heard all of this, out loud, too many times before.

She scolds me. “What happened? Tell them exactly what happened! It’s a bloody story, by God. Let them have it!”

“That’s what Deidre does.”

“But most of these people don’t read the Post. You’ve got to tell them what happened from your side of the window. You are not trying to make yourself feel better. You are trying to make them feel worse!”

I did feel better for it. But it was also clear, to me at last, that what I really needed to do was to start an actual revolution.

For that I figured I should take my cue from the article by Ms. Roberts. Simply revolting was not enough. Being revolting was insufficient, whether or not you believed I was a peasant. The thing to do was to just do it! What I wanted in order to save the bookshop was a more subversive marketing plan. A ‘marketing plan’ was the soup du jour among the business school smarty pants, was it not? And a nice little revolution would certainly fit that bill o’fare. Blogging alone was just not going to cut it.

I have no money and I have no followers, so starting a revolution was going to be a neat trick. And this is only made that much more difficult for the fact that I didn’t actually want any followers. Nor did I want anything to do with anyone who would actually follow me, or anyone else, for that matter. (This is a lesser known codicil to that gem of wisdom concerning his membership in the Friar’s Club, once offered by Mr. Marx in the book Groucho and Me.)

And I don’t own a gun. (Though I have always wanted to.) If I did, I’d have to practice shooting it. But I don’t have the time, or the price of ammunition these days. I did once write a couple of detective stories about a fellow who used a Smith & Wesson .32 police special. That required a dozen trips to the Boston Gun Club and getting a temporary permit and by the time I was done I had spent almost a thousand dollars for instruction and ammunition and fees and I could no longer afford the actual gun. That’s the real reason the last detective I wrote about didn’t carry one.

I had said to Deirdre, when she asked what kind of revolution I wanted, that something quiet would do. That would have to be the key. No shooting.

And no bombs. Bombs are for anarchists, because they’re indiscriminate and anarchists have a problem with good and bad. I’m not an anarchist. Anarchists have never much liked me for the fact that, in their Marxian eyes, as a shopkeeper, I am a ‘capitalist,’ and not interested in destroying anything, and wouldn’t give them shelf-space in the mean time for their printed tripe advocating my own destruction. Besides, I’m a little bit clumsy. I could blow myself up. Anyway, I do believe in a little government. But mostly just self-government.

In the mean time, what I wanted was to talk with my friend George Reilly. If he was a revolutionary, he might have some pointers.

That was the nub if it.

Over the years, George and I have spoken about almost everything, from automobiles and food, to politics and women. I must have a clue to the man’s whereabouts in my head from all of that.

I know he likes pick-up trucks, but he likes Chevrolets and I’ve always preferred Fords. We’ve spent a couple of hours hammering the fenders on that. He likes camping. But he goes to the Adirondacks and I have always gone to New Hampshire and Maine. He likes to fish as well, though it seems he actually catches something. And he likes a good hamburger and a fine hotdog. But so do I. And I know he listens to classical music. In fact, the very last conversation we had, just a couple of weeks before, was about that great but neglected composer, Wilhelm Stenhammar. Before that it was about another, Joachim Raff. There are no good biographies of either man in English and he was looking for one. I know, for instance, that he is a big fan of H. L. Mencken. He had likely bought all of Mencken’s work at the shop in recent years, and several old issues of The American Mercury, but that just made George a skeptic, same as me. And we had talked a deal about the philosopher Richard Mitchell. We were both very fond of Mitchell’s last book, A Gift of Fire. It’s loaded with quote worthy moments. In fact, that was the real problem—excepting the matter of trucks, we agreed on most things. Our conversations were never really very long because we usually took the same sides.

However, I knew he wasn’t married. A previous attempt had failed, it seems. Yet another commonality. But he had no children. And that bit had come up. Along with the fact that he wished he had a family. He had expressed the belief, more than once, that he’d missed out on that and that I should consider myself fortunate in that regard. Which I do. I’d told him then in response that he should get busy. He still had time so long as the equipment still worked.

My guess is that George could not be over fifty.

But I did not know what he actually did for a living. That was a most important detail.

He must have dodged telling me this, or else it would have come up. I know he liked a bit of carpentry because he was appreciative of the shelves I’ve built for the shop through the years. But that was it, and I hadn’t pressed the matter. At least a couple of times I remember him steering away from the subject. I know I was always curious, of course. But something had kept me from pursuing the topic any further—perhaps a subconscious appreciation of the mysterious, or likely just a fear that he might turn out to be a hedge-fund manager, or mid-level bureaucrat, or worse—a lawyer. I’ve lost all respect for people for less.

Wasn’t one of my regular rants how we knew far too much about each other? Too much information was killing all chance of personal dignity. Privacy was the key to civilization, wasn’t it? Truly? Civilization was likely only born when the parents got their own room in the cave.

But I needed to talk with George.

What days did he usually come in the shop? Weekdays, wasn’t it? So that would mean that perhaps his job was not in an office. Or that he worked at night.

I had not noticed anything in his voice, other than a little bit of Texas, but then that was not a distinctive characteristic by itself. Texans are everywhere.

His approximate age, height, weight, complexion, and hair color, were all things the FBI had asked for. I had been as vague as I could. Brown hair. Grey eyes. Caucasian. About six feet tall. About forty years old. Approximately. Even if that covered about 25% of our customers, I now regretted even that. But at first I had been concerned about appearing to obfuscate or deliberately mislead. I shouldn’t have. I had not told them about Texas, or about our mutual appreciation for pick-up trucks, hot dogs, H. L. Mencken, Richard Mitchell, Wilhelm Stenhammar, or Joachim Raff. And I had not told them that I knew George was no longer married, whatever that information was worth. But then, it seems to me that marriage does not appear to be worth all that much these days anyway.

I had also not told them that George usually showed up about every two weeks.

Now, however, I was concerned about this, for his sake as well as my own desire to speak with him. I am sure this was partly out of guilt. Even my vague description of the man now felt like a betrayal. But I didn’t know how little they had on him then. I wasn’t prepared for the Great Game.

What if the FBI were keeping watch on the shop?

I had no way to warn him.

However, I was also aware that he did sometimes check the store website to see what new titles had come in. So maybe that was the way to do it.

So I ask Ardis, “How would you start a revolution?”

She looks startled and a little confused. We were at the front counter and she suddenly shifted away from me as if I’d raised my hand to her. But I had said this softly because I didn’t want anyone else in the store to hear.

She says, “What do you mean?”

I explain, the best I can. I wasn’t sure myself just what I was talking about. “If you wanted to start a revolution, what would you do first?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you know just about everything that I don’t. I don’t know how to start a revolution. I know a lot about being difficult. Rebellious, even. And I’m not talking avant-garde here. You know I think that’s phony pretentious bullshit. But I’m looking into over-turning the social order. Busting up the cartel of special interests. Shedding light on the Deep State. Interrupting the Force. Destroying the Death Star. Punctuating the Continuum.”

She took the opportunity to help a customer and left me at the register with my own thoughts.

When she came back, she seemed to have regained her usual equilibrium.

“The Feds have given you ideas.”

“Yeah. If they are going to screw around with me, I want to turn it back on them.”

She gets a look on her face like my mother used to do.

“You have more to lose. Actually, You have everything to lose, and they can’t lose. Anything you can do against them only makes them stronger. Like that mythical beast.”

“The Hydra?”

“No! The one in your book. The one that steals your energy and grows stronger the more you struggle against it.”

“The Empyre!”

Now, she was talking my language. Actually, that was my language. That was a monster I had first conjured out of encounters with rude customers. The book was twenty years old but I often recalled it now when someone engaged in futile retribution. If some customer was rude, you gained nothing by being rude in return and were likely to put off anyone else within earshot. That sort always know this, instinctively. That’s why they do it. You shouldn’t embolden them. ‘Assholes are never discouraged by the stink.’ was another of my favorites.

“You can’t fight them and you shouldn’t join them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled.

But she did not give me an answer.







And I don’t know Jack

But Pyrrho was not a maniac!




Now, Benny and Jack are similar in different ways. They don’t look much alike, but you see it in the way they act. Jack is the older by seven years, though he doesn’t look his age. He gets a kid’s look of mischief on his face sometimes, and I can only guess what he’s been up to. Ben does that too, come to think of it. Ben is as pale and skinny as I was once and has the full head of brown-dark hair I used to have, but thankfully he got his mother’s good looks. Jack is all muscle, thicker set, broad-faced, skin the color of Benny’s hair, but the hair cut so close to his scalp, at a distance he looks bald—like a Marine, which he was, once. Ben had done his own turn in the Army.

I know Jack played football in college because he’s mentioned it. Ben was a runner and he always has a story ready to tell. Jack must be coaxed to add a subject to his verb. But they both talk too fast. I often miss tidbits of detail I wish I understood but have to keep from asking about so as not to interrupt some narrative, and then later, when I do inquire, I see the impatient turn in the eye. (I’ve noticed Ardis has slowed her speech down for me quite a bit since she’s come to work at the shop, just in an effort to communicate. But the biggest difference is that Jack will stand and listen when I dilate on one thing or another. And Ardis often will, as well. It’s a strange thing and took some getting used to. None of my own kids ever seemed as willing to hear me out. Not Benny, or the girls. Though they often complain that they’ve had heard it all before.

Actually, soon after Ardis started work at the shop, that is six or seven years ago, I had to begin editing myself in this regard, otherwise no work would ever get done. The attraction of a willing listener is great and I imagine there is some heaven where a person can talk to their heart’s content about whatever is on their minds and always have an attentive audience, but I really don’t know how that would work. Who are the poor schnorrers and schlubs that would always be there to listen? You really don’t want to talk to schlubs, in any case. You want someone with a glint in their eye and something to add and argue. This is a conundrum that I hope to settle one day—but not too soon.

The fact is, I still pay Jack ‘under the table.’ This is just one of those transgressions on the presumed authority of government that I am sure they can lock me up for. If they find it out. But that’s what works for both of us. I could not afford the hourly rates charged by the professional computer geeks who have to pad their income in order to cover withholding taxes, social security, mandatory health insurance and all the rest. And Jack is one of those folks who live ‘below the radar’ in any case. So what he does in that regard is not my business. Avoiding government oversight is an admirable thing in my book. (Actually in several of my books.) And he seems to have quiet a number of other clients who are willing to help him in this effort to remain anonymous.

I should add that Jack says he is doing fine living on-the-cuff, or off-the-books, but you wouldn’t know it by his clothes. He shops at the Morgan Memorial thrift store. Whenever he’s wearing an article of clothing that looks particularly decent I know that Ardis has given him a gift.

When we closed up on Saturday evening, I told Ardis that I needed to speak with Jack and she gave me a long look back. I suppose it was in the tone of my voice. She’s worried I’m still thinking about revolution, so I told her why.

“I’m worried that George is going to come in here and find himself surrounded by the Gestapo.”

She laughed at me. I was a ‘worrywart,’ she said.

I excused myself by saying, “That’s just what happens when you have kids. You have to learn to anticipate disaster to ward it off.” I also said, “Your day will come.”

She lost her laugh pretty quick then. I suspect there may be some conflict between herself and Jack in his regard and this worries me a little. She would make a good mom. But I think Jack is wary of commitments. And perhaps the overhead.

Nevertheless, Jack showed up the next morning. The shop is closed most of Sunday mornings but he knows the signal at the window and caught me while I was writing up some notes at the counter. He clearly thought my worry was very humorous as well, though he kept his comments to himself.

Please understand, Jack Holt does not read. Not books of a physical nature in any case. And as I’ve said, he’s not glib. He will easily become tongue-tied with an explanation for what he’s doing. But his fingers don’t have such entanglements. He sits in front of the monitor with the mouse covered with one large mitt and riffles through those virtual pages so fast I can’t read the heading on one before he’s onto another. And because he often walks Ardis to work and will then hang around for a short while to check on one thing or another at the computer, I see him at this process often enough that I seldom try to figure out what he’s doing anymore. As long as it all works, I’m good. I talk to him as he’s clicking away.

In the darkened store, Sunday morning, his face is blue-grey with the light of the screen—afloat in the ether like the visage of the great Wizard when first seen by Dorothy and her buddies at Oz.

I say, “Ardis probably told you what they asked for. We can only guess what they really want. Is there a way to be sure they can’t get it from us? Whatever ‘it’ is?”

Without turning, Jack says, “Sure,” in the exact same manner some say, ‘no problem’ these days—only he seldom uses that other expression.

I told him, “George never contacts us by email. Not that I can remember, anyway. He just comes in.”

“Right,” Jack says. This is another of his common usages.

I add, “But I need to warn George not too come in. He needs to stay away, at least for a while.”

Jack had the best idea about that right out of the box. “Just make a public announcement on the website. You don’t need me for that. Tell your customers what’s happened with the FBI. Express your outrage. You told me George usually looks at the store website to check on authors and new stock before he comes in. If he has a problem with the authorities, he’ll get the idea. But it’s important to make it a general announcement. Then the Feds can’t say after the fact that you were only trying to warn him away.”

This was just another version of what Ardis had suggested, and I figured they must have talked the matter over between themselves. I have resisted ‘blogging’ since the first day I heard the word. It has an ugly sound to my ear. However, I love simple solutions. And more importantly, I now had a new business plan. And one that involved writing. My revolution was begun. The game was afoot, and I had to make good on it.

By that afternoon, I’d posted a rather complete accounting of the whole incident beginning at the top of the front page of the shop website. A little wordy, perhaps, but the key information was there. (Another note is in order: Much of the account you are reading now is a rewriting of that same blog, and thus it occurs to me once again that writing something like a blog can be as addictive as any other form of talking about oneself. Yet another sloppy manifestation of solipsism. Just one more variety of vain cocaine in our self-addicted age. And I can see now that I am apparently no better than the rest.)

The blog post I wrote Sunday related the simple facts about what had happened. The police raid. My temporary incarceration. But I could not keep myself from a more typical rant: ‘I am wholly embarrassed by the political class that I have raised by my own efforts in the voting booth. Their stupidity and malicious intent has only been magnified now by my own foolishness. Perhaps it was not my fault alone, but I was a part of the doing. I have repeatedly voted for the lesser of two evils and gotten exactly what I deserved as a consequence. Evil none the less.’

Monday morning was quiet—as if my verbal Molotov cocktail had completely missed its mark, or sputtered in a puddle of internet mud.

Jack could not go along with me for assistance, but I had a used book-buy out in Needham in the afternoon at two o’clock, and this should have only taken a couple of hours, max. However, I wasn’t back in the shop until after five because I was delayed there by the customer and then got caught in the pre-rush hour commute of government and semi-government workers who leave early ‘to avoid the traffic.’ The woman in Needham who sold me the books had read the papers and wanted to know all about my run-in with the authorities and then had to be reassured that I was not a felon—not yet anyway—and that my check was good. Actually, she seemed intrigued with the idea that I might be dangerous and this disturbed me more than the imprisonment of traffic afterward.

And when, at last, I got back, George Reilly is right there in the philosophy section waiting for me. He’s not wearing a false mustache or a fedora or anything else to hide his identity, and looks just like his usual self.

I immediately ushered George into the back room and there he tells me right off, “Don’t worry. Like I told Ardis, they have no idea what I look like.”

He’d indeed seen my account of our travails on the website and I had guessed correctly he’d been headed in our direction that very day.

Still, I’m worried. “How can you be sure they won’t spot you?”

He says, “For one thing, George Reilly isn’t my real name.”

This had occurred to me before. I say, “Tell me you’re not an anarchist looking to blow up innocent children.”

He says, “Not even the guilty ones.”

“Good. What about the email they showed me?”

“They took that from a virtual acquaintance.” He gave me a guilty smile for his indulgence. “I’d written her and mentioned a few of the books you sold me a few weeks ago. I shouldn’t have referred to you as ‘The keeper.’ My mistake. But you know I was pretty taken with that story of yours when I first read it on your website. It fits you too well.”

“Can they get your real name from her?”

“No. She was—” he gestured at the air for words and put on a phony French accent, “How you American’s say, a mistake. I’ve always been a sucker for French accents. Even virtual ones. I should have known sooner that she was not the real thing. It never got far enough for her to learn anything.”

“She can identify you.”

George shakes that off. “No. We never met. No face-time. It was just an on-line fling. Theoretically she lives somewhere near the Seine in Paris. More likely she’s closer to the Potomac. I got wise before it went too far.”

“She has your e-mail?”

He holds a hand up to quiet the thought. “The contact was through the ‘dark web.’ Virtually untraceable, as they say. Seems like most of the people you find there are cops anyway. It’s what I’ve taken to calling the “amber web” because it catches flies. When you’re a single guy but can’t get around easily, you do what you can. And she sounded interesting. I’ve kind’a always wanted to have someone I could say something to, like, ‘we’ll always have Paris.’ Whoever it was that I was chatting with, at least she has a sense of humor and a little knowledge of literature and philosophy. She kept me interested.”

I want him to understand that I wanted to know more about all this. “Why do they give a damn what you’re reading?”

His voice calms. “I suppose it’s in the nature of any bureaucracy—the collection of data, I mean. It’s all they have by way of reality. The data. But adding any context is way out of their league.”

George, by any other name, has a very calm demeanor. The steady tone of voice reminds me of airline pilots and I only recalled then that he had told me once early on in our acquaintance that he liked to fly more than anything else, but this had become an expensive habit now that he was no longer employed by an airline. Now, if at one time he’d been with an airline, it was likely he’d once upon a time been a pilot in the military. Most of them were. If either of those things were true, the FBI had his fingerprints at least in triplicate.

I just said, “They’ll have your military records.”

He shrugged. “True. But they’ll need to know my real name to track those. They have no other source of fingerprints. At least, I don’t think so.”

Then I said something aloud that made me rethink all this yet again when I thought it over later on.

I said, “Good.”

George gave me a wry smile for that. I guess because I was so obviously on his side in this subterfuge.

At that instant the buzzer rang. When the buzzer rings at the back it means there is someone in the shop to see me. And this just might be the pesty Mr. Clifford.

George reads my eyes. He says, “I’ll stay here a minute. Ring the buzzer again when it’s clear—But say, can I look in those boxes you just brought in? I’d love to look at your new stock.”

As it turned out, the buzzer was to alert me to the entrance of Deirdre. She had stopped by to say she was on her way to Massachusetts General Hospital to see a police officer who’d been stabbed the day before. This incident had happened over in a stretch of what’s left of the West End, near by Boston Garden. She announces her intention, rather presumptively perhaps, that afterward she’s free for dinner. Ardis rolls her eyes in contempt. I told Deirdre that I was just showing a customer some new stock in the back but I’d be free by then.

When I got to the back room again, George was gone. He must have used the rear door.


Later, after Deirdre returned from interviewing the wounded cop, she was in a sterner mood. Argumentative.

The gist of this was, “What’s so bad about the government? It protects us. It protects you, for Christ’s sake!”

I suspect her conversation with the officer had sobered her a little. Revolution seemed less like a lark when pitched against the common mayhem of everyday urban meanness, especially after looking into the face of some young cop who was just doing his job. And I was fairly certain by the time we were sitting down in the restaurant that she’d already decided to be more aggressive. To provoke me you might say. Perhaps get me to reveal something more, or say something I might regret. At least to pick up some morsels for her follow-up story that I might drop inadvertently in the process of defending myself.

I answered her first question, “Certainly not for Christ’s sake. Government and religion make poor bedfellows. They both want to be on top. The offspring are nasty and intolerant. For its own sake, what’s wrong with government is a very high cost to benefit ratio. The higher the cost, the lower the benefit.”

In the car she had said a little about her hospital interview. Now I asked her a couple of questions about that in an effort to change the subject. But she was reluctant to offer more. She turned the conversation back.

Sitting with the menu propped in front of her on the table as a sort of fence-guard she says. “Are you one of those people who are always complaining about the taxes? Taxes are higher in France, in Britain, in Germany, in Japan—everywhere!”

This seemed an odd factoid, probably gathered from a scan of the New York Times or some other unreliable source.

I say, “I see that in the press a lot, It’s not actually true, but I don’t have all those figures at the tip of my tongue, so I won’t argue the point with you. There are a thousand and one reasons why I consider this regime a tyranny, without ever getting to the taxes levied without representation.”

“Like what?’

Given her salvo about taxes, I needed something she would not expect. I grabbed at a morsel I’d been studying just the night before. “Like the lame-duck Congress.”

The menu falls and Deirdre’s eyes are suddenly wide with exaggeration. “The what!”

I try to apply the calming voice of a Mr. Reilly. “The lame-duck Congress.”

“Are you joking?”

“No, I’m not joking.” I was, in a way, though the image of a lame duck was a pitiful one, but now that the idea had occurred to me, I had to play it out. “Two hundred years ago they figured it might take a couple of months for a newly elected politician to get to Washington by horse, so they gave him a little time for the journey. Now, it the jet age, the politicians use the time after elections to load their larders. If the party that’s been in power is voted out, they use the time before they have to leave to pass all the laws they would never have the nerve to pass before the election. And they pardon every criminal they might be able to use for payoffs during their retirement. More mischief is done in the weeks of a lame duck Congress than in the two years previous—and its done brazenly, because the news media just write it off like it’s only what’s expected. Yet another complicity between the fourth estate and the others.”

Her silence was likely because she couldn’t believe it. But I was pleased with myself.

She finally manages, “But they both do it!”

I say, “And that moral relativism is an excuse? But tell me, why should such obvious graft and greed and fraud and bribery be expected from any government, no matter the party in power? Why should we continue to show respect them? In Britain the party that looses is out the door the next morning, before they have time to steal the silverware.”

Deirdre’s menu is down flat now, “You’re nuts. Is that truly your complaint? That politicians are all thieves? I think you need to grow up!”

I thought this was a little rude. Too cynical by half. I tried to ignore it. I wanted her to be better than that. But a waiter stood by with pad in hand. We ordered.

With the waiter gone, I unloaded. “Like I said before, there’re a thousand and one reasons. I was just giving you an example. Speaking of thousands, how about the fact that they pass unreadable omnibus bills, a thousand plus-pages, filled with regulations and pork that no one can scrutinize beforehand. The politicians have no idea about the consequences of the laws they enact. They can’t have. Not if they haven’t even read the damn bills! And then enforcement is left to unelected bureaucrats and their departmental police. Like the EPA Criminal Investigation Division! A common citizen of this country is found guilty if he breaks the law. Ignorance of the law, they say, is no excuse, no matter how many millions of pages it is. But not so for the President, or the Congress. There’s no possible way to know what the law governing any one thing is anymore. Not in a lifetime of reading. That’s insane!”

Deirdre has a glass of white wine in hand now and I have my beer. She proceeds to explain, “It’s a more complicated world than that. More complicated than it used to be. And anyway, simple solutions to problems, like racism, aren’t good enough.”

These are the sorts of excuses that have excuses.

I say, “That problem is simple, and so is the solution. Treat everyone the way you’d want to be treated yourself.”

This brought a silence that I took to be a change of gears. Then she asks, “So, are there any Nazis in this virtual republic of yours?”

This was a surprise turn. “Yes! Of course. But you’re wrong about one thing. The Republic of Books is not virtual. It’s real. The people are real, so the Republic is too. It’s not some sort of computer game.”

“But it has no borders, you say.”

“Nothing you can see on a map.”

“That sounds like semantics to me.”

“I think you’re misusing the word ‘semantics.’ This is not a verbal matter any more than it is ‘virtual.’ It exists if you want it to. That’s all.”

Deirdre gets an exaggerated look of practiced skepticism, “That’s like Peter Pan telling Wendy she can fly.”

I continue trying to keep as calm as Mr. Reilly. “No, but you can fly! Just buy a ticket at Logan! If you need a map, I could go stand on a copy of your newspaper and draw a line around my feet, I suppose.”

“What good is this republic then, if you have Nazis?”

I hold a finger up. “Only these are Nazis that read!”

“But they’re not going to respect the ideals of your republic!”

“No? Then they aren’t there. Like I said, you’re a citizen if you want to be, but only if you want that. Nobody is forcing you to do anything. It’s not like you have to read Moby Dick to be pass the test. But if you think you have the right to tell someone else that they have to read Moby Dick, well then, you just aren’t there yet.”

She takes a breath and then a bite and then another breath.

She’s got a frown going on. “How did you get this idea for a Republic of Books?”

I shrugged the best I could. I had no clear idea of that. I had just dreamt it up one day. I suppose for lack of anything better to do. But I couldn’t say that. Writers spend a lot of time dreaming stuff up that they never write down, and then quickly forget about.

“Originally it was just a name for the shop. Just what I told the FBI. But then it became something more. That took almost twenty years, I guess. I’m a little slow, sometimes. And then it just hit me in the middle of the night. That was a year or two before September 11th. I’d read something about the Falun Gong and their resistance to the government of the Communist Chinese. That made some sense to me. Government in the United States had become too large to control just by using an electoral process that was originally put in place two hundred years ago by the founders. In the electronic age, political power and corporate interests had taken over because they were faster to react to opportunities. The primary purpose of the government now is the preservation of itself and to promote those who supported it—maybe that’s what it always was, but it moves a lot faster these days. It’s not all that much better than what the Chicoms do except for a few dying traditions of the old Republic, like freedom of speech and freedom of the press. The Falun Gong seemed to offer some alternatives.”

“They failed.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to copy them. I just think they had some good ideas.”

Deidre pushed her salad around on the plate. Then, maybe to change the subject a little, and because it was on her mind, she again mentions the injured cop she had just spoken to. He had been stabbed in front of a convenience store on Causeway Street while trying to stop a robbery. He was white. The robber was black. But because the robber hadn’t used a gun, the cop had not immediately drawn his own weapon. This turned out to be a mistake. The cop had admitted to her that he was worried about using his gun because he’d just been cautioned against this very thing by his superiors—not to use his gun unless it was absolutely necessary, . . . and especially so if the suspect was a ‘minority.’ There was already a lot of tension between the Police and the Afro-American community. ‘Black lives matter’ was the chant. This last item was an inexcusably racist idea to me that had already gone septic. How could any citizen’s life matter more than another? But the result of this incident was that a cop was stabbed and in critical condition for the previous twenty-four hours, tensions had increased anyway, and the robber was still loose to continue his habits. And clearly, the worse part of that was that the bad guy was free and would soon be hurting someone else; maybe even killing someone else, for a few more bucks. Very probably the someone else would also black.

So say, “But isn’t that all part of the same race industry that’s been created by a government trying the legislate prejudice instead of just dealing with bigotry under the law. We are all equal under the law. Or should be. But in reality we’re not all truly equal, are we? You’re prettier than I am, just for an instance. I’m definitely prejudiced on that point. Now, according to some, if you’re black, you’re somehow more or less guilty for committing the same crime as a white person. Aren’t you concerned about that?”

She has not finished her appetizer by then and the dinner was being served. This is very touchy territory, and she’s clearly aware of it. Talking about race is like talking about abortion—verboten in our age of only pseudo free speech.

Out of the blue she tries another direction, “Why do you think that all the politicians are trying to screw you if you also believe they’re just in it for their own benefit. How does screwing you benefit them?”

A reporter is like a Jesuit, only without the logic. They’ll answer a question with a question. Lawyers do the same thing, as a matter of fact. Margaret always did that to me. She should have been a lawyer. She’d save a fortune on her real estate dealings.

I answer, “Answering a question with a question is cute but it’s avoiding the issue. The answer to your question is, because I’m one of those citizens who’re being screwed every day by all of their bullshit laws and I’m speaking up about it. They’re trying to cheat me out of a fair hearing. They’re using up my time, and I have less and less of that coming to me. And worse, they’re using my own tax money to pay for it!”

Now she gets a patronizing tone to her voice. “Michael. The system is big and cumbersome, but people are better off now than they were a hundred years ago. You have to admit that. Most especially minorities.”

I’d ordered fried shrimp. I’m a fried shrimp addict. I could not take any more time to discuss these weighty matters without sustenance, so I began to eat. She took the hint and started in on her filet of sole. But as I did this, the difference in our menu choices had me thinking about the food I’d eaten at the FBI office. Food had a lot to say about some things. I had a cute analogy in mind. In our time, weren’t all our souls filleted? Or at least in danger of it? However, I didn’t say that because I couldn’t figure a way to work it in without it sounding like an insult to her.

I said, “Most of those people you say are ‘better off,’ at least the minorities you’re talking about, are better off because of invention and technology, not government. There’s as much real poverty today in this country as there was when President Johnson declared a ‘war’ on it, a few trillion dollars ago. That’s yet another war we’ve lost as a nation. A lot of white billionaires are living large off that, you’ve got to admit. Welfare disguises it, but it hasn’t changed the nature of it. Not in the same way the technology has. But it has moved a whole lot of tax money into the coffers of lobbyists from McDonalds and Pepsi Cola and to the television networks that collect exorbitant sums for advertising on what is essentially a concession within another government monopoly. Watching TV all day, even Opera, is not the same as doing something for a living, even if it keeps people off the street. Do you think that’s an accident? By the numbers, after fifty years, at least twenty percent of the population is still kept in thrall with poor schools and a lack jobs, while they watch game shows and reality TV and gamble large portions of their welfare checks on government-run lotteries. Generation after generation.”

Deirdre picks at her plate.

She finally says, “So you’re just looking at it from the perspective of a business man. You sound just like any other Republican unhappy with the Democrats. But both parties do the same stuff. They’ve both had their time in power and they all do the same thing.”

This sounded to me more like the sort of moral equivalence argument I might hear in a bar, only with milder language.

“That’s just another lazy simplification by someone avoiding the facts, but I’ll remind you I’m neither Republican nor Democrat.”

I saw the look on her face then. It was clearly one thing for her to be belligerent, but another matter for me.

“So you call yourself an ‘Independent.’ Does that somehow make you innocent?”

“No. I’m not independent! That’s a category for people who don’t want to take the responsibility, or the blame, for voting for their own prejudices. No! And before you go there, I’m not a large ‘L’ libertarian either. They’re insane about their own pet issues. It seems to be more important for them to be able to smoke pot than take responsibility for defending the nation or even recognize the needs for a nation to exist. I lost any illusions about them after 9/11. But I suppose if you want a pigeonhole, you’ll have to label me a libertarian with the little ‘l.’ It’s the closest category on the short list.”

She takes a deep breath of patience. She’s not getting the response she wants.

“I thought you wanted to overthrow the government.”

“Yes. The government. But not the nation.”

“That sounds like you want your cake and eat it to.”

“And that’s a silly comparison. I’m eating fried shrimp and I’m trying to speak with you seriously about my big ideas—at least the things that are important to me—and you keep throwing out stuff like that. But here are a couple of examples that might get through that thick hide of cynicism, just maybe, because they very likely step on your own toes.” (I could only hope the mix of metaphors was not too toxic.) “What about the fact that the government has taken over responsibility for your health. Your doctor’s opinions have to fit a government mandated formula, dreamed up by a bureaucrat for their own convenience not yours or the doctors. And paperwork! Bureaucrats love paperwork. If the doctor doesn’t fill out the right paperwork he doesn’t get paid! And one of those assistant bureaucrats is deciding whether you get a mammogram or not. Another is determining what sort of flu vaccine is dispensed this year. And a few select insurance companies are getting richer getting paid to fulfill the government priorities. If you get breast cancer, a committee of assistant bureaucrats will decide what treatment you get. But don’t worry. They all went to State run colleges, so they know the drill. They know how the system works.” Deirdre is very still through all this rant and just looking at her plate now, but I wasn’t half finished with what I wanted her to understand. “And what about medical privacy? Because of all those laws they’ve passed to control medical costs, you no longer have a right to medical privacy. Not from the government! Do you realize if your father had a stroke and you wanted to know about his health, you couldn’t get that information unless he gave the okay—but unfortunately he’s had a stroke and he just can’t say. However, there are at least thirty or forty agencies of the United States Government that have total access to his medical records, and yours, and mine, including the Department of Defense, the National Security Agency, the Department of Agriculture, Federal Trade Commission, The Department of the Treasury, and any one of a hundred sub departments for each one of those, and all the bureaucrats who work there, and their assistants, and their friends and relatives—and any reporter who has an inside track with them, as well as any politician with their own motives. That frigging health care law gives them the right to tell you what to eat, how much, when, where, and with whom. Really! How do you like them apples!”

She’d let go of her fork at that point and I was happy for it given the look on her face. I took a breath and waited to see if she’d answer, and when she didn’t, I kept at it because I was worked up now and I’d already said way too much (more than the way too much I’d already said).

“Now, imagine if you’re another politico who’s running for office because you want your share of the pie, and you’re not happy with all that healthcare nonsense. You’re going to be very careful about what you say if you have something in your medical record you don’t want known. Maybe you had a bout with depression once, or maybe you’re anti-abortion now but you had an abortion yourself when you were a teenager. That’s information is now in the hands of your political enemies. Say you’re a judge on the Supreme Court, and you committed some indiscretion that’s well behind you. Say—what is it?”

She had a cold stare going on then that was rather chilling. I could only wonder what the toe was that I‘d stumbled on. I really didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, as far as I was concerned right then, she should have had all of these thoughts long ago.

But she still didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if this was only a matter of keeping her temper or something else. So I left it at that. I had said enough. I finished my shrimp. She did not finish her filet of sole. We paid separately.

The restaurant was just over in Cambridge, so I walked alone across the river. This was more than enough time for me to cool down. And to regret my temper.


Yet, the dinner debacle did not concern me so much. My thought after that was about another topic entirely. Now it was on my mind again that I did not have a lawyer.

I did, however, have an accountant. David Brooks.

This small fact was made even more important to me because the day’s mail was still waiting for me when I got back to the shop. The pile included the usual overdue bills as well as a registered letter from the IRS asking me to arrange for an appointment with a Mr. Morris as soon as possible. I was instructed me to bring all my sales and other financial records covering the last three years to the Kennedy building at Government Center. If I did not contact them within 48 hours to make these arrangements they would act accordingly.

What did ‘accordingly’ mean?

The appropriateness of their office being so near to the FBI was not lost on me. So, I called David.

David Brooks never answers his phone. This is actually one of the things I admire about him. The phone is in his pocket, but nothing is so urgent in his world that it requires him to interrupt whatever he’s doing (usually a round of golf, though it was a little late in the day for that). The digital voice tells me he’ll call me back.

I was in the middle of helping a customer just before closing when this eventuality occurred and I interrupted that to take the call. I read the letter to him. He grunted. He asked for the name of Mr. Morris and the number. Then he asked me when he could come over to pick up the current records. (He has copies of everything previous to this year going back to 2006, which was the year he took my case over from my old accountant, Stanley. Stanley wisely stuck with Margaret during the divorce. Her financial shenanigans with real estate have certainly provided him with many more lucrative billings hours.)

David bills me at $50 an hour, which is his ‘charity case’ rate. This is because he likes books and coming over to get the records rather than sending his assistant or waiting on the mail is an excuse to spend some time browsing. But he never loses an opportunity during a visit to remind me that I’m a poor businessman and he could not get off the line without reminding me of that once again.

“Michael,” David says my name like my mother and Margaret always did, “This is about the stuff I read in the papers. That’s what this is. You know that, don’t you? You’re being audited as a punishment for being foolhardy. If you didn’t always have to open your big mouth and stick your tongue out at the cat, they’d leave you alone. Now you need a lawyer. I’ll speak to a friend of mine, Marty Guinn.”

I was not in the mood for another argument. I just said, “Maybe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The gas was out of the bag. I was deflated at last.








A note on the little I have learned

And that a man might be an island after all



When I have complained out-load of our difficulties in the past, those individuals who have worked for me through the years have often expressed the thought that I had it pretty good. Not everyone can have their own bookshop! And this was true enough. For a time. I had indeed found my small paradise in the midst of the darkening city. I had made my shelved Shangri-la. I had built my xenophile Xanadu for all seasons. My edifying Eden in the East. But my protest to this was always much the same. I was not innocent of either the virtues or the faults of our bookshop. It was not near to being perfect. My complaint was only for the mistakes I have made, not the small triumphs. Importantly, I believe it was the contrast with the world outside that made it seem better than it was. For much of my time I had simply obeyed the current of the stream. However, my personal wish was always for something quieter. Something smaller still. Something off the beaten path. I did not care about being in the Athens of America so much as being able to care for the books in this pretended agora of ideas—and write my own, of course!

I had some reason a few years ago to think about Eden and man’s lost innocence and whatever is the cause of this that we can know. And all that thinking was the making of another book, a novella really, one of the several that are now lost in the ether file because there is no market in this world for that sort of thing. But let me tell you a little about that one.

I once knew a fellow, I’d called him Ethan in the story, who had grown up on the coast of Maine and for much of his youth and early manhood had lived on one of the larger islands there. He was a good fellow, bright, friendly, strong and handsome and naturally charming in his ways. Because employment on the island was limited, Ethan took any job that was offered but more often than not he could be found painting one of the hundred summer homes that city dwellers kept there to have in order to enjoy their own taste of Eden each year, or else rent out to other fortunate families who could afford the price of admission for a week or two in season. But Ethan was also handy with carpentry, plumbing and electrical matters, all things he had learned early in life at the knee of a father, or uncle. Thus, his place in life was set for him like a place at the dinner table.

Now Islanders might be surprised to learn that they had been living in Eden all this time, while struggling to take care of themselves and their families in that distant place, but as I came to understand from small vignettes and incidental tales, this island was, for all intents and purposes, as close to Eden as any of us are likely to get. Even the harsh and damp winter months took on a glow in my head, with the description of driftwood fires and banshee winds, and families gathered close in the kitchen around ample food from steaming pots and a large and cracking iron stove that had once served the purposes of a small hotel there—lobster and potatoes, baked apples and corn bread, all hot from the oven, along with pies and puddings, and anything else that might be fried in the bacon grease. In the spring of every year the houses of the summer folk were made ready for, and in the fall, each had to be battened and drained. But I was always most enchanted by his descriptions of winter—the desolate Wyeth-like beauty appealed to me I suppose.

This was a place blessed by freshly made airs and newly minted suns, where the wind spoke in the languages of Babel and sang from the eaves in most weather, and the grass patterned itself in weaves to clothe the earth, frost grew in beards on bald rock, buoys muttered through brothy fogs and seagulls boasted too loudly of their prerogatives.

Unlike the original Eden, there was no high and mighty to dictate the rules. There was a father to set example and a mother to please, uncles to entertain and aunts to avoid (because they always had a chore in mind), but on the whole, Ethan did what he wanted.

And too there was no librarian at the twelve-by-twenty shack, set back on a hillock of grass and thistle and goldenrod, that served as the public library to the island but was well stocked with the abandoned volumes of the summer visitors and the donations of the families that lived on the island year round. This became Ethan’s refuge from needy aunts as well as his daily break from the smell of paint or backed-up plumbing. Few other people came to take advantage of the shelves of books, because there was sailing to do, and tennis, fishing, shopping on the mainland, and other things more important.

A little scrap wood and a few pieces of coal and the one room of the library became toasty in any weather. He even knew how to get the toilet running because he had worked on that himself. In winter, Ethan lay in the sun filled squares made by the window panes on the floor. In summer, he pushed the window open by the bench at the wall and lay there in the constant breath of sweet and salted grass. He read War and Peace and Peyton Place and the Count of Monte Christo and The Stand. The longer the better. Short books were a cheat to him and hardly a chance to enter some other world before it was over. Les Miserables was his favorite. Great Expectations the second. His own instincts tended him toward the classics, but other impulses often egged him to the literary side-roads. Because these were so often left by the summer visitors, he also read the more interesting parts of the ‘bodice-rippers.’

Often, especially in the summer, he would stay up at the library in the bright of the evenings and wish while he read that a girl might come up the path and through the door who also dreamt of things beyond the shores of their own experience.

The one room school house was still in use at this time, not so long ago, before the children of the island were forced to ferry each day, back and forth to the mainland, and the harsh realities of a municipal education. The advantage to this was that his teacher, Miss Henderson, knew him well and fed him extra books on the subjects Ethan loved the most. And it was this same Miss Henderson, tall and thin and wispy haired, who was Ethan’s first true love.

Luckily, she understood this and kept him at bay.

But there were several island girls who were not as shy. True, they each lost interest in Ethan’s talk of far away and long ago while they were intent themselves on the here and now. But from them he learned what he needed to know but could never ask. Soon enough though, one of the lobsterman’s sons, or the ‘too cute’ Post Office Clerk who came weekdays with deliveries, or a male member of the summer contingent, would end the affair with him and the girls would move on. And then too, each summer, among the visitors who came, there was always a girl to catch his eye as he painted a porch or fixed a light switch, and was old enough to be interested in sudden romance. It was one of these girls, in fact named Melody, who finally caused Ethen to leave his paradise.

Ethan was smart and easily passed the college entrance exams that Miss Henderson made him take. And then when that turn came, he left the Island for the wilds of Orono and the University there, which is as far from Eden as any place could be. But Melody went to school there too and beckoned.

Unfortunately, Melody was also more interested in the tune of the here and now. She was stolen from Ethan by a business major whose father ran a small chain of hardware stores.

When I first met Ethan, he had completed only two years of college and arrived in Boston in needed of work and a quick paycheck. I was cleaning out a small warehouse at the time, one of the several I kept to store my gains from auctions and estate sales, and this being years before my encounter with Jack, I hired Ethan immediately.

He was a sad fellow at this point, lost, and far from finding himself. He had tried some kinds of drugs at college and lost interest in his studies. He had had several more affairs. He was not reading so much as going to the movies and this had hardened him with a Hollywood cynicism. He had happened onto my shop by accident while looking for another address that had advertised for a handyman. I asked him if he liked books.

His answer was interesting. “What there is to like.”

“What’s your favorite?”

I was surprised when he told me he liked Victor Hugo, and I questioned this until I was sure he was not pretending.

“Have you ever read John McPhee?”

“Yes. I like most of them okay but I like the western ones about the geology and the history out there best. In Suspect Terrain is my favorite. I went out to take a look a few years ago. Pretty good.”

“Have you read Boswell.”

“I couldn’t finish his Life of Johnson, but I liked the London Journals an awful lot.”

“When can you start?”

“Right now.”

Easily one of the shortest job interviews I ever had.

Ethan seemed satisfied for awhile but it was clear he wasn’t happy. Out of curiosity or a desire to help or both I started to inquire as we moved boxes from hither to yon or he worked in the store shelving new arrivals or awaited a customer at the register. It was at that point that I got the story I have related here.

As much as I needed the man’s help, I quickly started feeling guilty for standing in the way of his return to paradise. It was clear enough to me that he did not belong in a Sodom-like Boston or any other of the many Gomorrahs he had wandered through after leaving the Island. In my own crude way I started a campaign of reminding him of what he had lost. I got him to talk about his childhood and his teacher on the island, whom I learned had moved away after the school closed and married, and about the library, and of the sweet and sour smell of salt grass, and tap of stones caught in the last play of a wave on a beach, and the small voice of an unseen lobster boat visiting the nets out in a fog, and the burst of a wave between a cleft of rock and the rainbow after, and the total stillness of a winter morning when its too cold to move a body safe beneath the bed quilts.

After a year or so, Ethan returned to the Island to reassess what he had learned and what he had lost. And it was on that very first visit that he went up to his old haunt, the library, and opened the door there to the stale odor of disuse and the dried plumbing from the toilet. He opened all the windows wide and swept the dead ladybugs and flies from the floor and properly filed all the donated books that were below the slot next to the door, and got the water running in the toilet. And after several hours he had hardly finished this when a young woman came to the door looking for something to read.

Now, this all relates very neatly to my own doxology, in that I am deeply grateful for the blessings I have received. I do not question God for his generosity. I do argue over my own stupidity and inability to enjoy the bounty. To be clear, I am not cursing the darkness, but I am looking for the candles and matches and cussing myself for not putting them back where they belong.

My friend Ethan reminds me then that only one hundred years ago there was a man who was world famous, renowned and esteemed, by the name of Charles W. Eliot. He was a personal friend to many of the great in his time. Not one in a thousand know his name today—that is, beyond the confines of Eliot Hall at Harvard, though even most Harvard graduates can’t tell you who he was. I know this because I have asked.

Charles W. Eliot was once President of Harvard College. There is much accomplishment attached to that, as you might imagine, and in his case, more, but you can look it up on your own if you are interested. My particular admiration for the man is two-fold. Firstly, that he envisioned and edited his ‘five-foot shelf of books,’ a fifty volume collection of the great written works of mankind also known as ‘The Harvard Classics.’ (Seventy volumes if you count the 20 volumes of fiction he added as an afterthought. Perhaps it was then a seven foot shelf. No matter.) I did not crack any of those volumes until long after I should have. It was the name ‘Harvard Classics’ that likely daunted me. I was happier with my Everyman’s and Modern Library editions which were smaller—pocket sized—and more accessible to my ‘land-grant’ mind. But for many of those less fortunate that the legatees of that now lost age, that set of ‘Classics’ was an un-official Harvard education. And as I came to know them and depend on their notes and arguments, I did come to appreciate them for their inherent genius and Emersonian openness to ideas, as well as their cloth covered sturdiness. I have always sold them individually in the shop, and they are still relatively common and cheap, having once been printed in the millions, and carried to the furthest reaches by buckboard, dogsled, and freighter.

But Charles W. Eliot did something even better than that! He wrote a small book. This appeared first in an issue of the Century magazine and then reprinted many times thereafter—a biography entitled John Gilley. John Gilley was a Maine farmer and fisherman with whom Eliot had become acquainted during his summers at Mount Desert Island. As it says, Gilley was a ‘True American Type.’ Born on an island and raised there to rewards of hard work and the pains of an honest life. Eliot opens his little book, only seventy odd pages, with an interesting appreciation. “To be absolutely forgotten in a few years is the common fate of mankind.” And later notes, “We live as a rule in the present and the past, and take very little thought of the future.”

“John Gilley was born February 22, 1822, at the Fish Point on Great Cranberry Island, Maine, whither his mother, who lived on Baker’s Island, had gone to be confined at the house of Mrs. Stanley, a midwife. “ And thus this brief accounting—little more than a gravestone rubbing—of an old mortality begins. But as you will learn, there is no monument for John Gilley that you might visit today, no matter that he was a great man. What Eliot makes clear is that this ‘forgotten man’ was indeed exceptional by all the standards common to our American souls though he is remembered today, indeed, only because Eliot wrote about him. And time may come, given the decay of what was once a “Harvard education,’ when Mr. Gilley is better known than Mr. Eliot. Yet, given what I know about Charles W. Eliot, I don’t think he would mind.







Slouching toward eutopia

With due respect for all those adjectives that passed this way before.




Judging people by their faults is a flawed argument, if for no other reason than that they are likely to have so many more of those then virtues. It is really only in our wanting to better ourselves that we tend to exaggerate our goodness and thus further the common lot as opposed to falling back into the muck. We are generally stupid creatures with an inborn capacity for self-consciousness and critical thinking which together make it possible to choose the call of our better natures over our worse instincts. Those feminists who say all men are rapists are not wholly wrong, just specifically so. That’s why we have established social norms, invented laws, and write love poetry. Men may impress women with their capacity for self-control, grace under pressure, and a display of their own merits. Women, on the other hand, and so to speak, can easily overwhelm men by overlooking their faults and praising their virtues, along with a little jiggling.

This is the basis of philosophy, of course. The constant use of brute force must have been hard on people who just wanted to stare into the starry night, do a bit of snuggling, and then listen to the birds in the morning. Given my own physical flaws and tendency to mind-wander, I would figure myself for the cannibal’s pot pretty quick. Thus it was likely someone like myself who first came up with the idea for philosophy. The trick was in convincing a few others to go along with the ruse. My guess is, just as we are all more flawed than virtuous, there were always more of us handicapped by poor eyesight or weak knees than the more perfect specimens who got the good-looking girls. But as a group, we could overcome the brute in a charge. Thus society in a courtyard bloomed. The next bit of legerdemain was to convince the girls that a little poetry was better than rape. And that didn’t take a lot. So here we are.

I have an abiding affection for old Herbert Spencer, not for his flaws, but his virtues. In his book, The Man versus The State, which is genius, he was the first to spot the flaw in ‘Liberalism’ as it drifted from a philosophy for human liberty to an excuse for the authoritative state (for our own good, of course). He had the current situation pegged to a T almost a hundred and fifty years ago. But science had not gotten along very far at the time—still not far beyond a matter of getting hit on the head by apples and flying kites, so Mr. Spencer went off the rails here and there. He was a believer in Lamarkian foolishness, for instance. Nevertheless, his own theories of evolution, which paralleled Darwin and in some areas preceded him, were key to that opening of the window of enlightenment being more quickly appreciated. His problem was in allowing his great mind to wander into fields which he ought to have given greater study (a flaw I can appreciate). They called him a polymath, which gives you fair warning of that. However, his true calling was in the branch of philosophy that deals with politics and praxeology—human organization. Social Statics is a breathtaking work, even today, even after that ground has been mauled by many a lesser mind. Unfortunately, as a human being, he could not outrun all his faults. His personal life was less than ascetic, and that likely gave him too much time on his hands, which then lead him astray on other matters.

I bring Herbert Spencer to mind whenever I find myself sitting in an aisle on a stool with a newly received book, Man versus the State, and reading it instead of putting it on the shelf. It is further roof that even a man as smart as myself can be distracted from his greater purpose—which is, naturally, finding a greater purpose and doing something about it.

Nevertheless, Spencer understood human limitations, and it was from that perception that he drew much of his philosophy. That fact is displayed over and over, despite the charge that he is at root a positivist. He even first (to my knowledge) essayed on the compatibility of science and religion based upon our human limitations—that all we might perceive with our senses were the conclusions of reality, not the causes, and therefore deducing the ‘why’ of things was our God given birthright.


Early Tuesday morning, about eight, I’m on the computer at the front desk in the shop, trying to concentrate and finish another blog posting, and I hear the tapping at the window. Outside, Margaret’s face is catching the slant of the sunlight down Revere Street. I can see by the haze that the window needs cleaning.

When I let her in, she says, “The window needs cleaning.”

“I’ll speak to someone about it. What do you want?”

I can see that she has the Post folded in her hand. I could only guess what that was about.

She asks, “What do you know about this fellow George Reilly. I mean really?”

She had opened the door, so to speak.

“Really? Reilly is rather a righteous rogue.” She did not break a smile so I continued. “At least I know that much.”

“But how? Just by what he reads? You don’t seem to know anything else about him. I’m sure Hitler read some very nice books.”

“No. I don’t think so. Maybe a little Spengler. Marx and Nietzsche, certainly. And Heidegger. Wittgenstein. Weber. I know he liked to listen to Wagner, but I don’t think Hitler really read a lot of anyone. That sort of personality doesn’t have the patience. Their certainties are God given, and they have very nasty gods. Good, or bad, ideology too often has very little to do with actual thought. But George Reilly does not strike me as an ideologue. He likes to discuss things too much. He’s far too open to suggestions.”

I can see on that very familiar face that she hasn’t heard half of what I said. It’s a pretty face, nonetheless.

“There has to be a reason the FBI wants him.”

“I’m sure there is. More than one, probably. But given their own behavior, that much is in his favor, isn’t it? And if I have to choose between a friend and the FBI, it’s no contest. The Feds have already sold their souls for pottage.” And then, in an attempt to finish that subject off more lightly, I tried again, “But the reason George Reilly really reads is rather a riddle.”

She has not been impressed with my little onomatopoeia for many years, any more than she likes my rhymes. When I was young, I used to send her love notes in couplets of the same caliber and she thought they were cute. Now she says, “Stop it!” and drops the newspaper down on the counter with a grimace of disgust. It was folded to an inner page. “Here’s another piece by your girl friend, Miss Roberts. She seems to be very dedicated to your case.”

My hands were full just then with books to put away and I looked at the article where it lay—that is, without picking it up off the marble of the counter.

I say, “She’s not my girl friend.”

Margaret quips back, “There might be a difference of opinion on that matter then.”

What is it women see in the motives of other women? I suppose the motives of men are that much easier to judge from afar. Sex, food and beer. Maybe a good novel or a rousing symphony for respite in-between.

I read the lede aloud into the gloom of the empty shop, “‘Darker purpose may loom over FBI investigation of local bookseller’ Now, that’s a catchy headline!”

The gist of the piece was in the first few paragraphs. Margaret put her hands on her hips like she was posing for the image of patience. Just like she used to do with the kids.

I read aloud “ ‘It has frequently been protested that laws created under the aegis of the Patriot Act and meant to combat terrorism after 9/11 appear to contradict First Amendment rights to freedom of speech and freedom of the press as well as the Fourth Amendment safeguards against search and seizure.

“‘Michael McGeraughty, owner of A Republic of Books, believes any semblance of an individual’s right to privacy is the greatest loss to these rulings, as personal information is taken, used and abused by unaccountable agencies for questionable purposes, and that intimidation appears to be the government’s motive in the recent interrogation of the Boston bookseller.

“‘Ardis Cooper, assistant manager at the Charles Street shop, was also questioned by the FBI. She believes the agency is interested in anyone dissenting against recent government policy. Ms. Johnson expresses the opinion, ‘There was ample legislation already on the books that could have been used to prosecute terrorists.

“Miss Cooper adds, ‘The Patriot Act was enacted by lawmakers as a purely political maneuver, taking advantage of public panic in a time of national crisis after September 11th. It has actually created whole new measures of authority and attendant bureaucracy, at the same time as it diminishes the jurisdiction of local police and traditional law enforcement. It gathers police power in the hands of the President and the Executive branch, meanwhile enlarging the scope of government intrusion on private lives but making us no safer in the process.’”

And, with that, Herself opened the door, just as I finished the sentence. She was not even on the work schedule.

I smiled at the sunlit dish of strawberry pink and freckles on her face and said, “You’ve gotten some very nice ink here.”

Ardis shook that off, “A friend woke me up to tell me about it.”

“Did Deirdre get the quotes right?”

Ardis nodded as if reluctant to admit the fact. “Pretty much. Yes. But I was really only quoting you. Didn’t you like the way I got so many ‘P’ words in one sentence?”

Ardis gave Margaret a toothy grin of satisfaction.

Margaret was not exactly scowling, but she looked manifestly unhappy at our exchange. She says, “I’ll tell you what. You better have a lawyer! . . . You do have a lawyer, don’t you Michael?” But she can see the answer to that on my face even without sunlight, and she adds, “Oh, crap! You don’t have a lawyer, do you?”

She knew that, in any case. I never had a lawyer during the divorce either.

I said, “But I have David.”

She answers, “David is only a certified public pain in the posterior.”

I gave that a nod of recognition for the grammar and she left on that small verbal triumph.

And with the extra publicity, the day was busy once again. And this was a Tuesday, yet. Typically, the slowest day of the week!

But I did not get the chance to read the rest of the article in the Post until much later and was not as pleased with the latter part. Immediately after the quote from Ardis it said, “Douglas Evans, Special Agent at the FBI Boston Field Office, strongly disagrees with these sentiments. He states unequivocally, ‘There are people with darker motives hiding behind laws that may have become antiquated in our internet age. Our mandate is not to subvert the Constitution but safeguard it while digging those evildoers out of their spider holes and exposing them to the light of day. The safety of us all depends on that. We cannot suffer another attack like 9/11. Not on my watch!’ ”

The ‘spider-hole’ reference leaves me thinking Mr. Evans is a veteran of the war in Iraq. It was also interesting to note that in Mr. Evans’ eyes, the Constitution was secondary to technical issues.

As an answer, and amidst of the bustle of that afternoon, I wrote a fresh installment of my new blog, re-quoting Ardis quoting me. This was done in-between answering more questions from customers such as, ‘What exactly did they charge you with?’

People don’t read the newspapers very carefully, so perhaps that’s the reason reporters are so often careless. Or was it the other way around—the misinformation in newspapers had trained people to pay less attention to what was written there.

Then again, I could not assume that what I wrote on my website would be received with any greater respect, though perhaps a little more scrutiny by the FBI or whatever other alphabet soup agency was on my case.

In many ways, Margaret was responsible for all of this. That was certainly the case financially. Without her support, the shop would have failed on many occasions through the years. I was always the weak link in the chain for her. She wanted to be a multimillionaire. She wanted to be in complete control of her life. I resisted the idea of it.

Her hero was Ayn Rand. I even believe it was when she found out I had read those novels that she decided I was the one. And for a time—a short time—I let her believe I was simpatico with all of that. At least that I was not against it.

There were other occasions of sin in this regard, but the first big blowout came after a lecture we had gone to at the Ford Hall Forum in the late 1970’s. We walked home from Jordan Hall after the event, talking. Arguing. I had immediately disagreed with Miss Rand’s premise about ‘Balkanization’ being bad, and ethnicity being divisive, and the idea of race, language, and religion being the negative forces afoot in the world.

One line I argued that night is memorable because it has come up repeatedly since, especially after the Moslem attacks on the West before and after September 11th.

“She talks as if the West has some hegemony on progress. That is absurd. Most of the world has no understanding of the individual apart from the tribe, much less any desire for the kind of globalized culture she appears to want. But they’ve got the bomb now too.” In so many words.

Margaret went ballistic.

As often happened, we made love after that argument. Georgia was born nine months later to the day. Thus our own Balkanization had begun.

And it was a similar argument soon after the attacks on the World Trade Center that began the separation that ended in divorce. But I could not fail to note that we did not make love on that later occasion or very much thereafter.

Tolstoy said that ‘every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ Perhaps it’s just me, but I found the unhappy period very boring and repetitious. The happy times were good for more reasons that I can possibly recount.

But the libido is amoral.

When I first met Margaret, she had already gone to several of the Ayn Rand lectures at The Ford Hall Forum. She had read all the books. She even subscribed to the newsletter. For my part I had barely finished Atlas Shrugged. I liked The Fountainhead better, but the concept of a Galt’s Gulch fascinated me nevertheless. I had already decided it was a bad idea—hiding out in a secret valley like the ‘Hole in the Wall’ gang was certainly no smarter than Thoreau’s hiding in the woods. There was no future in it. Time passes that slowly. Everyone would be long dead before the malevolent forces of the world at large were subdued by their own self-destructive meanness. And in the mean time there was a lot to see and do in the world at large. And this too was essentially my argument to Margaret on our very first date, only hours after we met. But what I put forward then as an alternative, on that particular night, changed both our lives. For my part it was very successful. We were in bed together a few hours later. Basically, getting her into bed was all I could really think about after I first laid eyes on her. All the philosophy in the world didn’t amount to a hill of beans against that. I didn’t even have enough money to buy her dinner, having spent my last few dollars on a can of wood stain for the shelves, so she paid for that too. And I suppose, in a way, she paid for most of our dinners after that.

My charm at that point must have been that I was the first single guy she had every met who had actually read Atlas Shrugged and could talk about it. So I did. And right off, given that it was me, I argued with the idea of Galt’s Gulch. This was the Valhalla where all of the Randian heroes could go to hide out from the evil that men do and bide their time until they might return to the outside world again. I said then that it was pure deus ex machina stuff. A convenient escape hatch. And Margaret made the mistake of asking me what I would do instead. And on the spot, with the prospect of ready seduction always foremost in mind, I suggested it was better to hide in plain sight. The truth was, I had never even thought about it that way until that moment.

And she asked, as innocently as the babe in the woods, “Is that what you’re doing? Is that what the bookshop is all about?”

And always one to ride a gift-horse as well as look one in the mouth, I said, “Yes!”

She was thrilled.

This was very unfair. I knew that from the first. She was an adult and thus responsible for her own actions, but she was already in thrall to Ayn Rand’s magic. Rand had all the answers to life’s injustices. She had seen her businessman father fight against the evils of government bureaucracy and politics all her life. And she could not have known I was making it up as I went along. But that is what life is all about. Isn’t it? You prepare yourself as best you can for the unexpected and then it happens anyway.

All I wanted was to have my own bookshop where I could make a living while I wrote. I knew early on that an honest author was unlikely to earn a living from his work. Really. It’s all I every wanted to do. Not very complicated. Suddenly I was all about revolution and turning over the established order. Of course, that was fine too, as long as she would go to bed with me.

I am no better now.

The way it works is this: so long as I remained naïve I could offer my very innocence as a defense. But as soon as I admitted to any knowledge of sin at all, I was suspect—damned, if you will. In Catholic precincts you learn this subterfuge well before Confirmation as a means of reducing the number of Our Fathers and Hail Marys you carry away from the confessional. (Who among us, it was rightly assumed, having acquired the actual knowledge of sin, could then resist temptation? Or, to put it another way, once you’ve had hot sex, how can you pretend that it’s not more important than the reading of cold philosophy? Of course, that too must be why nuns were meant to be virgins—the natural seduction of sin. More seriously speaking, but in much the same way, power seduces, and once given the absolute might to do so, how could you resist the opportunity to make the world right, according to your own lights )

And that, in a Jimmy Carter peanut shell, was the original sin of government.


Now, Deidre’s demand to know why I thought the government was trying to screw me in particular betrayed her own real innocence, I think—a believing in the idea that they were only trying to do the right thing after all—as did her total inability to realize that such power immediately corrupted the user. Both Frodo and Bilbo proved that well enough, had they not? How could such guilelessness be, given what she must have seen as a reporter? Or is that just another example of willful blindness—of seeing only what she wanted to see, and ignoring what did not fit her preconceived notions? (She had very pretty eyes, after all.) Or did she believe it? The answer to that question mattered to me, and now I was asking myself why. Something had changed, of course.

My answer to her was, “It was the very thing that Tolkien once warned us about, you know.” I gave this reply by way of preparing my ground for further argument.

But she objected, “That’s just a movie.”

A concrete fact. But even a mere sophist such as myself never argues with concrete.

And I was not an innocent on this point. Nor was I willing to be guilty of greater trespass. Mine would not be a sin of commission. But omission was another thing entirely. (Or is that just a Catholic thing.)

I could only say in response, “But first, it was a book,” and shrug.

Whatever it was that George Reilly might have done to draw the interest of the FBI, I knew him only as the fellow who could happily sacrifice half an hour of his life talking about Montaigne’s theories of lying and memory. It was Montaigne, you may know, who first asserted that to be a good liar, a good memory was requisite (or, at least the first I’ve read). In response, (allowing for my own natural deficiencies) I had suggested to George that it was possible to accomplish this by writing as well, asserting that even if my memory was faulty I could always turn back the pages to check the veracity of my own lies in order to keep them harmonious. But George believes in the bluff. Admit to the flaws in your recollection to begin with, and then lie wholeheartedly. Who could then fault you for being wrong? George had slyly equated this act with carefully reading the hyperbolic warnings on bottles of medicine. If it killed you after that, it was your own damned fault. His was the better argument.

So with yet another twist of logic, my hope was that my blog concerning the FBI raid and their subsequent investigation would defuse any additional interest in me. Wasn’t I being sufficiently transparent? (‘Transparent’ is yet another phony word in the usage of the moment but appropriate here.) I was clearly being open with the facts of the case. Wasn’t I? At least those I knew.

I was wrong again, of course.

This time it was Mr. Evans himself who came in the shop to correct me.

Seeing him there, wandering the aisles, got me thinking that I recognized him from sometime previous to these most recent encounters. I had a better memory for faces than for my own fabrications—I was certain now that he had been in at least once prior the raid and that I had not taken sufficient note of him then.

He finally wanders over to me while I’m pulling typewriter keys apart on one of our display machines which had been attacked by a twelve year-old earlier that morning.

He says, “I spoke with your Mr. Brooks.”


His Adam’s apple danced. “Not so good. He’s a real pain in the ass.”

“My ex-wife says the same thing.”

“He want’s the records we borrowed so he can access them for the IRS. I told him we were done with them for the moment and you could send somebody down to Center Plaza to get them if you wanted.”

I said, “I don’t think so. You already used up a bunch of taxpayer money to come over here and confiscate them in the first place. I have to pay Mr. Brooks by the hour and I’m feeling pretty poor after your making me miss a day of work. I’m afraid you’ll have to use a little more of that tax money to bring them back.”

He shrugged at my answer too emphatically. “If they’re not important enough for you to come and get them, maybe we’ll just throw them out.”

I gave him a purposefully unconvincing shrug in return, “I’ll let Ms. Roberts at the Post know you said that. She’s been looking for more detail on the way you treat innocent people. And I’ll let Mr. Brooks know so that he can inform the IRS that you’re impeding their own unwarranted audit by withholding them.”

Mr. Evans smiles with appropriate theatricality. “This is going to be fun to watch.”

“Well, I hope it’s at least entertaining. You’ve managed to double our business with this kerfuffle and I’d love to be able to write about more of your shenanigans so at least those benefits don’t stop.”

Now he gives me the straight-face. “You will find the IRS far less accommodating. And they might find your business practices questionable.”

Ah! An implied threat or simply an interesting misdirection on his part. People are often more afraid of an IRS audit than a mere gun.

I say, “I like your admission that the IRS is a greater menace than the FBI—but, such as what, for instance?”

He smirks. How long had he practiced that smirk in front of his bathroom mirror during the first year he had been an agent, before he was satisfied with it? It was clearly practiced now. But he should have left it in the bathroom. It had no menace.

He says, “I’ll just let them inform you of that.”

This was an empty threat and I think we both knew it. I did not believe Mr. Evans to be a stupid man. Just wrongheaded. And I was pretty sure my bluff was bigger than his. But like any barroom challenge, I really had no idea.


Revolutions always need a specific cause but usually have no more ambition than the elimination of the original hurt. Few insurrections have been given as broad a mandate as the American Revolution, for instance. And thus, most revolts quickly descend into chaos after the first objective is met, only to bring about the rise of new governments that are as poor as the one overthrown. Often worse.

I wanted something better for my own kerfuffle. Something worthy of being called ‘Revolutionary’. This then was the beginning of the next blog that I wrote: “You wouldn’t want to live in the average utopia. You wouldn’t even want to visit. It’s an unpleasant place, unkind and unwelcoming to the hot blooded. It’s the sort of country where impulse is forbidden, extravagance is sin, and curiosity is punished. It’s a place made perfect by design, like rows of regimented corn arrayed in sunny fields. Thus there can be no individual delight in the sprouting of the wayward kernel at the roadside. There is no odd old tree in the field amidst the regular ranks to draw the eye—certainly no personal pleasures beyond the boring harmony of evenly spaced queues and a planned parenthood. This is no better than a chemically induced happiness, subdued. Sentiments are calmed by a lack of alternatives. All insecurity is banished by an absence of choice. Genders are neutralized and sexual pleasures made gratuitous. But there is no actual sweaty sex. Artificial insemination guarantees results. Every stalk there is equal (though some, as you may have heard, are more equal than others). With such perfection achieved, the present, past and future are one. It is a nation at peace by forced irrigation, propagation, fertilization, cultivation and routine harvesting.”

And I quickly followed that with the opening words of Mr. Paine’s Common Sense: “Some writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have different origins. Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness . . . ” And I offered a short bibliography of a few dozen utopian novels as proof.

Mr. Evans hung around following our minor confrontation, with some intention he did not reveal to me. As he continued to wander about the shop, several times he pulled one book or another from a shelf and brought it to the counter to ask me what I thought of it. There did not seem to be a rhyme or reason to the choices: Robert Heinlein and Dashiell Hammett? David Hackett Fisher and Amity Shlaes?

About two o’clock, when the usual mid-afternoon quiet descended, he leaned his lanky frame up against the side of the counter, just out of the way of the register. I first noticed then that his Adam’s apple actually started moving before he spoke—in some sort of advance reflex—and this gave me an early warning of his intention to speak.

“You’re a smart fella. How is it you got yourself keyed into a relationship with this guy, Reilly? You must have known something was up with him.”

I thought the approach was interesting for a number of reasons. For one, he was staying with the ‘good cop’ persona.

I said, “He likes to stand right about where you are now. He just comes in and wanders around a bit, like you’ve been doing. Of course he says ‘Hello,’ first. Not like some people. Then he’ll pull something off the shelf and show it to me and asks me what I think about it. Next thing I know we’re talking about Thomas Hutcheson or Adam Ferguson, or Thomas Reid or something else of the kind. One thing leads to another. After a while you come to expect it. Sometimes, it’s the best part of the day. But I’m thinking now maybe I shouldn’t have been taking such simple pleasures for granted. Maybe that’s all over, now.”

“Who are those people? Novelists?”

I ignored the question as a misdirection.

“That’s really the point. I’m not such a smart fella, as you say. But I do persist. I know a lot of people who are smarter than me. You’ve met a couple of them, I believe. Take my ex-wife. . . . Please.” I gave that the briefest pause, just long enough to make it clear he was not a Henny Youngman fan. “She has me totally beat. She could join Mensa but she thinks they’re all a lot of self-conscious jerks—And, you know. That’s a funny thing to. When we got married she thought that I was the smartest thing. She thought I was a genius. I was in love, of course, and I didn’t try to dissuade her. But then she discovered the sad truth of it—that’s the old contempt of familiarity I guess—anyway, it was all down hill from there.”

He offered a skeptical rise in one eyebrow along with the quiver at his throat. “How’d she make that mistake if she was so smart?”

“I suppose it’s because I know a little about a lot of things. I really don’t know very much about anything.”

“Yeah, sure.” Maybe he accepted that anecdote, and maybe he didn’t. He says, “But tell me a little more about Mr. Reilly. What do you think his deal is?”

“How do you mean that?”

“What do you think he’s up to? Why all the secrecy?”

“You’re asking me that? Why are you here? Shouldn’t any person be free to pursue their own interests without the FBI looking on. I suspect, whoever he really is, he’s had a taste of you guys before.” This was purposely misleading, of course. George had told me he had no record with the FBI at all. But the idea that he did might occupy some of their time. I added, “I’m on his side for that.” But I’m an amateur at such obfuscation.

Mr. Evans shook it right off. “No. I don’t think so. This guy is a clean slate. But I guess it bothers me that someone in your position, with a family, and a business, and a good reputation, is hooking up with someone he doesn’t even know. That doesn’t make sense.”

This was old ground. “I think you have that all backwards. Anyone who can discuss natural rights and common sense with me like it matters what I think, is someone I ought to know, if only for the sake of my family, and my business, and my reputation—or as someone else once put it, ‘our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.’ ”

No reaction. Not a flinch. But somehow, I think he understands. He says, “Very smart. So tell me who those guys are that you mentioned before.”

I directed him to the philosophy section. To his credit, he did not come back for more than an hour. But when he did, it was with a paperback copy of Thomas Paine’s Common Sense.

Evans pointed back into the aisle in the manner of someone who had encountered another person there, “That other fella, Reid, was talking about ‘common sense,’ and right on the same shelf is this one. It looks like it might be a little easier.” Mr. Evans flipped the pages of the slim paperback with his thumb. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re right. But Reid and Ferguson and Hutcheson and their Scottish Enlightenment were the foundation for Tom Paine and Mr. Jefferson as well.”

He tossed the book onto the counter.

“Then I’ll buy that.”








Washington defeats the British at the Battle of Bear Mountain

a little known battle retold




Given my lack of success, I have been asked more than once why I wanted to write in the first place, much less continue in the effort. Besides the loaded context, there is a certain stupidity inherent to the inquiry that begs to be ignored. I have never known someone who knew exactly why they wanted what they do, other than farmers and those few who take over their father’s business. (Note: we are not culturally advanced enough yet to have as many women following in their mother’s footsteps, but that time will come.) Most people, as I have mentioned before, don’t do what they ever dreamed of doing when they were young, but then again, those who gain some control of their lives often find themselves doing something they like.

Like the many reasons for naming my bookshop what it is, there are at least that many causes for me to write. More than that, I have actually written about those reasons before. But lying in bed the other night and trying to sleep to the rattle of a loose gutter battered by too much rain, I happened to remember one of the best of my excuses.

When we were kids—I was twelve and George was just about turned fifteen—and we were weekly detained by the Boy Scouts on Tuesday nights during colder months with various useless marching drills and color ceremonies in the school gymnasium—preparation, I suppose, for our future mandated detention in the United States Army—and then annually interned each July at Boy Haven summer camp in upstate New York, my brother and I sought extracurricular adventure beyond the well-trodden paths of Bear Mountain, the whereabouts of our rocky posting which had clearly once been intended for felons and prisoners of war.

This leaguer for boys was administered by a Headmaster by the name of Arthur Britain, the first adult male I ever saw wearing shorts in the woods. Mr. Britain weighed over two hundred pounds, was no taller than my brother at five and a half feet in his boots, and visibly unmuscled, which gave him the false appearance of being fat. He was, however, extraordinarily strong, able to take on five or more of the older boys in rope pulling, and could out-hike any one of his counsellors. The memory of following the pink flash of his legs through the woods from a great distance behind is still with me. Despite his name, Arthur was quite German, had come to America after the war as an orphan and had attended this very camp as a boy. He eagerly told us these facts and more over the camp fire during ‘Introductions’ on our first night. In other words, he knew the place better than his charges.

It was during the last of those imprisonments when we were permitted some Sunday ‘free time,’ a rainy day ritual (it nearly always rained every day during our two weeks at camp), which amounted to a group visit to a local ‘Emporium.’ Note: this magical word was emblazoned in fancy gold letters on the building-wide sign at the front of an otherwise nondescript building so that no tourist could miss it in their rush, and is etched in my mind—scarred really—as if a stray and magical beam of sun glare had been caught in reflective light against the gray skies ever since. The Emporium sold nickel Heath Bars for a dime and hardened chewing gum, and creamless ice cream, but also carried maps. The one thing the Boy Scouts had properly done is to instill some sense in us of the magic of maps, and with the expenditure of 25 cents (reluctantly offered when the store clerk ordered us to leave the maps alone) it was quickly clear that beyond the borders of our Stalag was a remote wilderness only occasionally marred by a Borscht Belt hotel or nudist colony. And right there, in an aisle between a stack of blue jeans and farmer’s hats (these were what we called any hat not decorated by the name of a favorite baseball team), an escape plan was born.

Planning was called for. We were not the first of our number to get such an idea, nor, I imagine, the last, but we understood instinctively that the layout of the camp was designed for us to fail. (For instance, tunnels were impossible in this glacially peeled soil.) Our regular clothes were kept in a locker behind the headmaster’s office and not in the wooden trunk at the end of our beds—this being reserved for daily necessities and scout paraphernalia. Our Boy Scout uniform, including shorts and scarf, was required dress. My brother and I were in separate cabins, so communication was limited. Food was not permitted in the cabins to avoid the supposed culinary quests of bears and tigers and lions. The camp was situated on a peninsula with only one road in. There was in fact a fence, which we were told was intended to keep bears out. (We knew better.) The canoes were tied up inside a small harbor created by the dock and the muddy beach where we were expected to swim daily. However, each of these obstacles were methodically overcome.

Unlike William Holden and his comrades in Stalag 17, the movie which had obviously been made from a similar pitiable experience as ours, we did not need to worry about bullets. Only bullies. And it was one of these fellows, after being a regular pain in the neck for several days and nights while occupying the upper bunk, who was egged on by my brother until he broke and walloped George in public, resulting in the bully being transferred to another cabin. Not only did this remove a pair of prying eyes but it gave us an added excuse for our behavior.

It is important to note that this planning was only begun that Sunday, after the first week of indignations—getting up at dawn, being forced to swim in the icy waters of Lake Doodle, eat warm baloney with orange cheese and mayonnaise on white foam bread that stuck to the roof of your mouth, and sing idiotic folk songs which have only recently been surpassed for vacuity by the best of hip-hop. In other words, we had less than a week of our sentence remaining. Something like a prison inmate trying to escape the week before his parole.

The councilor in George’s cabin had a regular habit of sneaking out to smoke in the evenings. My own cabin councilor would disappear for an hour and we never knew what he was up to. The camp office was left unattended after nine o’clock. After Thursday’s canoe instruction I deftly passed the rope over but not through the metal loop on mine. Both of us put together a nice supply of various provisions, including a jar of peanut butter and an unopened loaf of foam bread, which had carelessly been stored too close to the open window in the kitchen. And at the appointed hour we both put on our ponchos to go to the latrine. We had chosen a rainy night so as not to be seen, which was the easiest part.

Being on a lake at night in the rain is a solitary experience—like being in a surreal room with only one vaguely visual dimension—the surface of the water closest-by. Heading straight in this murk was made much harder by the fact that George was considerably stronger and we both worried about turning in a circle. His loudly whispered objections and my equally loud complaints were likely audible from the shore if only someone had been there to listen. There was no wind, and only the drizzle on the water and our frantic whispers to hear.

Some time after midnight, after filling our boots with water and gashing our legs on unseen things in an effort to hide the canoe in some brush on the opposite shore, we set out to cross the saddle back of a small mountain. The mountain was invisible to us, of course, but the elevation was clear enough on the map, thus it was only the slope itself that we approached—endlessly. I slipped over and again on the lichen encrusted rock. I think I cried at least once. I was cold and the poncho clung to my wet skin. But in the presence of my brother I kept most of my complaint to myself. And as if to avoid witnessing the yawning black and miasmic shadow of the way before us, I occupied my mind with tales of the vengeful Headless Hessian Horseman and other ghosts. This fright brought the adrenaline to my veins and that, I think now, made the climb possible.

It was my ploy at the time, as a means of talking about the things that mattered to me, to ask a question which would elicit an inquiry from whomever I was with about what the hell I was talking about and this then opened the door to whatever was on my mind. I asked my brother if it was possible to ride a horse without being able to see. I think the question arose from my sympathy for his own pathfinding ahead of me.

“Sure. Blind people can ride horse. Why does that matter?”

“How about without a head?”

“Idiot! You can’t do anything without your head.”

“So there is no way for there to be a Headless Horseman.”

“That’s different. That’s a ghost. Ghosts don’t have heads. Or eyes. They’re nothing but smoke.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”


His answer was too adamant.

We managed to go almost a mile beyond the lake through a thick woods of second growth accompanied by the four-part harmony of our wet boots and swarms of invisible mosquitoes, before enough adrenaline and blood was depleted from our veins and exhaustion overtook us. We camped (sat, really) at last beneath the hulking face of a rock escarpment amidst the constant loud dripping from the leaves and louder sigh of rain in the forest around us, and tried to sleep.

Unquiet, even in my fears, I had recounted to my brother some of what I had been reading, but in my own words. I suppose George let me talk so as to keep track of me in the dark.

What Irving had said was, “The British spy, major Andre was hung near here, and they say his ghost still hangs around.”

“I think that was across the river.”

“What’s ninepins?”

“That’s like bowling, I think.”

“How much is a keg.”

“It’s a barrel.”

“Do you think someone could carry a barrel up this mountain?”

“If it was small enough.”

“Then, what’s a flagon?”

“A small dragon maybe.”

“But they drank from flagons.”

“Who did?”

“The bowlers.”

“What bowlers?”

“The ones Rip van Winkle found.”

“Then it must be some kind of cup.”

“What cup?”

“The flagon.”

The image of drinking from small dragons would not go away.

“George, do you think Washington Irving ever came over this way?”

I only stopped when George did not answer my question. But I don’t think he actually slept.

Being brothers, we had only come to punching and shoving twice. Once when George unexpectedly stopped to pee and I, walking behind him in the dark, knocked him over, and another time when I first discovered that my flashlight didn’t work and he pounded me for not double checking it beforehand (I did not tell him that I’d used the batteries up on reading Washington Irving under the covers). George is about two years older and twenty pounds heavier, so the outcome of our altercations was predetermined by nature.

At dawn, with an amazing chorus of crows in the trees directly above us—likely thinking of pecking our eyes out after we died of terminal drizzle and mosquito bites, we moved on. The rain had turned to a cold mist. The map, wet and breaking at every fold, had indicated a trail which we were attempting to follow, but we failed to notice that the dots in the dotted line were closer and not a path at all. What we were stumbling over was the bed of a rocky creek. Our shins were much abused.

The object of our trek was a house on Lake Stahahe, deep in what was, to us, remote wilderness. The reason had something to do with a friend of George’s, Peter Morse, whose family owned a cabin there that they did not often use. George had visited this retreat the autumn before to fish with his friend and his friend’s father. The reason the friend’s family did not often go there in summer, which was unknown to us, was the prevalence of mosquitoes.

But George had described the cabin to me as a neglected paradise which his friend had been forced to forgo that season so that he could spend more time with his family on Nantucket. Poor lad. And I do not remember now what the larger reasoning behind all of this was—very little reasoning at all I suppose. We were prone to adventures. But I have always believed it simply to be an innate American desire from within to escape. To be gone. To seek the frontier. The peek over the precipice. And this was exacerbated, exaggerated, and otherwise enhanced by the idea of somehow defeating Mr. Britain, whom we secretly referred to among ourselves—that is, campers and counselors alike—as ‘The Hun.’

The big mistake we made was in not having an exact location of the cabin, only a geographic proximity, which finally necessitated stopping to ask an older man who was walking his dog on a dirt and gravel road. He knew exactly where the Morse house was and gave us excellent directions. The mistake was that he also informed a state trooper of our inquiry not long after.

We found the house late in the afternoon following the night of our escape. The key was beneath the flower pot on the back porch, as expected. The rain had stopped. The sun suddenly danced on the water by a delicate dock of gray boards stretched between darkened pine logs, celebrating our deliverance. And, having tired of peanut butter, we fished.

The poles, with lines still tangled and crusty from the previous year’s use were bundled in the rafters of the porch. Hooks festooned an old cooking mitt pulled over the top knob of a coat rack. In the debris at the exit of a small stream close to the cabin, the crayfish were thick for bait. And as promised, the fishing was excellent. I caught a large bass. George caught two. We let the smallest of them go (given that the mosquitoes had already eaten their dinner, we estimated both fish would be necessary) and cleaned the big ones with our scout knives which had a fish scaling blade that was half the size needed.

We put kindling in a wood stove and used an iron pan to fry the fish is Crisco. The Crisco was there, waiting for us, otherwise I think we would have tried roasting the fish on a stick. Most of this, from cleaning the fish to opening the flu on the stove we had seen done before and argued our way through step by step with only one more bout of fisticuffs. But the fish was excellent. It is still savored in my mind.

That night we slept on bare mattresses beneath wool blankets and slept so soundly we did not hear the State Trooper until he was standing over us. From there we were driven back to the camp, where we were now celebrities, heroes even, and the object of a great deal of attention and scolding. But Arthur Britain was not there. In his four years as headmaster, no other child had escaped. No child had drowned. No child had been lost. Our canoe had been spotted that morning, and as we were being welcomed back by the other campers, Arthur Britain was somewhere off in the woods beyond the lake, following our trail. Having already been notified by the State Police, my father came and picked us up that afternoon before Mr. Britain returned. And the best part of all to the escapade, was that we never had go to another Boy Scout meeting. We were banished!

Other than the repeated use of small details from this adventure in various novels in the years since, the important part was the trek itself which had involved a fairly constant recollection, out loud, of the stories in The Sketch Book, by Geoffrey Crayon (aka Washington Irving), which was the book I had taken out of the Camp library and had most recently been reading beneath the covers at the expense of my flashlight batteries. Add the equally important part to that, necessitated by my brother’s worry that I would be lost in the dismal dark as well as my fear that he would run away and leave me, was the discovery of comfort in telling a story out loud. My children were all forced to endure this ritual to get them to sleep, which they often feigned in order to get me to stop, and I still do it, if only to myself.

It was much later that I discovered Washington Irving more fully, and learned that he was the first most successful American author of fiction, and came to admire the man for his persistence and integrity as an author. A truly extraordinary fellow. Besides being an excellent storyteller, essayist, journalist, biographer and historian, he was a wanderer, adventurer even, diplomat and ambassador to Spain. At the age of six, Irving had met the great man in New York, early in George Washington’s Presidency, and was later responsible for one of the best biographies of his namesake, a multi-volume opus filled with all the mischief of misinformation that long preserved the great founder’s reputation.

At the start of his career, Wash and his brother William establish the Salmagundi—or the Whim-whams and Opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, esq. & Others, a satirical periodical far ahead of its time. His History of New York from the Beginning of History to the Dutch Dynasty, written under the pseudonym of Diedrich Knickerbocker was a humorous poke at the pompous patroons of his native state. He studied law and passed the bar. But after Matilda Hoffman, his fiancee and daughter of a judge and legal mentor, died, he never married. He enlisted in the New York Militia during the War of 1812, but did not see action before its end. Forced by the bankruptcy of the family import-export business in England, where he had lived for many years, Irving only turned to writing regularly at the age of 35.

Among the many stories he published, most of which appeared in various newspapers of the time (back when they still separated fiction from non-fiction) is the fabulous collection, Tales of a Traveller, which contains the exploits of the marvelous Buckthorne.

Geoffrey Crayon tells us, “Among the great variety of characters which fall in a traveller’s way, I became acquainted during my sojourn in London, with an eccentric personage of the name of Buckthorne. He was a literary man, had lived much in the metropolis, and had acquired a great deal of curious, though unprofitable knowledge concerning it. He was a great observer of character, and could give the natural history of every odd animal that presented itself in this great wilderness of men. Finding me very curious about literary life and literary characters, he took much pains to gratify my curiosity.”

There is too much in Buckthorne that reminds a reader of Conan Doyle and his hero Holmes, but without resort to concocted mystery. A key subtitle to be found in the Irving tales is, “The Young Man of Great Expectations.” I wonder who else read the book in 1826? He has a dozen other titles of equal dimension, including “Adventure of the Mysterious Stranger, The Club of Queer Fellows, Grave Reflection of a Disappointed Man (a hundred years before the good Barbellion!), Hell Gate, The Devil and Tom Walker, and dozens more that captured my imagination even before the story was begun. But Buckthorne and his literary memoirs was an immediate opening to a better life for me.

Unfortunately, today Irving is barely read and generally known for only two short works and not even all of those: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. And I think this is because he never wrote a novel, though several of his histories are novelistic in scope. His Tales of the Alhambra are splendid, for instance, but episodic and his many biographies reflect on the subjects rather than the larger canvas of history. He is a far better writer than his contemporary, James Fenimore Cooper. But Cooper brilliantly cast the American experience of their time as an epic and focused on the sort of characters that personified a nation, offering context to mere fact. Irving too often played with the picaresque and humorous. It would be as if Sam Clemens had never written Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer, but satisfied himself with travelogs and jumping frogs.

The great hook, I think, for a kid from the 1950’s, was a cartoon version of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Walt Disney. And I am sure that it was this inspiration that made me grab the Sketchbook from a shelf in the Camp library and read it.

I have kept Irving on the shelf in the shop since the day we opened, often in complete sets, but other than those two short works, I seldom sell a volume, even after my best pitch. This is sobering to a writer as much as it is frustrating for a bookseller. If an author of such acclaim can be so forgotten, what hope is there for one that is little known? And if such good and even great work can be ignored on the shelf in favor of the below average crap that clogs the bestseller list on an average day, what use is there in being a writer or bookseller at all?

Thus hooked forever on the author’s fearless style, I finally came to read Irving’s Traveller’s Tales, and about that great raconteur, Buckthorne, when I was sixteen. There, I was immediately told that the literary life was a financially meager one which was rich only in those things that were most important, and thus to hope “my heart was as light as my purse.” I learned that, “The literary world is made up of little confederacies, each looking upon its own members as the lights of the universe, and considering all others as mere transient meteors, doomed soon to fall and be forgotten, while its own luminaries are to shine steadily on to immortality.” It was Buckthorne who first warned me that, “you must never think to become popular among wits by shining. They go into society to shine themselves, not to admire the brilliancy of others.” He got it right again when he said, “It is only the inferior orders that herd together, acquire strength and importance by their confederacies, and bear all the distinctive characteristics of their species.” So, it can be said then, that at least I was well prepared for what was to come.








More notes on a life lived at the margins

annotations aside



One of my favorite historians is the great marxist Marc Bloch, perhaps because he is not at all directly concerned with any history I have a personal interest in, yet he engages me completely and makes me study. That study has often resulted in my disagreeing with the professor on one matter or another, but always wanting more because his reasoning is not intended to enforce some dogma, but to open doors and windows to the sunshine. I know more about Holy Roman Emperors than I ever wanted to, for instance. Importantly, I was also made aware of the commonality of working people, farmers, local bureaucrats, millers, money lenders, and farmers—all of whom make a nation and are usually the first to die in their wars. Unlike lesser historians, Mr. Bloch did not let his politics stand in the way of fact and reason. His interests may have differed from my own sympathies, but his spirit was good. And what made him great was not only his cultivated conversational style, perfected I suppose in his years at Strasbourg University, but that his principles were something he actually lived by, and ultimately died for. Unlike most of the professors in our current age who take academic deferments from their social responsibilities to stay in their chairs, or play at politics as a game with no consequence other than to curry favor with the political movement of their choice, Bloch volunteered to fight for France because France had given him the chance to live the life he wanted, and when the French army collapsed (the subject of another of his fine essays, he joined the underground. It was in that duty, nearing the end of that terrible war, and after weeks of torture, that one morning, in a meadow, he was shot by the Nazis, along with fellow patriots. That was in 1944.

Today, his kind are much ignored by the neo-Marxists with their dogma of knowing before they have bothered to learn. But in my own first years of discovery, when Harper Torchbooks were readily available in neat paperback editions for a couple of bucks each, or less, Bloch and his compatriots at the Annales School such as Lucien Febvre, Fernand Braudel, Pierre Goubert, and Robert Mandrou, were all readily at hand in good translation and when I opened the shop I made the effort to keep them in stock, Marxist or not, new and used, and especially so after the dim-lights at Harper & Row let that affordable paperback line go in favor of the sort of text that could more easily milk the newly energized university system of every available tax dollar.

The historic failure of that too brief paperback revolution between 1940 and 1980, little more than a generation, and the affordable books it put into the hands of millions is still a loss I have yet to fully comprehend. How is it that with so much knowledge made available for anyone to read, that the bell cow of publishing, the academic community, turned in on itself, took the money from their expensive self-serving textbooks and ever increasing salaries, while forsaking its own soul and purpose—to educate. They were so easily bought! Is that what makes them so nasty now—guilt? But that is, in itself, a study for another day. My interest here is in the books they abandoned, and in the authors they betrayed in the meadow of history.

However, this is a chapter I might have entitled ‘The way of Zinn’ (with apologies to the more peace-loving Alan Watts), or perhaps ‘The tenants of Objectivism,’ (allowing for the current occupiers of Ayn Rands authoritarian doctrine) though I lacked the balls for either, perhaps due to my previously established reputation for spelling errors. In retrospect, Margaret’s faith in the religion of Rand and willingness to occupy that sterile philosophical monolith, as much as my many contests through the years with the knuckle-headed anti-intellectual bastards of the pseudo-intellectual opportunist, Howard Zinn, had far more to do with what I chose to write than either of those two authors should have done. There were so many stories that needed telling and so little time. I could have chosen more wisely. For instance, in his historical studies, Marc Bloc offers us many fine opportunities for drama. But my own devotions were to American history. And besides, the deeper stupidity of both Zinn and Rand will always be with us. Intolerance.

Infamously, and so unlike Marc Bloch, Zinn ‘taught,’ after the current fashion, at Boston University and lived in a wealthy community next door to the family of the future to-be actor Matt Damon. And this one singular accident of history sold another half million copies of his muddled and poisoned polemic A People’s History of the United States when Damon included his own awe for the neo-Marxist in a passing remark—one made in an otherwise worthwhile movie, Good Will Hunting. But it was just such accidents of history that Professor Zinn loved best—preyed upon, not being a praying man. A singular factoid, without research, much less substantiation, could become an indictment of the United States’ use of the atomic bomb on Japan in World War Two for instance, never mind a hundred facts to the contrary and the many lives it soiled.

As I say, this bothered me more than it should have. Though I wrote fiction with more footnotes than Zinn while making no pretense that the work was anything other than my own supposition, to me the key was that it could be true. At least possible at the time I wrote it. This was also my primary differentiation between fantasy and science fiction as well—that what I imagined could have actually happened this way. But when, for instance, Zinn decided that the U. S. had needlessly bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, there was ample public evidence already available that our motivations, if tragic, were soundly reasoned. And even more information about that lapse of history has been released since, but there is no revision of Zinn’s book that I am aware of. Nor will there be. Dogma is like that.

I bought my first copy of A People’s History of the United States at a yard-sale sometime in the 1980’s. The conspiratorial tone was a good trick later that was used so well against the mysteries of Roman Catholicism in the avowed fiction of author Dan Brown in his DiVinci Code books, but Zinn’s offering to reveal the hidden secrets of American history for real was enough to make me take it home and check it out. I am no different than the next man in that. I love a good secret, even when I have already guessed that seeing it in print made any such clandestine classification impossible. Just such hard sell approaches are a constant appeal on the radio and late night television and helped make the programming there obnoxious. ‘Learn the secrets the drug companies don’t want you to know!’ As if our lawyered-up litigious society had not already been all but immobilized by fear of the civil suit. ‘Learn the stock market secrets the big brokers don’t want you to know.’ A boarder-state used car salesman is far more sincere. But Zinn’s approach must have worked on Mr. Damon. That, or what I hear was a very winning personality. Something I always lacked.

If memory serves I brought the book back to the shop again and threw it in the dollar bin on the very next day. Forty or fifty pages of such supposition was enough, especially when it pretended to be original. Most of his ‘revelations’ had been in the basement marketplace of ideas for thirty or fifty years and the Marxist cant about workers and owners was off-putting.

I was slower to object to Margaret’s constant use of the Randian glossary, (from the vulgar use of the Aristotelian ‘A is A,’ to the redefinition of the idea of the ‘Romantic,’ and her habitual use of the Marxist term ‘Capitalism’), perhaps because I was somewhat infatuated by the woman herself—or was it just the cigarette muted Russian accent. Margaret was very open-minded about my own fling, in any case, but the limited vocabulary of that cant wore thin on me soon enough. Rand is a marvel of good writing and creative usage in fiction, but her political diatribes are another matter. This first raised the grain on me with Margaret’s attacks for having used the word agnostic to describe myself. I had always refused attempts to prove a negative such as saying that God did not exist. I could only express what little I thought I knew, and that was already limited enough and likely the very reason I resorted to fiction in the first place, in an effort to widen my worldview.

The Randian fear of the arbitrary, which is in fact the most of all human action in the face of far too little knowledge for acting with objective certainty, is palpable. Never mind the scientific method. And don’t bother to credit the great thinkers who did the work Rand so easily appropriated (note that she herself was very sensitive about appropriation). Most importantly, forget about Thomas Reid’s common sense or Francis Hutcheson’s appeal to beauty and virtue. Any rational demand for proof of the negative assertion that God does not exist becomes a word game usually posing straw men in comic relief. This is an excellent enough ploy for quick plot development in fiction but has little place in reasonable philosophic discussion—though, I note now it has become the realm of much late night television ‘humor’ by supposed standup comics who cannot be bothered with reason or even the establishing of some wit with a kernel of human truth. Perhaps Miss Rand ought to get some credit for that at least, perhaps even royalties for the popularization of her canny straw-man argumentativeness—though, ironically, this was also a common characteristic of the much despised arguments of Marx and Lenin even before her own time as an author. Rand, raised through the Russian Revolution, was a true product of her youth, for both good and ill.

And she was equally fearful of the idea of ‘An open mind.’ I don’t wonder what she must have thought of Karl Popper’s Open Society, or if she bothered to read it. Obviously saying that one has an open mind about the traffic in the street, or the temperature outside, is foolish, but such bugaboos are her common go-to retorts to someone who honestly does not know. That we all must act on insufficient knowledge most of the time is one of the many humbling aspects of human life—but that does not therefore say we can’t act at all. We must, and we do—as I have said, to do nothing is to act nevertheless. Mistakes are made and we thus learn. Having Margaret criticize me every time I said something that did not fit her Objectivist lexicon was boring. I stopped making the effort to correct her for this fairly early on. The bickering bothered the children. I am simply not as glib as Miss Rand—or her ghost in print. Needless to say, it limited our family conversations to the mundane.

But so long as the children were about, we had much else to discuss on their account, and Margaret was a good and loving mother. However, when they were gone from the roost, the silences were hard for either of us to bare. I stayed at the shop a little later and went to work that much earlier.

That I know of, Mr. Zinn himself seldom came into the shop. We were not close enough to his seat at Boston University. But he did in fact come in the shop at least once for certain. He was there looking for his own book and he had a young woman with him who appeared to be quite enamored of the tall and quiet-spoken gentleman she had evidently just met—judging by the festoon of badges and her arm bands—during a protest march that very day on the Boston Common.

At first he simply asked for the history section, I suppose assuming that any bookshop must carry his tome. He returned after a moment (given the sheer size of the book, it would have been easy to see it wasn’t at the end of the alphabetical order).

“I don’t see my book there.”

Now, he might have meant this in any of several ways. Perhaps, giving him the greatest benefit of the doubt—a credit he never gave others—he simply meant to imply ‘the book I am seeking,’ but encounters with him in other contexts made me believe he meant something different—that he assumed I would know who he was, and in his egocentric tone was the underlying complaint, ‘why not?’

I should have simply answered, ‘We don’t have it in stock.’ A common enough statement of fact that covered many flaws of both omission and commission. Instead I said, “We don’t carry it.” And I can’t pretend my own tone was conciliatory.

“Why not?” He objected, looking dramatically nonplussed and turning to his pretty acolyte. “It’s on the New York Times best seller list!”

And I answered, “That would be reason enough to avoid it, but unfortunately the publisher categorizes it as ‘history’ instead of speculative fiction or simply politics. I try not to screw with my customers that way.”

There was the awkward moment when the meaning of the words made themselves known. Zinn is a tall man. He was a little stooped by that time. But he went bolt upright then, muttered something I did not understand, and took the young woman’s hand to lead her from the shop. But I saw him through the window, when he halted outside on the sidewalk and looked up at the store name on our sign. He then let go of the Lolita’s hand and stuck his head back in. “More a fascist dictatorship, don’t you think?”

He said this with eyes wide and mouth half-open in a nicely jocular grin. My republic had found yet another enemy.

I was not quick enough to respond in the moment, though I came up with a dozen good retorts later.


The greater historians of our age, those who have peeled the onion of history with care and without regard for the smell and the tears; those of the caliber of David Hackett Fischer, Norma Lorre Goodrich, David McCullough, Victor Davis Hanson, and Barbara Tuchman have that clear and constant awareness of the story they are telling. And it is that wisdom that keeps them true. Every historian can be misled, or mistake a Latin conjugation borrowed from the Greek, or fall in love with their subject and miss an infidelity, but the whole of what they have to say will pass inspection and always be an enlightenment to the reader who is not politically predisposed. We are blessed with many such good historians in our time and I think this may sadly be a result of the failure of our novelists.

Since Homer, the novel has been a crib to history. But since Solzhenitsyn, with his greatest work behind us now by nearly half a century, there has not been a novelist who explained history so well in terms of the human experience. Not that I am aware of. Tom Wolfe, for instance, is capable of it but has narrowed his focus too much to our cultural deformities, perhaps believing the peculiarity is revealing. I have never been one to think a mole on the cheek is more revealing than a smile. In the same way, Hilary Mantel and Patrick O’Brien, as fine as they are, too easily hang by the small detail that does not enlarge the greater picture. Certainly Esther Forbes once rose to the challenge with her Paul Revere, but she too has been gone by half a century. And Robert Graves brought Claudius to live among us once again, but that time was the middle of the Twentieth Century and his work reflected the struggle then with political power and psychological deformity. There is entirely too much of the ‘post-modern’ about Umberto Ecco and his revelations do not ring true to me. The greatest historical novelists, Victor Hugo and Leo Tolstoy, rarely played it safe, did not write to formula, were not edited by accountants, and pleased themselves first. The melodrama they found was just the fact of the matter; or at least they make you believe it was so, and thus the history stays with you even when you have long forgotten the names and dates.

My own attempts in this regard are flawed I think by my hastiness, and by a lack of study and patience and discipline. I can argue that my time is constrained by the job that pays the bills (or most of them). I never had Tolstoy’s grand dacha, Yasnaya Polyana, nor the servants to go with it, or Hugo’s Hauteville House. That’s been my excuse and I’m sticking to it—but nonetheless, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn had far less comfort and convenience than I have had and did more with it. The matter of comfort may be the real matter here. We are too pampered in this time. Even Hugo and Tolstoy lacked many of the conveniences I take for granted. The delving I do is too much like rummaging. I collect characters like I do old typewriters and radios. I sell back-issue magazines in the shop because I want to read them myself, not so much for the public demand. The public wants old advertisements to frame on a wall. A sort of borrowed nostalgia in our plastic and digital age. I want the moment of time captured that such an ad made urgent, and thus the whole magazine is important. Even so, I am no better than a voyeur. I can lose an hour of myself in the pages of a Life magazine from 1952, as I did today. And it was not even that year that I had gone after.

In history we may see not only how one person did something extraordinary, or not, but how and what they did afterward, and again until they got it right, or finally failed to come down for breakfast. That is a story worth retelling, whether his or hers.








Miss Wheatley and Mr. Swan

or, the gateskeeper and the bookman



In fact, all of this was the very subject of a couple of the novels and a play in the past few years. And it does seem now that my entire life is just a series of imagined events—the small stuff of what I had actually lived as a mere bookseller, all of it book dust really, mixed with my own hemoglobin, laid thin like handmade paper is done and then racked up to dry on the bones of some plot or another that is really only something I have observed in the lives of others and stolen for my own purposes. It seemed that I never found the time to live the adventures I wanted to write about. Or found the courage to. Though some of those stories offered more solace, I think—especially in retrospect—than others; even those that took place in a world that had not yet been. The future imperfect was a useful tense for writing.


            ‘MBP07042073: 8:45’ James Michael MacCarthy’s entire name and history appeared on the screen, as well as the particulars of his current existence—even to the fact that he liked to be called ‘Jim.’ This same screen automatically came up with an attachment to any new case he had taken. It was part of the ‘quick’ Gateskeeper review, ostensibly to mark any conflicts of interest. He was 45—unmarried—graduated from the University of Massachusetts in 2041—had joined the force in 2042—made lieutenant five years later—made Detective with the Boston Metropolitan Police a year after that and Chief Detective in the five years following. Now, after nearly twenty-five years, he was a veteran and would receive some deference for this. He usually got the cases he requested, and there was no conflict with this particular one that any Gateskeeper, or any other AI, would see.

            Ten yards away through the glass partition, Jim could see Captain Emily Russo looking at her own screen. He guessed she would be looking at this same page. He could also see her full figure sitting at her desk, right down to the cross of her ankles. That was no accident. He was pretty sure she had moved her desk around to make that possible. For his part, he had just maneuvered his time to get a case where a wife had murdered her husband, over a book. Emily was his direct superior, and should be concerned about his request, but he also knew she was interested in him personally and would be wondering why he had taken on this particular and relatively unintriguing file. Her frequent criticism was that he had no ambition—too much of that being her own admitted failing. His only apparent fascination was in the points of whatever investigation he had taken on. And this was true enough, he did enjoy the puzzle of human actions.

            Jim typed a note in the gray-field for ‘marital status,’ adding the word ‘happily’ to the word ‘single,’ and then confirmed the change. Emily’s head jerked immediately and turned to glare at him through the glass partitions. He liked that she had a sense of humor. The Gateskeeper erased his annotation within seconds.

            Emily was seven years his junior. Too young for him now. The problem was, she would want a child. She deserved a child, if she wanted that. But he did not want that for himself. He had other responsibilities. Over twenty-thousand of them.

            Above the edge of his screen Jim saw Captain Russo stand, straighten herself to some advantage—she looked good to him any way—and walk in his direction. He pretended not to look at her saunter.

            She stopped directly in front of him and leaned on the metal case of hard files, making a fine indentation in the curve of her hip.

            “So, explain. What is it about this one? You keep doing this to me. I get you good cases and you knock them off and then go take things like this. What is it about this one?”

            “It looks peaceful. After the nursing home killings, I needed something quiet.”

            “Why didn’t you just take a simple felony?”

            “It’d be over in a week or two with a plea bargain and I’d be right back in the blood. I need something like this. The wife is going to fight this case in court. She says it was self-defence. Maybe it was. I got myself over there last night when the call came in—“

            “I saw that.”

            “—and did the due diligence. I spoke with her. And she’s going to fight. This’ll take weeks. Maybe months. Besides, it’ll give me a chance to clean up the paperwork on that bunch of elders who were killing themselves for sport. The hopelessness of all that kind of got to me and I’m behind. I know you haven’t said anything, but you already know, we’re all behind . . . And I need the breather.”

            Captain Russo sniffed.

            “Is she good looking?”

            No way to prevaricate that.


            “But it’s about the book, isn’t it? She killed him over a damned book. You always pay more interest to that sort of detail. I’ve noticed. Why?”

            He shrugged before he realized it would go down better if he actually answered the question.

            “They’re dangerous. Books make people sick. They get people killed.”

            “But that’s a myth! You know that!”

            “Sick in the head. There was a reason for all that hysteria back during the plague. It wasn’t that books carried the germs. They carried the dreams. The nightmares. It’s the ideas in them that are dangerous. Once they’re printed, they can’t be changed. They have to be destroyed.”

            Whatever was heard of the conversation, his own dislike for books would be understood.

            “Now you’re sounding like the nut who blew up the Library of Congress.”

            “You see, beneath this calm exterior, there is a nut.”

            “There’s likely some truth in that.”

            But she didn’t turn to leave.

            “Why does this case interest you in particular?”

            She was looking for something. He took a good breath to steady his voice. A little truth might go a long way.

            “That’s what killed my mother, they said.”

            “What? A book?” Russo straightened, her concern plain to see. “How?”

            “She got sick. She died during the plague. When I was eleven.”

            Emily Russo blew her own breath into the air in a near whistle before voicing her thought aloud.

            “Even if it wasn’t so, that might have left a mark. Did she think it was true at the time?”

            That was a lie he could tell without revealing anything else.

            “I don’t know.”

            The Captain stared off across room, where half a dozen other detectives worked at their own desks, and a dozen other desks behind empty chairs were cluttered.

            “What book would be so important that she would risk her own life, . . . or the life of her child?”

            It was not a question he expected and Jim answered reflexively, Gone With the Wind,“ and stopped himself at that.

            This was too much information. The AI had certainly heard him. Russo would be getting a query within moments and she would look it up in the hard files for confirmation.

            He had stolen that book the night his mother died, and before the police could take it away. He had replaced it with another. His mother had managed to accumulate half a dozen different books on her own at the time and he knew where they were hidden. But he had, in fact, been infected on that night—though not by plague. And he still had that book his mother was reading then. It was hidden now with all the others he had found through the years.

            Captain Russo looked down at him, but with the face of his boss. “But I don’t suppose that would disqualify you from the case. The Gateskeeper would have already highlighted the request.”

            He had to be aggressive about answering this.“Does it bother you?”

            She shrugged the question off. “No.”

            “Good. Because I can really use the rest.”

            “Take some vacation time.”

            “And go where?”

            Her official face dissembled. She could do that, almost instantly. It disquieted him.

            Her voice lowered. “I know of a little house on the Cape.”

            “It’s a nice little house. I know. But it’s yours. You take your own vacation.”

            She frowned and turned to leave, before pirouetting back.

            “What’s for dinner, Jimmy?”

            “Hot dogs.”

            “I’m having lasagna.”

            “I could use some lasagna too, but—“

            “No buts. Come get some lasagna. It’s my mother’s and she’ll be there. You’ll be safe.”

            It would not end until she scored some sort of victory. She was that persistent.

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            She turned again, took a step, but then came back once more.

            “By the way. What was the book this woman killed her husband over? It doesn’t say in the initial report.”

            “The sergeant was likely avoiding that, I think. It’s a long title. It was an Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections and Illustrations upon the Moral Sense by Thomas Hutcheson.”

            “Never heard of it. I’ll look it up.”

            She turned her hips as she retreated. From the corner of his eye he could see that others in the office noticed this as well.

            He saw her reading her screen again as soon as she sat down. She would probably wait to ask him about the title of his mother’s book this evening, at some relaxed moment. What would he answer? That he misremembered? It was a long time ago and somehow that title had always stuck in his head. Or simply, ’I really don’t remember what it was.’

            She would believe that because she wanted to.


I wrote that novel just last year. Not so funny the way I always placed my hero’s in their forties. Just a bit of cheap psychology, really. Those were easily my own best years. It was another chance to relive the moments lost, to correct a past imperfect.

But that sort of pettiness did not always dictate. I had used the detail about the Hutcheson book before. That kind of continuity is something I want in my work. The details matter. And Henry Knox, certainly a larger than life sort of fellow fully capable of supporting a great deal more, could handle both comedy and tragedy.


Without the sun to harden surfaces on that gray day, the heat raised the smell from betwixt the stones of the way. This phenomena was now much complimented by the sudden added gift of the large animal pulling the delivery cart. The boy charged with the task smiled as he handed the bundle of books across and then a bill.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Should have held him at the crossing an’ given him his chance there, but Mr. Lever tolt me ta be returned by nine and the crossing wast very filt with wagons fa’ the market.”

“You should have done. Too late now.”

Holding the parcel beneath one arm, Knox looked only briefly at the accounting. The smell was more than he wished to endure for longer than necessary. The sum, writ large, was sixteen shillings. He took the package and the bill inside and returned with the silver.


The boy nodded and hurried the horse. As the cart wheel cut the pie of offal and spread it further, Knox dipped his head beneath the lintel again and closed his door against the waft. Though the shop desperately needed air now, this was a poor exchange. There was no remedy. The rear window opened on the back of a fish market. And the boy was an indenture and could not be blamed for carelessness. A complaint would only get the kid a whipping. Knox shook his head in resignation to the indignities of life, and went directly to his desk to cut the string of the package.

Missing the grip of his recently lost fingers, the small knife fumbled in his hand and fell. He was not yet used to the mechanics of simple actions since his accident—but held now in the squeeze of his still swollen palm, the knife was steadied and the string broke cleanly at the pull of the blade. The thick waxed paper opened like on oyster shell to reveal the nest of leather-backed volumes. He counted them first and checked the titles against the invoice. The order was short of course, as it always was, but what was there would have to do. At least he had eighteen volumes out of the twenty-two requested.

All of them were used. The embargo as well as the price had dictated that. But the seller, John Paley in Philadelphia, was reliable, if a bit forgiving of condition. Knox paged them looking for the scars of previous ownership. Six of were embellished at the endpaper with the names of previous owners. And prominently, one contained a folded note. This book was a gallimaufry of plays by David Garrick, including The Irish Widow, a recent production at Drury Lane, and would please someone very much. He had included it in his wants with only the faintest hopes of satisfying Lucy’s wish before her birthday. He noted now that the volume, nicely trimmed and bound in Philadelphia, bore the fanciful bookplate of a James Wilson. Knox took the note in his good hand and unfolded it with the other.

‘My Dear Mr. Knox. Your request of books lately advertised in the Gazette arrived propitiously just as a regular customer, James Wilson was present. In exasperation, I noted aloud the impossibility of laying hands on anything by David Garrick and he spoke up immediately, saying he had recently had this particular volume bound for his own library. He offers it here to you with a special request for anything you might have or find in your neighborhood that was printed by John Franklin in the period of the 1720 to 1723 and might contain the written work of one ‘Silence Dogood,’ a name adopted as a nom de plume by Franklin’s younger brother, Benjamin. Mr. Wilson is a great friend to our dear philosopher and wished to make him a present of his own work which Mr. Franklin believes now to be lost. I suggested that if there was anyone in Boston who might have the presence to find such treasure, given your associations, it would be you. Thanking you in advance for this favor, your humble servant, John Paley.’

The door opened suddenly and closed as quickly again, the visitor’s brow was well furrowed by the odors, but the face was familiar.

“Good day!” The fellow spoke cheerfully, before Knox could greet him.

“Good day to you, Mr. Swan.”

“Aye. I thought I should stop by to see if you had sold any of my little book.”

Knox lifted his good right hand to the shelf beside the counter.

“Yes. Your ‘Dissuassion’ has stirred some interest. I can only hope it has persuaded some mind concerning the iniquity of slavery. One copy was returned with a comment on your impertinence. But three have happily sold.”

“Very good. . . . Yes. . . . But is there a chance then that you might pay me for those?”

“A chance, yes. But not today. I’ve spent my purse until someone else comes to fill it. . . . So! Would you like to buy a book, sir? I might pay you something then!”

Swan smiled at the wry humor the bookseller was known for.

“In as much as it appears I will never be rich myself, I suppose I should consider that. What have you?”

The man’s eyes surveyed the shelves on the walls.

Knox spread the waxed paper on the desk to better frame the pile of books in front of him.

“You are partial to philosophy, I gather. At least the political aspects. I have here a dozen and a half, mostly in that category, freshly arrived if not fresh from the printer.”

“As fresh, I hope, as the shite at you door!”

It was said with a grin and no offense.

“Indeed. But none of it as offal, I assure you. I even have here some recent work of your fellow countryman, Thomas Reid.”

“Something new?”

An Inquiry into the Human Mind on the Principles of Common Sense.

“Ah! I have it. Excellent!”

“Well, then . . . . A Treatise of Human Nature—“

“Hume! I find him dense.”

“Do you read French?”


“We can put the Rousseau aside then. . . . But here is one by another you will know. Francis Hutcheson?”

“What of that?”

Opened in his good hand, Knox held the volume up to catch the light. “Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions and Affections and Illustrations upon the Moral Sense

“How much is that?”

“How much do I owe you?”

“About two bits, I think.”

“The Hutcheson in trade, then?”


And as suddenly, the door opened behind Mr. Swan. This was a young woman, and with a look that immediately captured the bookseller’s face. James Swan turned, and then bent his head in acknowledgment. She was fair, indeed. Her name was Lucy Flucker and Swan knew her on sight, though he had never met her before. Her father was a vocal loyalist and some trouble.

But Knox smiled. “Good day, ma’am.”

She looked immediately to his hand.

“I’ve come to check on the patient.”

“I am fine.”

She reached across the desk and took the damaged hand, spreading the remaining fingers against her own. A single eyebrow raised.

“Not so fine as you were, I think.”

This was nearly rude, in public as it were, but Henry knew her method. Her habit was to speak directly and this was one other thing among the many that had already won him.

Swan took a measure of the woman’s obvious interest in the bookseller. It was time for him to leave.

“I’ll take the Hutcheson in trade then. Can you wrap it?”

Knox tore a section of the wax paper from the shipment, fumbled the knife again to cut a segment of the string and began to tie the package clumsily.

Swan stepped closer. “I might do that much.”

The lady appeared distressed at the sight.

Knox waved him off with a hard gesture.

“I will perfect this shortly. It’s just a matter of training. I must adapt.”

The statement was made for Swan, but he knew the pride in it was for the lady.


However, my favorite scene in that book is the encounter between Henry Knox, Phillis Wheatley, and John Peters, her future husband. I liked it so much that I have already written a play from it!


Scene: December, 1773. Henry Knox’s London Bookshop. A young black woman, Phillis Wheatley, small in stature and neat in domestic dress, softly enters, and closes the door carefully. She is carrying a package. Henry Knox, behind his counter and doing bookkeeping, pretends not to take notice. A black man, John Peters, as tall as Knox but thin and wearing shabby laborer’s cloths, with a leather apron, is already in the far aisle, stage left, browsing the history books there. The woman slips into the aisle at the far right, and sits on a stool, taking a volume from a lower shelf.


HENRY: [after a moment, and loudly] What minds me is the lack a civility these days. Some people will not greet you on the street. Others even, will come into your shop without a word.

[Phillis Wheatley stands abruptly so that her head can just be seen over the top of the shelf]

PHILLIS: Oh! My apologies, Mr. Knox. You looked busy and I had not wanted to be a bother.

HENRY: [smiling] You are never a bother, lass. Never mind my little joke. And how is your mistress. I hear she ails.

PHILLIS: Mrs. Wheatley is very sick. She stays abed most days now.

HENRY: Give her my regards, please. And tell her I have some of the newest editions of Miss Aphra Behn that she wanted. The diversion may lift her spirits. Oroonoko is the one she mentioned by title.

PHILLIS: Oh, yes. That one was for me, Sir. I had asked to read it.

HENRY: Excellent! [coming from behind the counter, he fetches the book from a shelf].

PHILLIS: But I haven’t the funds at present.

HENRY: On account then!

[Peters, taking notice of this, is looking on with a book still open in his hands]

PHILLIS: I shouldn’t spend what I have no prospect for.

HENRY: Why not? I do it all the time! [Phillis laughs, nervously. Henry leaves the book on the counter for her and turns] But prospects! What is this I hear about yourself—that you have written a book of poems! Why isn’t that already on my shelf?

PHILLIS: But it has only just arrived, sir. Yesterday. From Mr. Bell, in London. How could you know?

HENRY: Ha! I know much more. Mr. Hancock, who it would appear is acquainted with everything that transpires these days, has told me that your poems are excellent! He has commanded me to carry it in the shop. And I am his servant!

PHILLIS: [Coming toward the counter] He is very kind. He has even written some introductory words for me.

HENRY: I am certain it was his pleasure. He’s not a man to trifle over the value of a book. He owns this very building.

PHILLIS: [looks down at the package in her hand] Perhaps then you would make a trade with me. I have a copies of my book here. I was hoping . . . [Standing full figure before the desk now, holding her package up].

HENRY: Fabulous! Excellent! Done! And now that you have already sold one of those copies in your hand, for I will take it home myself, the Oroonoko is paid for! How many more do you have with you? Let me write up the receipt!

PHILLIS: Half a dozen.

HENRY: [Busily writing] Bring me all that you can. I will sell them to my Christmas customers! I can put it right here beside Mr. Swann’s excellent rebuke of the slave trade.

[Phillis has now taken note of John Peters staring at her and looks down again in modesty. Henry sees this and turns toward John Peters.]

HENRY: Mr. Peters! John Peters. Have you met our new poetess, Miss Phillis Wheatley?

JOHN: No, sir.

HENRY: You must. She and her mistress were among my first customers, for they live just around the corner. She is a genius! And much alike the two of us both for being self-instructed. But she has done wonders while we simply toil.

JOHN: [stepping out from the aisle into center stage, book still in hand] Good day, Miss. It is my honor.

PHILLIS: Sir! You embarrass me. I am a mere servant. The poetry is an allowance from God.

HENRY: My apologies. I was rude. It was my enthusiasm that got the better of me. I should not pronounce you a genius until I have had the pleasure of reading your book of poems, but I had read your elegies in the Gazette, so it is fair. You are our Aphra Behn—our own Anne Bradstreet!

PHILLIS: I am but a Phillis—a mere Philistine in such company. But I take your compliment as well meant. I thank you.

JOHN: [concern in his voice] And your Master is Mr. Wheatley?

PHILLIS: Truly, yes. But I am no longer his. Mrs. Wheatley has this very week given my manumission as a gift.

HENRY: Good glory! What a fine Christmas this is for you! A book and your liberty too!

[Phillis and John are staring at one another]

JOHN: I have known such a day myself.

HENRY: Yes! And perhaps the whole of our country should know it one day.

PHILLIS: [suddenly shaking her head as if to gain her senses] But please, do not put my small volume beside that of Mr. Swann’s. It might cause some worry for Mr. Wheatley. He should not regret his decision.

HENRY: Yes? Perhaps that is too bold a move. I should take Mr. Swann’s Dissuasion concerning the slave trade and place it away to the side during this happier season. Your book should have the full light, and pride of place!

JOHN: [eyes wide, still on Phillis, and clearly enamored] But I must wonder, how can you be so bold as your are?

PHILLIS: [looking down] I must apologize then.

JOHN: You should not apologize for a gift from God, but rejoice! It is God makes you bold.


It was noted by a one critic, Ardis herself, that my Mr. Knox was too ready to trade books rather than sell them. How could he have managed to pay his own rent— unless of course his landlord was a heavy reader?

But not all my historical narratives worked out so well. The Bones of Reason was another fiction I had drawn from the many sad reversals that hounded Tom Paine after he published his polemic against religion, The Age of Reason, and the aftermath of that and of his lost hopes for a deeper social revolution to support the political upheavals of that time. Paine’s own ideals had been savaged in the bloodbath of the French Revolution and the subsequent rise of Napoleon. The author of the greatest libertarian pamphlet of all time, Common Sense, had lived on to become an advocate of government power and enforced principles of behavior in order to prevent another such botch as the French had made. I argued in my little fiction that Paine’s original ideals had truly been lost at the close of the Eighteenth Century, compromised by the very sort of democracy he had actually wished for (as opposed to the Republic that was created with the U. S. Constitution), conceding to the demands of the mob over the few, or to the vested interests of the few over the many for a small remittance, and giving way at last to the fresh realities of the Nineteenth Century, an age of steam and manifest destiny, and the rise again of empire. (In my little tale I had Paine himself ask, while in danger of being arrested as a traitor for his activities, if the President who had endorsed these Alien and Sedition acts could truly be the same John Adams who had earlier signed the Declaration of Independence—but then, “turning inadvertently in his disgust, his eyes found the mirror above the bowl and pitcher, and stopping there in shock at the sight of his own pocked face, ‘Is that the mark of the beast I see upon that brow? Are my own brains corrupted by the greater pox of tyranny?’)

While on the one hand the British tyrant had been made to forfeit a large portion of his holdings in America in favor of individual rights and a citizen’s republic, power and brute force had triumphed after all. Had it not? The veterans of the war in Massachusetts who had won the Republic were never paid. Washington himself had led the army against the whiskey makers in Pennsylvania to establish federal authority to tax at will. The Eastern Tribes from the Carolinas to Alabama were soon enough divested of their treaty lands in favor of the speculators, while cotton filled American ears against the cry of slaves abused for the profit of the few. It was only then, given the apparent inadequacy of reason to fundamentally change the way mankind conducted its affairs, that the color and flare of Romanticism was taken up as a salve on the civic wound, like a new civic dress on an unwashed body politic, and a possibly better answer for the yearnings of the individual soul. Passion was an answer with a greater attraction, for a time, at least, having the sex appeal of a Byronic interpretation of freedom. (The Founding Father’s always lacked that sex appeal, I think.)

Paine’s own mysterious death and quiet burial in New Rochelle, where his remains would later be dug up by fellow radical and author, William Cobbett, was something of an anti climax, or at least an afterthought. The manner in which his physical remains were lost to history, was as Romantic a tale, I thought, as Shelley’s eternal swim, or Poe’s drugged stumbled into a gutter, or that of any other doomed hero of a past new age, or in that olden modern time. So I followed the bones of the great revolutionary as they traveled through the years afterward, all the while, and amazingly ( like Peter Pan’s instruction to Wendy concerning the means to fly), this Romantic willfulness to liberty had actually worked—for awhile—at least in part and for some. You see, the idea of America had worked, for a time, simply by wishing it to be—a sort of triumph of good will over baser instincts. As a child of my time, I believe that is so.

My actual ax to grind in The Bones of Reason had been the way my own generation of Baby Boomers had returned to that same dead-end of believing wishes trumped action and then, when they did not get their way with more immediate results, turned from peace marches to bomb making. All of that, in less than a generation! My own generation! I suppose my book was too negative to entertain any literary agents at the time it was written, despite a nifty plot centered around those bones, and involving a suspected murder and an unpublished work by the master polemicist himself, but then, neither had my more positive and lighthearted efforts, so that was likely not the real matter.

When I was a youth—younger at the time than either Ardis or Jack—I had foolishly thought that the whole world was on the verge of a change for the better. The puerile Sixties had become the dazed (and color impaired) Seventies. I suppose such egoism is the curse of all youth; to believe that everything will change, suddenly, in a single lifetime—your own. It is all about us, and me, after all. . . . Isn’t it?

And it’s the busting of such false hopes and promises that makes cynics of so many, especially when their focus is narrowed by that bathroom mirror.

As I say, at the heart of The Bones of Reason, I was addressing the ignorance in our own moment, more than that of 1835. But I had imagined, in that long ago time, that a resourceful young woman of that past new age, the proprietor of a second-hand goods bazaar engaged in her own willful reach and grasp for a better life, had won the auction bid on unclaimed articles in a storage locker at a small warehouse in London. Rummaging through the narrow space on which the rent had gone unpaid, she breaks into a rough wooden box labeled with an unfamiliar name. Pulling on the largest of the bones embedded there in the straw, she hold’s up the human femur to the lamp light while asking her male companion, “Who is Tom Paine?” (Perhaps a reader of Ayn Rand might appreciate the usage?) The fellow takes the bone, turning it end to end for a moment in soiled hands (I imagined this done like the apes once did in the film, 2001) and answers, “God, if I know,” before tossing it up and away into the heaps of debris.

I thought I was making my point clear—even with the calling out to God on behalf of the unrecognized atheist. Still, no agent or editor seemed to appreciate my view.


Which reminds me once again of the Henny Youngman joke where the patient says,’Doctor, it hurts when I do this,’ and the doctor answers ‘Then don’t do that,’ which was evidently stolen fair and square from the vaudeville pair, Smith and Dale, but I never actually heard them perform. In any case, I asked my own doctor once why he did not treat my pain. I was hurting a deal at the time from moving boxes of books. He said that’s not what doctors were supposed to do. His job was to fix what was broken and treat disease. Pain was another matter. It was a reaction. A symptom. And often enough, the pain was not caused by something that was broken, or diseased, but by something being done. And that I should stop doing it. In the mean time, keep taking the ibuprofen as directed on the bottle.

So I hired Jack, you see. And now you see what a mess I’m in.







Wednesday’s child has far to go

because revolutions are often bought but never borrowed




I have heard it said that Wednesday’s child has far to go. But if you knew that a particular Wednesday was going to be as long as it can get to be, you might just stay in bed.

Unlike the patch of real estate behind my shop on Charles Street, hollowed out there with asphalt parking spaces that rent for more per square foot than the apartments in the building, there is an actual ‘garden’ behind my little basement cave on Myrtle. Because that smaller scrap lies right there just beyond the single window of my kitchenette/dining room/living area, I have always used it as a sort of second room, even in winter. (Though the apartment was listed as a ‘one bedroom,’ the sleeping area is, in truth, only a large closet wedged beneath the stairs, and the airshaft window on that side is good for shadow but useless for light.)

The east to west charge of the sun catches my garden for some portion of the day during most of the year. A fence and gate cuts off direct access to the alleyway, and the buildings at this side block the winds that sweep up Beacon Hill from the Charles River. I’ve been in that apartment for six years and have few complaints. Among those few are too little heat and too much noise from the pipes. But the garden has shaped up very nicely. I have roses, morning glories, begonias, tomatoes and a few other assorted plants I lost the names for when I accidentally tossed the empty seed packets in the rubbish. All of these plants are in raised boxes constructed from scrap lumber and set up at the perimeter. I painted the boxes white just to brighten things. And some years ago I retrieved enough brick from a refuse dumpster beside a demolition over on Pinckney Street to cover the remaining ground space. It’s all very nice now.

The FBI had looked in every crevice of my apartment. And to my knowledge, those hounds were the only other human beings beside myself to have been in the place in all the years since I moved in. (Though this was not wholly intentional. I have invited at least one other person to stay there for a night, but the offer was refused.)

The other matter with that matter was, I had not allowed my children to visit me there. This was not only because of the absence of space, but that there is a certain lack of dignity in a sixty-plus year old man living in rooms smaller than his very first apartment had been, back when he was just eighteen. Consequently, the family generally gets together at Margaret’s, which is close enough, anyway. After all, that’s also the same apartment where they grew up, is familiar for them, and still comfortable and spacious by any comparison.

Since the one aforementioned rejection, I have come to look on my own quarter (it being difficult to describe the space in the plural) as a sort of private sanctuary. A hermitage sans hermit. I would not make a good hermit, in truth. I enjoy conversational intercourse too much, especially now that I don’t get the other kind. And now, knowing that the Fed’s had rifled through the place so thoroughly, I had the feeling of having been violated in some way and could not shake it. Thinking back, the only other time I’d ever felt this way was when I was eighteen or nineteen and that first apartment of my very own, in New York, had been burglarized.

It was this sense of things then which had taken me to the hardware store to buy a bucket of light green paint. (Green being the cheapest color, given the regular demands of our local Hibernians, but a little added white and a touch of yellow makes this less nationalistic). The idea was, considering that I could not pee at the perimeters of the space like a good wolf, I would paint the entire place and shift a few things to new locations and thus reaffirm my personal dignity. (No, that smacks a bit much of psychobabble. Like I say, I was simply reasserting my territorial rights.) And this was, after all, a simpler project than even the limited square footage made necessary. I have bookshelves over every clear expanse of wall greater than three feet in width. No need to paint behind those. Mostly it was just a matter of moving my bed a few feet to the opposite end of that cavity beneath the stairs. But then, after one sleepless night that way, I shoved it back to the original corner due to a nightmare that I attributed to disorientation. I am too old for such radical change, perhaps. I liked the green, however. Very soothing.

And if you are wondering, this is all very pertinent to the fact that Deirdre soon came to visit. And this happened due to a misunderstanding. Or so I thought.

She called the shop and asked to speak with me. She actually asked Ardis, who answered the phone. And Ardis likely answered this request in a tone of voice appropriate to her feelings about reporters in general, and Deidre in particular.

When I got to the waiting receiver by following the curl of the cord to where the receiver dangled into the trash can—Ardis’s traditional indication that the call is not worth taking—Deirdre said, “Can we talk?”

I said, “Sure.”

She said, “Not at the store.” A brief pause let me understand her reluctance to speak anywhere in the vicinity of Ardis. “Is there someplace else?”

I say, “How about the Paramount,” that being a former diner that’s been thoroughly yuppified, but the closest possibility I could think of that might meet the immediate demand. Given taxes and the subsequent rents, Downtown Boston no longer has anything like a simple diner.

I can see her shake the short bleach-blond curls on her head, even over the phone. She says, “Everyone will see us there. You said you live close. How about your apartment?”

I hesitated. I don’t know why. So she added, “You’re a bachelor. I know. I’ve seen bachelor apartments before. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m sure it’s not so bad as all that.”

“I suppose. Sure. When.”

“How about now. I’m just a couple blocks away looking for a parking space.”

It was mid-afternoon and what crowd had been in the shop had gone back to their shifts at the hospital or their offices. I gave her my home address.

She was sitting on the front stoop by the time I got to Myrtle Street.

By making a pot of coffee right off the bat, I gave her ample time to look the place over.

She says, “It’s cozy,” as she wanders the meager open space at the geophysical center. This word, of course, means it’s very small, which is not news. She peeks into the gloom of my bedroom and then seemed to give an extra look to the bed, which is even narrower than a standard size to allow for a little walking space.

She smiles unconvincingly. “I like it. And clean. Neat. Even your bed is made up. I’m impressed.”

I would have admitted to my recent efforts at interior decoration but this sounded like another of her left-handed compliments. She is left-handed after all. I answered, “I have a maid service come in once a month to shovel it out.”

She said, “I’m sorry,” but nothing else to compensate for her assumptions. After a quick review of the bookshelves she stood at the sink, looking out the window at the flowers, so I suggested we go there and opened the door from the hall. A nice burst of sun warm May air met the dank atmosphere within. On the way through she stopped to look closely at a picture of my three children. This was taken some years ago at the rim of the Grand Canyon. She did not comment on the photo at first. But she seemed immediately relieved afterward to be out of the darker confines of the apartment.

Thankfully my little wrought iron table outside has two chairs. I took the flower pot off the one I don’t normally use and sat there.

(Another side note: this outfit of furniture was picked up at a yard sale where I’d been buying books one day, and purchased for the grand price of ten dollars because the welding had cracked on one of the leg braces. The fix had cost me an additional ten dollars to have it re-welded at a local garage on the way home that same Saturday. And this memory suddenly brought up another thought about George Reilly. I had mentioned my bargain purchase to him in passing and he had said he did some welding too and would gladly trade me that service for books the next time I needed something done. Trading was a word which had came up more than once in my conversations with George. Perhaps it was just the welding that prompted the idea now, but I suddenly had a vague memory of a figure in the libertarian movement of my youth, an argumentative fellow named Karl Hess, who was so much in demand by the IRS for refusing to pay his taxes that he could only barter his services to make a living. He had been a welder too.)

My thoughts were interrupted by Deirdre’s comment immediately upon escaping the confines of the indoors.

“Very nice,” she says as she scans the plants, and then, “Your kids look very healthy.”

“They are. Knock on wood.” I reached over and rapped at the fence. “I can’t keep up with them anymore. When we go camping these days I usually sit down by the tent and volunteer to keep the bears away while I read a book and they go off climbing things.”

She smiled appropriately and then grew instantly serious. “I’m sorry to pull you away from work, but I wanted to talk to you about the situation you’re in.”

Pausing there, she gave me one of those searching looks of empathetic awareness that I immediately judged to be a practiced tool of her trade. Using such ploys, she is probably good at getting her subjects to say more than they should during interviews.

By way of escaping that look, I automatically said, “You mean the situation my situation is in,” but she frowned, so I added. “It’s an old song lyric. Just popped into my head.”

She wisely shook that off as a distraction. Her voice deepened a notch, adding extra gravity to the afore-mentioned empathy. “Look, you should know that your friend Mr. George Reilly is a bad dude.”

This was stated as if it were a matter of fact.

“Really? How do you know that?”

“I have a source inside the FBI.”

“And you think that source is reliable?”

She says, “Yes,” but the ‘yes’ was said as if to say ‘of course.’

Attempting to keep my own tone as pleasant as possible, I answered, “Because I think it’s more likely they’re using you to get at him through me.”

This changed the look on her face to one of surprise. Perhaps she had not really considered that possibility.

“You know your Mr. Reilly is operating under a pseudonym?”

“I believe so.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Yes it does. I’m very unhappy that we live at a time in our nation’s history when a person has to adopt a false identity just to live a honest life.”

“But he could be involved in some criminal activity. Subversion. Terrorism!”

“I think the FBI is involved in doing just that. Subverting the Constitution. Everyday.” It seemed like a good moment to break the direction of the conversation, I got up to get the coffee, which was likely ready, and added, “Cream? Sugar?”

She just shook her head. She realized then, I think, that her tack was getting nowhere and stopped to consider what I’d said, or reconsider her own approach. I went inside and poured the coffee and brought that out.

Immediately she started off again with, “What makes you so sure of this guy?” This appeared to be the common question.

I used the Jesuit tactic and returned a question in answer. “Why are you so ready to trust the government? They’ve already lost my trust. Their corruption does not stop with the money, any more than their contempt for the nation these days ends at the water’s edge. It’s all about the power now. Perhaps it always was. But it’s certainly lost its few checks and balances.”

Now this provocation on my part appeared to alter whatever direction she had planned to take in her own inquisition.

She shakes her head at me as if I’m hopeless. “You can’t set up as a law unto yourself.”

“Never would. Laws should apply to everyone. But we ought to at least consent to them first. That’s the process outlined in the Constitution, I believe. Most of what is happening today we’ve never consented to by direct vote or otherwise. It’s rule by bureaucrats. But we’ve had that discussion already, haven’t we?”

We hadn’t. Not really. I could pontificate on the subject for hours, given the chance. But she nodded, “Yes. We did,” and was probably glad to have avoided the possibility of yet another lecture.

She hesitated with her first sip of coffee, before drinking it normally. I have to admit, I make a good cup of coffee. So I took the opening chance, as she was enjoying that, to change the subject again. “What made you want to be a reporter?”

Immediately she answers, “Watergate.”

“Really? Or is that just your set answer? Because I’ve heard it before from other reporters, and given the fabrications involved in that fiasco, it makes me wonder.”

I think for an instant she was going to put on her indignant face again, but she winced instead.

“I suppose there were a few more compelling reasons. My father had just paid for my liberal arts education and my useless major in English and suddenly he had a heart attack and I had to earn a living. There happened to be internships available at the Post. I just never left.”

“That sounds more like it. Life usually happens while you are busy doing something else. I set out to write novels and ended up selling books instead. But I think we both did pretty well, after all.”

Eyebrows rose over periwinkle eyes, “You think?”

I was more interested in discussing periwinkles, but no chance for that.

“Sure. I see a hundred people a week who come in the shop looking for a book to read so they can escape from their daily lives. I’ve never really had to. I’ll bet you never did either.”

I’m immediately sorry for saying this. She knows I know the sort of things she reads, but she avoids the admission by answering, “I don’t read serious fiction these days. You probably noticed. But I don’t have the time.”

I was thinking it was better to focus on her than on myself, so I added, “Sure you do. You just haven’t been exposed to the good stuff.”

Now she gave me the indignant face I had expected before. I had finally stepped on a metaphorical toe. She protests, “I’m an English major, for Christ’s sake!”

“Which is probably another reason you became a reporter instead. The fiction they make English majors read is pretty awful.”

She set her mug down. “You are so full of opinions!”

I was going on the offensive now, even if I might offend. She was in my territory, after all “What did you read before you became an English major? What were your favorite books when you were a kid?”

She shrugged. “The usual stuff.”

“Like what.”

Anne of Green Gables. To Kill a Mockingbird. My mother was a Willa Cather fan so I read a few of those. And Jane Austen. And Daphne du Maurier. An awful lot of Agatha Christie mysteries.”

“But that’s not the sort of thing they let you read at Radcliff, is it?”

“How did you know I went to Radcliff?”

“I looked you up. Just the way you did with me.”

She hung her head just a little. “No, they didn’t. Suddenly it was all Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath. Not even Cather, but a lot a male authors who were terrible misogynists, like Hemingway and Faulkner and Updike and Salinger—you know the lot . . . Not half the fun. That was the 1970’s, you understand. But you’re right. The non-fiction was suddenly more exciting.”

I knew what she was there for, but I had to have my fun, so I picked at the edge.

“Can it be that Hemingway and Faulkner and even Updike were not misogynists, but simply the natural product of a past moment, and a culture, that’s since changed.”

She gave that idea a grimace of practiced contempt. “We don’t have slaves anymore but that doesn’t make what we used to do any less than the ugly slavery it was.”

This was like the all-purpose Hitler argument. Where did it lead?

“True. Slavery is mean and inexcusable, isn’t it? But it was a worldwide practice well before the rise of our Western culture tried to put an end to it. It’s still practiced today in much of the non-western world. China. India. In every Moslem country. But of course, it was more efficient for the subsistence tribal societies of the distant past to simply kill those they captured rather than try to feed them.” She was giving me a look that displayed her unhappiness with the fact that I had pursued the subject matter any further. Too late. Now she would get her lecture in any case. “You probably know that the American Indians used to take captured women into the tribe as slaves, but then their offspring were treated like regular members of the club. I suppose it would have been better for those female captives to have been killed after they were raped.”

She shook her head, but her tone was not emphatic. “That’s not for us to judge.”

“No. I guess it’s not. So much easier and more convenient to judge the past by present standards. And just fine by today’s standards to ignore the way women are treated in Muslim countries while condemning some corporation for having a glass ceiling, or overlooking the use of slavery in China and India and Indonesia to make all that cheep plastic kitchenware we love so much when we make our tasty dishes. But of course, you might recall, we didn’t have the pill until the 1960’s. The code of conduct toward women that you so disdain was fashioned at a time when protecting them was a lot more crucial to the survival of the family and society. And then again, given the joys of syphilis and gonorrhea and herpes, I’m sure you can’t believe the sort sexual freedom we enjoy today was possible before penicillin? Or even a good latex condom. But those both came along about the same time, just in our parent’s generation . . . Or can you?”

I hoped that this was way too much to argue over. But then she fell back to the safety of boilerplate. The way most journalists do, she chose one small carrot from the pot that might get her out of the stew.

“Women were treated like second class citizens in America. They still are.”

“Really? You don’t strike me as someone who ever thought of herself as second-class.”

“I don’t. But I thought we were talking about misogynists like Hemingway. Remember?”

“And I was disagreeing with the premise. Hemingway had many faults, as we all do. Though he didn’t lose his manhood in the war, he had certainly seen others who suffered that and he must have imagined trying to live that way—like Jake Barnes—as a perfect metaphor for what war did to men. The Sun Also Rises is not really a portrait of the ex-pats in Paris as much as it is a reflective consideration of what the war had done to him, as a man, don’t you think? And Maria is the most sympathetic character in For Whom the Bell Tolls. Yes? And Pilar is no wimp, either. You’ll recall, men used to fight the wars in those days, and women only got to suffer the consequences. His books are very personal, after all. Or is that more of the sort of insipid solipsism that’s all too common in so much of modern literature? “ Her mouth hung open at my onslaught. “But, in retrospect, I do think it’s a little boring to read about all those lost souls in Paris. Lady Brett never appealed to me, no matter how dependent she was on men.”

I had let more than a touch of the pedant into my voice, and Deirdre was giving me a cold stare for that and more.

“I came here to warn you about your friend. Not for a lesson.”

“Fine. But you also came here to get more information out of me. You’re a reporter. We just covered a whole lot of stuff in a couple of minutes. And it’s such a very nice day for a chat.”

Her obvious unhappiness with me would have been all the worse had she been able to read my mind. I was actually thinking just then that women of a certain age often become very unreasonable because of previous experience, and that was a pity because they are often better looking and far more interesting than the younger ones for the same reason.

Then again, maybe she read my mind after all. There was much else I wanted to know about her. But she stood abruptly, thanked me for the coffee, and left through the alley gate in the fence.


David Brooks usually shows up on his monthly visits to pick up our accounting paperwork after 2 PM when things get quiet again. He knows our routines. David is a dapper dresser. His suits always fit him perfectly. I’ve never seen him in a pair of jeans. And he hates rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi in the narrow aisles. But because I wasn’t there when he arrived, he had to endure the new crowds we were drawing, for just a little longer that afternoon.

Not noticing at first, and with other stuff on my mind, I went right back to work when I returned from my little kaffeeklatsch, but he found me quickly enough in the fiction aisle where I was putting up some new stock.

He says, “What’da ya got for me?”

He doesn’t mean the financial records. He means books. He sometimes reads several a week. This is apparently the residual curse of having taken an Evelyn Wood reading course when he was in college. As I have repeatedly told him, he would do better to read more slowly and think about what’s being said. But David is already damned by his belief in the numbers. Quantity can be calculated with precision. Quality is a matter of judgment. Opinion cannot be accurately tallied, computed, or reckoned, so he discards that—except to ask me what he should read next. I suppose I should take that as a compliment and ignore the contradiction.

I direct him to a few recent items he won’t be able to resist. He’s a sucker for the sort of history titles that promise to explain some crucial moment in the past or a compelling character. I have recent ones on the battle of Agincourt and another on the fabulous Alexander von Humboldt. He wanders off again to locate them.

Just at that moment, Deirdre shows up again. She finds me right where David did. Her baby blues are flashing and I can’t avoid seeing that, because she stops directly in front of me. But I’m thinking just then that they are more of an azure hue. Very nice.

As if in the middle of the discussion, she says, “I’m not a pawn, you know. I’m not doing their bidding. I just wanted to warn you about something that you ought to treat more seriously. Obviously you don’t have any respect for me.”

She stopped herself there—maybe a little flustered for being unable to come up with something better. Then she stomped out before I could manage a good retort. She was wearing high heels and those spikes clicked on the wood floor rather loudly and it was difficult not to appreciate the shape of her calves. I could see Ardis’s face leaning out over the counter nearer the front and smiling.

David reported back to me before I could gain my equilibrium.

“Was that the lady from the Post who wrote that piece?”


He says, “Lucky,” as he nods.

I didn’t know how he meant that. But my own thought then was that I should follow Deirdre to see where she’d gone. Maybe get a few more words out of her. It turned out, that wasn’t far. Her car was parked a block away and she was just standing there by the meter, blindly staring into the street.

Then again, I wasn’t sure what to say. Whether or not this was some sort of manipulation of my apparently obvious interest in her, she was clearly upset. Was it cynical to think she might have expected me to follow her?

I stopped at the granite curbing of the sidewalk a few feet away and tried starting over again, “So why did you want to be a reporter? And don’t give me that bullshit about Watergate this time.”

I wanted to say something she did not expect, but oddly, she was ready with an answer. She didn’t even turn to face me.

“Because I wanted adventure. I didn’t want to end up like my mother, tending to an empty house. I wanted to see the world and write about it.”

“And instead you’ve spent your life in Boston. Not the hub of the universe after all. But you must have figured out that mistake pretty quick.”

She turned around then and leaned back against the fender of her car. I thought she was genuinely relieved that I had followed her in any case, and that I was there.

She actually smiled her thought before she got the words out. “Yes. I think I did. But there was one thing, or another. For a bunch of years I was stuck on this particular fellow on the editorial staff. Jason. Then he got a job offer at the Times in New York and went there, and I used to visit him. Sometimes twice a week on the train. And that lasted until I finally noticed he was seeing someone else as well. So then I turned around and made the mistake of marrying another guy instead. Probably just a reaction to Jason.” She forced her cheeks up into a false smile. “Pretty dumb. Right? Ed, the fellow I married, was the better man but he was almost twice my age. He was a fitness nut and he had me running with him every morning before work. Always used to run ahead of me. A matter of pride, I think. And then one day he had a heart attack. Right there, in front of me.” The face went briefly blank. “Odd to think about that now, because I’ve already caught up with him now in age—and then sum—And then there were other things.” She looked down as if there was some shame in this to avoid. “But there’s security in knowing your job. Knowing how to do it well. And I really don’t know where the time went.”

This was far more of a confession than I could come up with an easy response to, so I joined her against the fender of her car and fell back on one of my more constant thoughts. I didn’t mean to lecture then. But given her admission, I felt slapped, and it felt like a good defense.

“Time is the matter, isn’t it? The only matter that counts, maybe. I think, despite what the physicists say. Life is such a temporal thing. Transitory. Ephemeral. The chemicals that make us, and all those atoms, they’ll endure in one form or another even as we, the living, pass through them.” She was frowning now. The humor of the thing was a little too subtle, I suppose. But I kept with the thought. I wanted at least to finish the thought, however off the mark. “As for myself, I think it’s why I’ve always been enchanted by the brief and passing nature of flowers. And that’s just Mr. Hamlet again, and the wise Shakespeare. To be, or not to be, once again. All we have to value is our time. It’s the only thing that’s ours to give, or to spend. The only thing of real importance because it’s so ephemeral and because it is actually precious. And more importantly, I think it’s the one thing that others can truly take away from us.”

She suddenly laughed out loud. More of a hoot.

“Why didn’t you become a teacher? Then you could have been paid for your little orations.”

I shrugged at the hopelessness of that idea. “Maybe because I realized everything these days is a matter of sound bites, and I tend to chew.”

She shrugged back at me. “I’m sorry I walked out on you. I didn’t really have that much more to say. And I was suddenly at a loss. But you’re right. I was just there doing my job, wasn’t I? I wanted to see how you lived. You know—for background detail. More than what you were saying to provoke me, I think it bugged me that you live just like I hoped you would. Like you should, really. Like a hermit in his cave.”

And I had to laugh again at that. It was my exact thought, after all. But I defended myself instead. “I thought you’d like the garden.”

“Very nice. But I have a brown thumb. I buy cut flowers.”

“And I thought you liked the coffee.”

“The coffee was very good. But I get mine on the way to work every morning at the Dunkin’ Donuts. Extra large. My own apartment is a bloody mess. And I know you don’t approve of the sort of novels I read. But you should know that now I’ve read the two of yours that were published. And I noticed in both of those that you were already giving your little lectures forty years ago. You’re consistent in that way as well. Even with the politics . . . And also, . . . that I think we are about as opposite as two people can be.”

That idea did not take a lot of consideration on my part.

“No. I think Margaret and I are as opposite as two people can be. But I think you’re generally correct. And I think life is too short to always be at odds.”

She raised both eyebrows, as if in real surprise—it was the azure that caught the sky—and then she slapped her hands together, and hooted once again.

“Now, that’s out of the way, why don’t you take me out to dinner tonight?”

It suddenly felt like the day had just begun. I told her I’d pick her up just after seven.


But then, before I can get back to the door of the shop, I see two large, white and conspicuously unmarked SUV’s pulled up on the street and several burly fellows in ties and blue blazers start their unloading. They carried the boxes directly to the back room and emptied them right into the open file drawers.

Inside, David was still there and looked on approvingly. This was his doing and he was not reluctant to tell me so.

He says, out loud. “You just have to know how to talk to them.”

The problem with saying this aloud was that Mr. Clifford overheard the comment. He’s right there too, and he stands up close to David as he keeps an eye on his guys and says, “These were coming back anyway. Glad we could accommodate you on that. But I’m sure you’ll find the IRS less interested in making you happy.”

David says right back to him, “Harassment can be a bitch for both parties.”

“We’re just doing our job.”

“Pretty sad sort of work, I’d say.” David looks him up and down. “But then, you look like you might be the kind of fellow who enjoys it.”

“Don’t get smart.”

It was the type of instruction that did not need an answer. The store had quieted as the men brought in the boxes. Several customers had even stopped their browsing to watch. They all took note of Mr. Clifford’s tone and looked after him as he turned and left.

David sighed and handed me a business card. This was for an attorney, Martin Guinn.

He says, “Marty will be expecting your call,” as he leaves.


I was determined to get Deirdre into my truck, so I’d insisted on picking her up at her apartment in South Boston. Especially now, given that she’d naturally see this particular wheeled toy as a sorry extension of my aging manhood. Besides, women like pick-ups. At least I’ve heard it said. And mine is a two-tone red and white 1984 Ford-150. A ‘three-on-the-tree’ manual. I take good care of it and there are not many on the road in that condition. It’s a pretty thing to see.

But climbing in with high heels is a trick and I watch attentively. She digs the seat belt out of the crevice and buckles in like she was getting on a roller coaster. Right off, she was duly fascinated by the shifting. The bench seat opens up the cab nicely, unlike the unsociable separation of more modern bucket seats and a floor-mounted shift. When I was younger and first dating Margaret, a previous version of the same truck was an important factor in our relationship. And as I have noted before, women have a natural affection for trucks, which they should not deny.

On the way, Deirdre was not as impressed as she should have been with the original 8 track tape deck, which still works just fine. You just can’t find much in the way of classical music on 8-track anymore, so I have a CD player screwed in just below. She apparently likes rock’n’roll. I keep an assortment of disks in a shoebox there on the seat to avoid listening to the radio. Mostly it’s classical stuff. I already had the Granville Bantock English Suites pushed in there and it starts playing automatically. Nice driving music. However, she might have wanted some jazz to go with my jive.

In the spirit of the thing, I took her to Arlington for some barbeque and pecan pie. I had aspirations, of course. I admit that, but on this first real and official date, I did not get very far in that regard.







Mistakes have been made

wherein I am concerned with death and taxes




Deidre’s story in Thursday’s Post was problematic—that is, of debatable value and uncertain purpose.

It was shorter than I’d hoped. Maybe it was edited down by a higher authority. It concentrated mostly on recent trespasses by the FBI upon others, before getting to yours truly. The headline, ‘Boston Bookseller’s Privacy Concerns Shared,’ might have been improved by including the name of the shop instead of the geography. ‘Concerns’ is an equivocal word, intimating something but lacking substance. ‘Privacy’ suggests concealment as much as it does any constitutional prerogative allotted to me by the due process clause of that terribly overwritten Fourteenth Amendment. And the act of ‘Sharing,’ long since separated at birth from any other human kindness, has been inculcated from pre-school onward as a necessary requirement to avoid public shaming with guilt attached that is more akin to the Catholic concept of original sin, necessitating appropriations by government followed by forced redistribution. Other than that, it was fine.

Then again, the headline was not likely written by Deirdre, and the piece itself did not mention any of the details from our discussion over ribs, collard greens and fried sweet potatoes of the evening before. I suppose she must have handed this particular story in earlier in the day because I’d told her over dinner that the files had been returned and she did not include this detail in the story.

Margaret showed up first thing the next morning to bemoan the fact of the matter, nonetheless. She says, “Your fifteen minutes is up. The lady reporter is bored with you. Obviously smarter than I was. Maybe you should have taken her for a ride in your pick-up.”

I shrugged that off with the empty brag. “I did.”

Margaret registered surprise with a full facial drop.

“You’re kidding? And that’s all she wrote? You’re losing your touch.”

I ignored the assumptions.

“But you’re right, in any case. The whole thing will probably blow over now.” As this admission was made, I pulled the check that was already made out to her. “And here’s the rent. Better grab it before I spend it on more books.”

She examined the check, like she does, as if expecting a mistake.

She says. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Why don’t you call some of your author friends again and have them sit in the window and write stories like they used to.”

I sighed, mostly at the truth of the matter—I’d already thought about it. But I don’t have as many ‘author’ friends as I used to. When writing doesn’t pay the bills, most people move on to other means. Some of them are too old for such pranks now. Some I’ve disaffected through the years, as they went politically correct in order to stay in favor with the critics. I tell her a few of the facts. “That kind of exhibitionism has gone out of style. They’d have to do it in the nude to even get us a photo much less the mention in the paper. And anyway, I imagine my old buddies wouldn’t look so good au natural these days. Except for Pauline, of course, but then, Ned wouldn’t let her. He’s a very jealous husband.”

The recommendation had been made rhetorically. I knew that. But Margaret has good instincts (with the one notable exception). Perhaps it was worth a second thought.

She folded the check carefully and put it in her purse. “I’d better get to the bank before the IRS garnishes your account.”

I said, “A wise move.”

Now, there is a young broad-faced fellow, clearly in need of some beach time, who’d come in and wandered about the shop. He was close-by as I spoke to Margaret, and somehow I knew just then, without introduction, who he was and why he was there as he turned on her comment.

He said, “I don’t think that’s going to be happening right away.”

He pulled a card from his pocket and pushed it across the counter at me. The Internal Revenue Service had arrived.

Funny thing. Except for the fact that his hair was about an inch too long, he could have been working for the FBI.

I asked him what I could do for him. Margaret backed up a step, as if he might be contagious, and watched. Ardis wasn’t there yet, and I was happy for that. She might have made a remark, and my rule was, never talk back to the police, or the FBI, or the IRS, or anyone with a gun. This particular dictum had been made explicitly one evening when Ardis had argued with a guy who was trying to hold us up—with the gun right out there in his fist where she could see it. As if she were invincible. His warning shot punched a neat hole in the edition of Books-in Print we keep on a shelf behind the counter. Scared the crap out of me.

Another aside: for whatever reason, that ne’er-do-well robber had stomped out of the store after only the one shot and a spiel of blue rhetoric, more like a kid who had been rebuked by his mother than an experienced thug. (He had first intended to rob the liquor store across the street in any case, but was frustrated there by the larger crowd—our shop had obviously been an afterthought.) Ardis can have that effect on you when she says something like, “You’ve got to be kidding?”

The IRS agent’s name was Peter Marciano and he looks as Irish as his name is Italian, right up to the pinking at his ears. Unlike the FBI, he actually extended his hand, so I shook it in an effort to show some good faith. But I did not see much of a friendly glint in his eye. I resisted the impulse to immediately wipe my hand on my jeans.

He says, “You understand that we have a job to do,” as if that were an excuse rather than a statement of fact.

I nodded and said, “Sure,” and smiled, not caring if the smile looked insincere.

He says, “Your accountant has been talking with our office. I thought I should come over and take a look around just to get some context. Do you have a moment?”

I told him I was alone in the shop, and he took that in with a nod toward Margaret.

“Is it alright to take a look in the back room?”

I nodded at that too.

With Mr. Marciano away at the back, Margaret leans in toward me.

“Are you up-to-date with your taxes?”

I shrugged. “About as much as usual.”


We were always behind, of course. At that point, I was in arrears for about three months worth. Mostly withholding taxes. The recent flurry of business might help with this problem, though it would likely still leave us a bit short in the end, given that there would be even more taxes to pay on the additional income and the added part-time staff, and of course the stock we had sold would have to be replaced.

Mr. Marciano returns shortly, looking a little perplexed. Actually frowning, with his lips pursed in thought and one finger scratching behind a pink ear. I wrote that off as something similar to Deirdre’s tendency to physically dramatize her thoughts with a sudden body movement.

Looking straight at me, his head tilted to the side as if to get a better sightline, and he says, “Is this it? You don’t have a warehouse somewhere?”

“No. Not anymore. Can’t afford it.”

I had gotten rid of the expense of a separate warehouse soon after the divorce.

Mr. Marciano taps at the air in front of him then with the same finger, gestures toward me, “You buy a lot of your books at auction. I think I saw a number for that in the paperwork from Mr. Brooks. Something like 30,000 volumes last year. And more than that the year before. And you’re buying new books too, right? About 12,000 volumes, wasn’t it? How many books would you say are in here now?”

No need to be precise. “About 50,000, including the back room.”

“And you sold what, about 24,000 volumes total last year, including the mail orders—about 6,000 new and 18,000 thousand used?”

There was no ‘about’ about it. I say, “You must have stayed up late to read all of that.”

“I like working late. Kids are in bed. I can concentrate. So how do those numbers work? I understand that you return some of the new stock that goes unsold to the publishers, but you should have more books here than I see.”

That was when Margaret spoke up.

“He gives them away.”

Mr. Marciano turned to her and shakes his head with a jerk, like he’s clearing his brains.

“What? How’s that? . . . You’re Mr. McGeraughty’s ex-wife, am I right?” She shrugged. He extended his hand to her and she shook it with obvious reluctance. I don’t think she had intended to speak up. The statement probably slipped out because it was a matter that often seemed to come to her mind and the very idea of it continued to burn.

It was my turn. The explanation was simple enough. “I have a book sale every year. I mark down the things that aren’t selling. But business has been even slower lately so I gave a lot of stock away last year. I even opened up the back room.”

He squinted at me with doubt.

“Is that on your filing?”

“I think it gets listed under depreciated stock. I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask Mr. Brooks. I leave all that to him.”

Mr. Marciano just stands there then, his head and shoulders hunched forward, looking at me as if I’m a specimen.

Margaret asks, “Is it illegal to give books away these days?”

This question smacked of a certain attitude that I knew was not natural to her. She’s always argumentative, but mostly on the side of common sense. But then again, she knew the way I thought about things, even if she did not approve.

Mr. Marciano was obviously aware of the facts. We’d sold $384,000 worth of books. That came out to about $16 per book. I usually don’t count the greeting cards because they barely break even for the space they take at the front of the store, but they do help sell books (though most people don’t read much themselves, they seem to think everyone else should read more and books make nice gifts.) I calculated once that this generosity of spirit (or desire to dictate what others read, however you judge it) amounted to almost twenty-five percent of our total new book sales. The greeting cards helped greatly with that, especially around Christmas time.

What was clearly puzzling to the math-impaired mind of Mr. Marciano, given his late night studies, was the knowledge that, the greeting cards aside, I had spent over $40,000 dollars buying used books last year. I had paid about $64,000 for the new books sold. Our rent, even with us running behind, amounted to $130,000 per annum. Utilities took another $18,000. Combined insurance costs were $48,000. Combined salaries were $64,000. This and a few thousand for incidentals like gasoline and truck maintenance, paper and ink for the printer, and light bulbs, etc., amounted to $370,000. The remainder was around $14,000. That was, in essence, my own salary—my income—of which $16,000 went to my apartment rent. Food and clothing then were clearly optional. The numbers did not compute. I did not need a math major to inform me of that.

The fact of the matter was that, Social Security was now subsidizing me to the tune of an additional $14,800 a year. Even though I had been paying into that particular government scam for more than fifty years, the truth of it embarrassed me.

This then was the economic pressure that weighed on my conscience as I debated what should be done to maintain my presence in the pages of the newspapers. Naturally, it had already occurred to me that far more people watched television than read the newspapers, but I did not know any reporters at the local TV stations. That was, in fact, one more plus for the idea of having naked authors sitting in our window (even if I could slip such a conceit between the covers of the First Amendment by having them busily writing while they displayed the ravages of time on their sagging flesh). Sort of the way the prostitutes do it in Amsterdam. A Dutch treat. But without the sugar glaze.

Getting old in this republic, or any republic perhaps, is not often a satisfying turn of events. I cannot lift the boxes I once hoisted without thought. I have had to hire extra part-time help to keep the store open the usual hours because I often get tired before I turn the key in the door at night. This, by itself, is a major disappointment to me. A palpable dispiriting. I was sure that I had at least another ten years in me. Now I am not so confident. But them’s the breaks, as they say. Not much I could do about that.

For many people growing old becomes a constant accounting of past mistakes. There are no ‘do overs’ in real life, so there is usually much to regret. This is a regular theme among the small cast of characters I hang out with, most of them aging friends. ‘Don’t get old,’ is the refrain. My rejoinder is always, “Except for the unfortunate fact that the alternative is worse.’

Whenever one or another of them finally does chose the alternative, and shuffles off this mortal coil, you always hear something along the lines of, ‘He died too young. She was just getting her act together. He’d started writing another book and was excited over the prospects. She thought this was the one. Now, he’ll never know what dreams may come.’

I will argue with almost anything, just for the entertainment value, but I seldom disagree with these sentiments. It would sound gratuitous. Self-serving. That’s because I’ve always done just what I wanted to do in life. My regrets, if any, are for my unlived future. What dreams may not come to me. My regrets taken in advance. (You don’t get the chance to do that after your dead, right?) I don’t know how many more books are left in me to write, and half the time I end up composing something new that I did not expect to get hung-up on before the fact, and this only puts off the other ideas I was playing with for that much longer. So I do regret, for now, all the stories untold that I’ve made notes for and I’ll never complete.

I expect, about the time I can’t manage the shop any longer, even with help, I won’t be getting much in the way of new ideas to write about either and so it will simply be time to quit. I hope the physical end for me comes on pretty quick after that.

This is all very maudlin thinking. You can’t engaged in it for more than a few minutes before becoming morose and irritating to oneself and others. So I usually keep all those thoughts under a rock, along with my stash. Things are more copacetic that way. Nevertheless, the future cannot be ignored any better than the past. They both must be allowed for. And in my case, the shop is a crucial ingredient. Without the shop, I expect I’d have a lot more time to write but far too much time to think about it. Sitting around is disagreeable to my health. As it is, I get about four or five hours in on my writing per day, two or three in the morning, depending on interruptions, and sometimes another couple at night. The writing is better in the mornings but the ideas are better at night and so that all works out for me.

The point is, whatever happens in the near future, I have to see to it that the shop remains open for as long as possible. Before the time for closing it inevitably comes, the visiting nurse can check on my pulse right here at the counter as well as anywhere.

Mr. Marciano turns his head upright with a new thought.

“How old are you?”


“Ah! Then, you’re getting social security.”

And all this was said aloud, in the store. With one or two actual customers wandering about. . . . But then again, I have few enough secrets as it is.


“That explains it. Obviously. I missed that. You don’t look that old. Why don’t you retire?”

My reaction was spontaneous.

“Why don’t you mind your own fucking business?”

And totally unnecessary. This brought a sober stare from Marciano.

“Rudeness is not going to help your case, Mr. McGeraughty.”

I’m pretty sure just then that it was his intention to embarrass me if he could. Smugness not only has a look to it, it has an odor. I have noticed this many times. Considering the current kerfuffle, it’s very true that I’m not worried about the FBI as much as the IRS. Compared to the FBI, which is regularly chastened and chastised for all their over-reach and the corruption that inevitably comes with such power as they wield, the Internal Revenue Service can do whatever it wants, with impunity. With no shame. When was the last time you read about corruption at the Internal Revenue Service? Are you naive enough to think they are more honest that the rest of humanity? The FBI ostensibly believe they are doing good. No such conceit disturbs the IRS. The arrogance of the typical Internal Revenue agent is a direct reflection of the outfit as a whole. None are too terribly intelligent, or they would be working in the private sector. Like all government workers, the self-righteousness they project is in direct proportion to their personal incompetence. The virus of power that infects them is common to all bullies and easily recognized. Their assumptions concerning those they persecute are roughly the same for thugs and crime bosses as they are for unemployed salesmen or small business owners.

Public criticisms of the Internal Revenue service are usually vague, gingerly stated and quickly dropped from the news. Reporters don’t want to be audited either. The recent use of the IRS by the President of the United States to investigate political enemies was found out, but then quickly ignored by both Congress and the Justice Department. (The Justice Department operates at the pleasure of the President, however, so that much would be expected.)

The old adage, that you will know who rules them by discovering who it is they fear, applies here.

The body of tax law the Internal Revenue Service uses to operate runs into many millions of pages. Literally millions. Beyond any reasonable expectation of knowing. The Constitution is no defense for the citizen who has to pay for all of that. Fighting the IRS is always a matter of negotiation or capitulation. They will get whatever they want in the end. Their only inhibition is the size of the prey. They don’t want to spend too much of their own time and money going after penny ante penalties and interest on a meager income. But nothing too large, either. The solid middle class is their chosen herd. The actual rich have recourse. For the IRS, extra resources cannot be spent on getting a smaller return from some internet genius who can pay for a team of legal negotiators. This is the reason the IRS concentrates so assiduously on the small business, even though corruption is always greater in the seats of power. The average Joe is defenseless against them and their royal prerogative is to confiscate and ask questions later (if they choose to). Innocent until proven guilty be damned. And that, in long form, is why I believe Mr. Marciano was so disturbed at first to see the physical facts of our case. We had been placed in his portfolio and he wanted as big a payoff as possible to run up his own score. We’re a business, aren’t we? Several hundred thousand dollars were passing through our coffers. For him, there had to be a pony in here somewhere.

However, given the look on his face just then, I was fairly certain that he was not about to give up, or take what he saw for fact. He was going to dig in this pile of manure until he saw a tail. This was going to be dangerous. Without savings or stocks or any real estate to my credit, I could actually lose the only real security I had. The shop itself. My draw from Social Security was not sufficient to cover the rent on my apartment. I could only hope now that David Brooks had done especially good work on our account in recent years

I said, “You’re right. I was being rude. Thugs always bring out the worst in me.”

My one defense against the IRS is not the First Amendment, as it is with the FBI, as some would think. Freedom of speech has long since been abrogated to the demands of authority in this regard, and though bookselling is special for being one of the few professions that are directly covered by an article in the Constitution, and some lip service has to be accorded that fact by law enforcement (even if they have twisted its meaning and gutted it like a pan fry fish long ago), t the IRS is a power unto itself. As I have said, Constitutional law does not apply to them. They are above that, as sanctioned by the Supreme Court. No. The only defense I might have was public opinion. That would be the naive public—that is the great majority of those who are good-hearted and well meaning and still generally think the Constitution is for real and applies equally to all. A gross lewdness on the part of the IRS could catch the public eye. The ‘Service,’ as I’ve heard them refer to themselves, as if they were fulfilling their military obligation, are not fond of an open display of their puissance. That can become politically embarrassing. Politics, not law, is their one overruling. Certainly, as with the recent IRS attacks on the President’s political enemies, they will likely get away with whatever they do, but the politicians themselves, those whom the IRS depends upon for support, may then have to pay a price at the poles come election time.

“Isn’t name calling a little silly, Mr. McGeraughty?”

For the most part, the public has accepted their servile role as regards the demands of the Internal Revenue Service and they dutifully submit their articles of indenture every April 15th. By far, the most of them do. True, this is partly a result of the automatic filing of their W-2s by employers who are themselves subjugated and have long since surrendered their own sovereignty, but most employees will also report on themselves beyond that, honestly, pro-forma, accounting for additional income from property sales, stock sales, account interest, as well as any other details of their financial lives which the IRS wishes to keep tabs on. This is an astounding fact that testifies to what I have said about the average citizen being good-hearted and well-meaning, as well as naive, as much as being servile. I have often argued the case that the Republic as it was originally founded and wrought in the furnace of three wars and the conquest of a continent, actually came to an unacknowledged end in 1913 with the 16th. Amendment. More than a hundred years ago! That single act alone opened up the legality of any and all other governmental intrusions on the lives of the citizens. And I believe that Woodrow Wilson and the other perpetrators of that deed understood as much. In Mr. Wilson’s case, he even wrote about it. There was no Julius Caesar to declare the end of the republic. There was only an academic from Princeton.

I answered, “Probably, in this case. But I didn’t think you’d be intelligent enough to know what a thug is, so what’s the point.”

As David Brooks has told me more than once, this sort of thinking is very likely why I have been audited before, on so many occasions through the years. The result is usually some penalty several times greater than my original debt, plus a usurious interest tacked on to that as a fine (no trial necessary for this levy of punishment, the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution notwithstanding, in that the defendant’s guilt is always assumed in any confrontation with the IRS), and well above anything a bank would charge for a clerical error. That is also not including the cost of an accountant to work out the details. (But I should note here that this has not actually happened to me since David took over my accounts.)


And this was why David Brooks immediately attributed the recent attentions of the FBI to my other travails. It is also his proffered wisdom (as it is with most people who want to avoid being a target of authority) to keep my mouth shut on political matters. And this, as I have explained him, is alike the advice to a woman who is being raped that she should not protest but just lie back and enjoy it. But David does not appreciate that analogy, any more than the usual feminist who thinks rape is worse than death.

“Don’t you think a person ought to be held responsible for their own actions?”

In each case before David’s time, the vigorish demanded by the agent of Mordor being somewhere between ten and twenty thousand dollars, I have managed to put together the sum by selling off some large quantity of our stock at a wholesale price to a specialty dealer (as a matter of fact, the reason we are still a bit low on volumes concerning World War Two and baseball even to this day, years after that last debacle), or once by selling off our second car (that vehicle actually being Margaret’s car. My trucks, have always been purchased well-used to begin with and have never been worth enough to resell—and further, it is worth noting that my having to sell Margaret’s car was a major spur to her finally calling it quits with me. You should never take a woman’s wheels.)

“That’s only what I was saying.”

On another occasion we had organized a large fund-raiser. For a $50 deposit, we allowed customers to buy any number of books in the store at half price for a period of thirty days. That assault was actually met by us with outright announcements concerning the IRS threat. It garnered a great deal of public interest. Even a couple of short newspaper articles. People may not be willing to fight the IRS for themselves, but they have great interest in seeing some other poor fool make the attempt, and the sympathy for this was always palpable.

Though that last time was about seven years ago, my immediate plan now was to do something similar once again.

Mr. Marciano seemed pleased, “You are not making it any easier on yourself and you’re certainly making me more interested in seeing that you get the punishment you deserve.”

The economics is this: if 200 people were to ante up deposits of $50 each, we would immediately net $10,000. We had 214 good customers do this the last time. The reduced net income from the books they purchased at half price had to be turned over quickly to the kitty for buying new stock, but that $10,000 raised, and the nine thousand for Margaret’s car, had then paid off most of our immediate arrears with the government.

Our current debt would likely be smaller, given David’s fine efforts, but I was not good at keeping up with some details. There was always something I’d forgotten. And now the penalty might be greater, given the added intention to punish us for associating with revolutionaries, and my icing it now by referring to this particular IRS thug as a thug. And the exact amount of the levy—punishment—was completely up to them. It was totally beyond due process. Another part and parcel of arbitrary government.

“You’ve tried the case before you have the evidence. I believe that is sufficient evidence of you what you are.”

Yet, I had a deeper concern. I did not have the energy for the whole affair. Not this time through the mill. It would require extra hours spent on every aspect of the business, from buying replacement stock through selling, and all the attendant paperwork. Nor did I have another car to barter, and they would only be getting my truck over my dead body. This, and a few other matters made me suddenly feel even older than I thought I was. It was suddenly daunting, and I had to be determined now not to be depressed by it.

Mr. Marciano smiled. “I’ll be getting back to you,” and left.







Chinese Coffee

wherein I am reminded of myself




John Yu has been coming in the shop since he was a kid. He is still a kid, but bigger. He went to MIT. He’s at the University of Pennsylvania now, though his parents still live in Brookline, where he grew up. By the time I finally took notice of him he’d been coming in the shop long enough to know the way things worked and he approached me one day, unexpectedly.

He held a book out and asked, “Why do you carry this?” Just like that.

I was kneeling in an aisle trying to maneuver a couple of extra volumes into a space too small. Our heads were about on level.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“That’s a question, not an answer.”

He had me there.

I could see the book in his hand and knew the small gray cloth volume on sight. “I don’t have a reason. It probably came in with a lot. I’m not sure I remember that copy in particular. But it’s considered a classic by many people.”

Looking Backward by Edward Bellamy is one of those novels you get used to having around. I suppose that’s especially true in Boston, where it was originally published. This copy wasn’t special other than for being a hundred years old or so. I took the book out of his hand and opened the cover to see what it said. There was a penned inscription there on the endpaper that was dated 1897.

The boy looked at me in total seriousness.

“It’s stupid.”

He had me again. “There is a lot of stupid writing in this shop, I am afraid. More than I can possibly know, even though I read a lot. But I do try to control that as much as I can. Generally speaking, what we have is the best of what I can find.”

“But you know this is stupid, right?”

“Yes. I read it once.”

“Then why do you carry it?”

“Because other people think highly of it, I suppose. Not really a good enough reason, I guess, but it does have an historical place, and there’s the matter of least resistance to consider.”

“What’s that?”

“Most people are pretty stupid and we have to carry enough of what people are looking for to stay in business so that we can carry the things we like. I call that obeying the laws of retailing physics.”

The blood had left my legs from squatting and I stood. But now I looked down on him and felt self-conscious about it, so I pulled a stool over and sat on that. My parenting skills were already too far behind me.

I figured the boy for ten or twelve. I was pretty sure he’d come in alone.

“But I heard you tell someone that you carry what you like.”

Again he had me. “I guess I did.”

“And you said you wouldn’t carry something you wouldn’t read yourself.”

John is a literalist. Still is. But I had an opening there. “Right. Well, I did read this.”

With only a brief hesitation, he took the book back from my hand and turned way. But now I had to ask, “Why do you think it’s stupid?”

“It’s dumb.”

“That’s a tautology.”

I actually said that to a kid. But he was not to be toyed with. He nodded at me a moment and then said, “Because it doesn’t explain anything. Things just happen. The guy falls asleep and then he wakes up a hundred years later. That’s not science fiction. That fantasy. I found it in the Science Fiction section.”

The force of his argument was not only in his straightforward manner but in his tone. He spoke with certainty. When I was twelve I remember being in a state of total uncertainty about everything.

“You’re right.” The issue was not a small one. I had made a big deal about the differentiation. It was one of my regular spiels. Some people think all fiction should be together. Not a bad idea, just unworkable. Too many people who read are already caught in their genre ghettos. I can’t get them out of that unless they are here long enough for me to talk to. Seeing fifty-thousand novels in alphabetical order can stymie enthusiasm. This kid had obviously been within earshot when I was explaining the difference to one of the part-timers. “So you’ve read it yourself?”

“Yes. It’s just a long lecture about socialism, only he calls it ‘nationalism.’ It’s not even a story.”

“Right. That’s they way socialism usually gets its start.” Did this kid actually know the difference? “So maybe I should put it into the politics section, under socialism.”

“I think so.”

He turned again. I was a little awestruck

“What’s your name?”

“John Yu.”

Looking Backward is still in the politics section to this day. And since that time, I had made it a regular thing to ask John what he had read and liked. I don’t have a lot of patience with science fiction. Too much of it is preaching and fantasy disguised with a hard shell of scientific extrapolation. I do like a good fantasy. Just not the mix.

At that time John was taking regular sailing lessons at the Community Boating on the Charles and he would turn up almost daily. Because he seemed so totally dedicated to the one genre, I managed a little fun out of persuading him to read things outside science fiction whenever the opportunity arose. This became easier over the years after the Lord of the Rings movies started to appear and he began to appreciate good fantasy as well. Then I got him to read Stevenson and Kipling, and Buchan as well. But my biggest success was in getting him to read poetry. This unexpected coup was brought about more by J.R.R. Tolkien than myself. Tolkien’s use of language opened that door.

It was never stated as such, but we were friends.

In time, he got to know Margaret, and avoided her when she was around. He knew my daughters. And he knew Ben. Because he was the younger, he showed some deference to the girls, but to Ben he became something of a needle. Whenever they met in the store, he would ask Ben if he had read one thing or another. Ben had rebelled somewhat against books by then and felt the challenge.

I was not surprised when John went to MIT. It was an easy fit. Better because Joe Haldeman was still teaching there and his science fiction was among the best. But I was less happy when he told me he was going away to Pennsylvania University for an engineering degree. It meant that he would be away for long stretches. This is something I had supposedly gotten used to by then with my own kids, but I felt the loss.

At this point, you understand, I had never spoken to the boy outside of the shop. I had never had a beer with him. I had never met his parents—though I knew they owned the Nanking restaurant in Newton.

I hadn’t seen John since Christmas when he came by today. And he caught me in the middle of a foul mood with Marciano’s words in my ears about his getting back to me. In John’s hands he had a small bag. He extended this to me before even saying hello.

“What is it?”

“Chinese coffee.”

“Where is it from?”


I looked at him squarely and managed not to grin.

“Somehow I believe that is another form of tautology.”

“Perhaps.” He shook my hand and smiled that off, “It something my father’s selling at his restaurant. It’s a big deal. People love it. Knowing your taste in the matter, I thought I’d bring you some and get your opinion.”


“Wait until you’ve had some before you say.”

It is something that John looks me square in the eye these days. He started growing when he was twelve and had made a big deal of the fact that he had caught up with me by the time he left for college. By contrast, Ben starting gaining height very slowly from the time he was eight and just didn’t quit until he was actually taller. That was enough, he said.

John beat around the aisles for awhile then, likely waiting for a quiet moment. Finally he cornered me at the desk again.

“I want to join up.”

“With the military? You mean, enlist?”

“No, with the revolution.”

“What revolution?”


I immediately knew where he was headed with this. He had been reading my posts on the website. He knew something about what was going on.

“You already did that a long time ago. When you were a kid. They’ll hang you with the rest of us now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious. I keep telling you to lighten up.”

“Look whose talking. . . . Something’s going on. You’re doing something. Let me help.”

The lovely Ardis had came in for her shift. She heard this when she came over to say hello. I saw her shake her head.

“It’s all a joke to Michael. He thinks it’s a prank. He thinks they’re all maroons and can’t get out of their own way.”

John gave her the solemn look of that boy I had first really met one day a dozen years before.

Never one to forget, he said, “This is not just dumb. It’s stupid. I’ve been reading the stuff that people are posting online in the comments to those stories in The Post. People that don’t even read books and never came in here once in their lives. What they’re saying is ridiculous! This is dangerous! There’s going to be trouble. I want to help.”

“Buy a book.”

“I mean it.”

“I mean it too. What am I supposed to do? Someone is having a revolution but I wasn’t invited. For my part, I just want to change a few things that I’m sure of. Not everything. I’m not smart enough to want to change everything.”

“What can I do?”

“What you are doing is fine. It’s all anyone can do, I think. I’m revolting, you might say, but I’m not having a revolution. No one would come. . . . Except you. “

There were customers for me to help and John wandered away again. He spent most of his time in general fiction these days. He came back when it was quiet again with a large Solzhenitsyn volume.

I told him, “Given the mood you’re in, maybe you need something lighter. Some Wodehouse maybe.”

“It was either this or The Zen of Golf. I’m told that I should learn how to play golf.”

“I don’t have The Zen of Golf. Why don’t you just watch Tin Cup. Renee Russo’s worth the cost of the DVD. I do have some good books on fly-fishing. But I guess you should stick with the Gulag. You should have studied more literature anyway.”

“I did. Right here in this place. You were my instructor.”

“I meant, academically. I don’t know what kind of engineer you are. Probably a good one. But you would be a fine writer.”

“Maybe I will write. Your favorite, Nevil Shute, he was an engineer and a writer too. But if I’d studied literature in college they would’ve beaten all that out of me. They would have proven that the bumble bee can’t fly. It’s all politics at the university now. Almost everything. Engineering is the last refuge of reason. I’m telling you. I have friends who were literature majors and I saw what they had to wade through in order to learn something about Shakespeare. Habermas and his Frankfurt School of Marxist critical theory—Hegel and Kant, Freud and Jung, Webber and Simmel. Form over content. All that structuralist crap! That always got me. Structuralist! A house of cards has more structure! Those maroons wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the hermetically sealed hothouses at the university.”

I was impressed. Ardis was wide-eyed. This was as emotional as John had ever been in the shop.

“Do you remember when I first told you what a ‘maroon’ was?”

“Sure. Right there.” He pointed toward the counter. “ In front of your wife. You called somebody a ‘maroon.’ And she told you not to do that in public. Something like that. She said it differently.”

“She said I was an idiot for telling a customer something like that. She was always worried about losing customers, but not so much about offending me.”

“And you told her you’d say what you damned well pleased in your own store. And I think she left then. I remember you were alone when I asked you what was wrong with the color maroon. I thought maybe it was racist or something. And you said it was. The whole world was broken into two races. The maroons and the rest. And if I did not know that yet, I should go home and watch more Bugs Bunny!”

“You argued with me.”

“Yes, I did. But once I understood, I asked if someone who was a maroon could redeem themselves.”

“Worse than that! You big nerd! You asked me to define race!”

“Well, it was at the heart of the issue, wasn’t it?”

“When I finally said you were correct, because race was a matter of the physical characteristics you were born with, and being a maroon was learned, you were very happy. You pranced around like a cock.”

“It was only the second time I’d won an argument with you.”

“Unfortunately for me, not the last. But I didn’t argue the first time. You were right. Remember? But I think I have another reply to that other argument now. How can coffee be ‘Chinese?’ Dark or light, bitter or sweet. But Chinese? Are there races of coffee? If coffee can be Chinese, can’t maroon be a race as well?”

“Give it up. You’ve lost.”

“I suppose.”







The age of majority has been cancelled

Whilst Winston Smith sings ‘Angst for the memories’




I first came to town in 1965 to go to Boston College. My intentions then were only the best, I think. To learn some Latin and Greek, and study literature and philosophy. I was already certain that I was destined to write, even though I had no idea what I would be writing about. But that was only because I actually had nothing to write about except myself and that was very small beer indeed. My entire experience in life at the time amounted to a series of failed efforts to imitate my betters by plagiarizing their styles if not their words, mostly from my bedroom desk in the incubated safety of the New York suburbs. That and a series of failed and unrequited romances (most of which were known only to me).

I wanted to be like Hemingway. Or Faulkner. Or Thomas Wolfe. (The emergence of the newer Tom Wolf had already begun but I did not have the sense or judgment to comprehend just yet what he was about). I wanted to write ‘New Yorker’ stories but not about the morally vacant parents who seemed so important to Cheever and Updike, rather I wanted to expose the angst riven youth living their spoiled sub-urban lives, even though I more dearly wanted to find some real adventure and to see life’s underbelly—or at least to touch what was under her underbelly. And I wanted to go to live in Paris and be like my literary heroes too.

The week we graduated from high school, I remember suggesting to one erstwhile girlfriend, amidst yet another assault upon the ramparts of passion, that we should plan to meet beneath the Arc de Triumph at a particular time of day, on the same day of the week, four years hence, by which time I would no doubt already be a successful author. I do hope she forgot the pact, because I wasn’t there. But she was duly impressed with my hubris.

But you learn pretty quick, or should, that to be like someone else is not the deal at all.

There was a war going on at the time. There usually is, and I now know that as well, but then the one in Vietnam appeared to me to be the most important event in history. As important to me personally, I thought—with the over-studied ignorance of a male of draft age—as to the families of the dead. (You can actually conjure that much vainglory when you are eighteen.) Tens of thousands were dying. Millions of lives were being ruined. I was against this tragedy and believed it was the result of American imperialism—at least that was the ‘truth’ as reported in all the smart places—Atlantic, Harpers, Saturday Review etc. Then again, on the flip side, and as any self-regarding Twentieth Century writer knows, war is the one fire with which to temper your sword. Such conundrums rack the youthful mind.

After little more than a year at Boston College, I quit in a huff of rebellion against the obvious ignorance and self-serving rules and the malodorous bullshit in all of those assigned texts, and I enlisted. If war was hell, then I ought to get close enough to smell the brimstone. The only problem with this plan was that I’m technically blind. Or nearly so. I even had a picture of James Joyce on my dormitory wall—a black patch over one eye and a Coke bottle bottom held in a thin wire frame over the other—as a totem for this fact. I was quite shocked when the United States Army told me that I did not meet with their high standards and my services would not be required.

But then B.C., in suddenly righteous pique, was none too happy about taking me back. I had already proven myself to be a pain in the ass. Now they wanted an apology for my statement that they were all ‘hypocrites.’ Already developing that fine form which has sustained me to this day, I apprised them of the arguable wisdom that the ‘truth is its own defense.’ This was a phrase I had picked up in a freshman year philosophy course, though even that professor did not now think this applied to him and refused to sign my recommendation letter for re-admittance.

Enraged, I went home to New York, borrowed the price of several months rent on a cheep apartment on the Lower East Side (from my mother—Dad wanted no part of this), and immediately wrote a novel about my debacle. The angst of the draft age youth whose future is in doubt, who can’t even get a good job as long as his draft card says he is ‘1-A,’ and using the philosophy professor as the villain, while making much (much too much) over the moral anguish involved, and throwing in one of my failed romances for added color was an easy piece of work. I called it A Prodigal’s Progress. Unfortunately for me, Houghton Mifflin liked it enough to publish it as part of a series they were doing of ‘New Writers.’ And this required coming back up to Boston to see the editor on several occasions. And it was while making this repeated pilgrimage (made necessary by more than a few gnarly passages of prose) that I discovered I actually liked the place.

Why, ‘Unfortunately?’

Because I could have used a few more years on the mean streets of New York to season my artistic judgments. If I was to be denied the sword, at least I should acquire a serviceable switchblade. Menial office labor is petty, especially to an aspiring literary genius, but New York by (and in and of) itself is an inspiration, even while seemingly being both heartless and soulless. At least, surviving in that stew would have been worth something as regards the afore mentioned sword tempering.

When my fourth floor walk-up there was robbed and that minor refuge despoiled, I did not want to go back home to the suburbs, nor did my parents have any interest in my complaining about the vagaries of life to them each day. They were already experts on the injustices of fate, after all, having survived the Great Depression, World War Two, and thirty years of unquiet marriage, as well as the unexpected and ineluctable pleasures of parenting. They were also still just a little upset about my dropping out at BC (something which had cost them more than I was yet aware). So despite the three thousand dollar advance from Houghton Mifflin, they wanted me to get a better job. I said fine—but I might as well do that in Boston. So here I came.

In those ancient times (fifty years ago) they used to have rooming houses in the heart of town. The one I chose was nearly on top of Beacon Hill, only a few blocks from my present apartment. For a modest weekly rate of thirty-three dollars plus tax, I could suspend my disbelief at the injustice of the world about me, work odd-jobs for Manpower, and spend my evenings writing my second novel while looking out across the narrow street to the windows of half a dozen other apartments for glimpses of inspiration on how life was actually lived. In my mood of rejection, I took those snippets of bedroom scenes between the sashes to be the desolate cartoon cells of a barren hive that produced the sterile worker bees necessary to keep the colony functioning. This book took me a year to finish, while I worked in various mailrooms processing mail, or as a night-guard guarding desks in the night, or in warehouses putting wares up on shelves, and at the information tables of numerous conventions where I offered pamphlets of misinformation with a smile. Things looked pretty bleak to me then, at the end of the 1960s, when all the world should be changing, and should have changed. But, Dickens aside, bleak does not sell. Houghton Mifflin was not inspired by the idea of human bees. Even cockroaches were out of style. Nor were the twenty or thirty other publishers I sent that one to. (Those were still the halcyon literary days when you sent a literal manuscript to the actual publisher—not at all the same as the current prophylactic system of first sending queries only to agents).

Suddenly unsure of my calling after this bungle, I took a regular job in a bookshop on Boylston Street while awaiting a positive response. That outfit specialized in scholarly remainders and publisher’s overstock as well as used textbooks. Essentially, the work there amounted to the processing and selling of small rectangular objects displayed in neat stacks—books reduced to a marginal commodity—still a new concept to me at the time.

I recall the key event at this establishment occurred when the owner came by one day, after I’d spent almost three years there, and handed me a box that contained thirty copies of my own first novel, A Prodigal’s Progress, which he had just purchased from the publisher as a ‘remainder’ for something less than fifty cents each. He said, “Put these away and someday you can sell them for a buck.” He was being serious, not cynical. He was a generous but very practical man.

It was during those years that I completed my third novel. This had been written in a frenzy of outrage over Nixon’s enlargement of the Vietnam war into Cambodia. Not actually being there in the heart of darkness on the Mekong so that I might physically mutiny against this terrible wrong had left me with the weak tea of writing about the discouragement felt at home by one young fellow, again attempting to escape the draft, while working at a bookshop in Boston—something of a short stretch, I admit, but this was done by entering mentally if not physically into the worlds of the books he sold. It was a bit Walter Mittyish, but much darker. The editor at Houghton Mifflin had called it ‘heartfelt,’ but in truth, it was felt a little lower than that.

These were the tertian times (this said with the sort of mock Irish brogue your hear at folk music concerts were the guys wear white sweaters and sing with gusto about the rising of the moon and the gals dance with a swing of the leg below the knee). That third book had taken me three years to complete. The timing was not due to writer’s block. It was simply because it was three times as long as anything I had written before. At the moment, I believed this was, at the tender age of twenty-three, my magnum opus.

With an interior story it retold the epic journey of the beautiful Io, from priestess to cow, seduced and raped by Zeus and then ‘saved’ by that sociopathic god through the brilliant subterfuge of turning her into a heifer to conceal her from his jealous wife, Hera. No fool, Hera—just stupid enough to be jealous over the affections of Zeus’ perverted megalomania—in turn sets a gadfly to pestering the poor cow. How this related to the Selective Service’s interest in my body is difficult to relate easily, so I will leave most of that aside as a simple excuse for the novel’s fizzle.

But the truth of it was that after reading Terry Southern’s Candy for the first time in 1970, I was amazed that his book was actually so old. It had been written half of my own lifetime before, yet, in its newest re-incarnation as a mass-market paperback enclosed in proud pink wraps it appeared to capture the present moment in time too perfectly. I wasn’t so sure of the purported connection with Voltaire, but it was that particular investigation which had led me to my great idea, to connect the ancient Greek myth of the wandering and beleaguered bovine with the French Philosopher’s exposition on futile optimism and what I took to be a wholly original invention of pragmatism—all set in the El Dorado of America circa 1973. My own Iola, wandered the land like a modern Candide, smoking pot and romping joyously along the way (Terry Southern had already visited this territory and gender switch with his Candy and I was just stupid enough to think there was much more to say). Her pursuit of true love in the form of my skinny, hapless and bespectacled draft dodging hero was certainly nothing short of mythological. The ‘Professor Pangloss’ of this rout was a Dr. Ralph, who was yet another iteration of my old philosophy professor and nemesis at Boston College. Obsessed with bedding his former student, it is Dr. Ralph who plays the gadfly chasing my high-minded if low lying and irrepressibly happy heroine across the country as she follows her hormones in spite of all consequences.

Houghton Mifflin asked that I take out a few of the raunchier sex scenes, and I did. After the fact, I’m sure it would have sold better had they been left in, even if they would have greatly embarrassed my children in later years. But that unwise publisher, advised by an editor whose motherly qualities made me feel all too embarrassed as we discussed certain of the scenes, advanced me twenty-thousand dollars for my three-year’s work, effectively doubling my entire income over the period. I was stupefied. Stunned. I sat in place for at least fifteen minutes after opening the letter and gathering myself. The bookstore where I worked was then already in the process of again reducing its size and getting ready to close. The aging owner told us daily that the whole book business was changing (“going to hell” was his regular refrain) and warned us that books had now been replaced by television and that we should pursue other lines of work.

So what should I do now?

I opened a bookshop.

I had noticed a space at the bottom of Beacon Hill which had been empty for more than a year. This was the early seventies, when Boston was not yet a ‘happenin’ place.’ Rents were still relatively cheap. I bargained with the owner, a Mr. Glover, over a few hundred dollars less per month. (I am positive that he regretted the decision for the rest of his thusly shortened life.) The check from the publisher cleared on a Monday. On Wednesday I signed the lease.

It is interesting to me now to think that this was just about the moment in time when I should have been meeting a very pretty young lady beneath the Arc de Triumph. But I had completely forgotten my vow. Almost immediately, publishers threw lines of credit at me like dollar bills at a strip show in the Combat Zone (something I had actually seen by then and still felt soiled by). And suddenly, I was in business for myself. A capitalist. A business man, and what later came to be called an ‘entrepreneur’ during the 1980s. However, I could not run the place by myself, even then, in spite of seemingly inexhaustible energies. I needed an employee.

One fine day, I looked up from the raw pine boards I was abusing with a hammer and nails into the shape of a shelf and there was Margaret. She had just graduated from Boston University with a degree in Literature and the dreams of a poet. She needed a temporary job before she left for her own planned grand excursion to Europe. After hearing from her father that he had a new tenant, a young bookseller no less, she had come to investigate.

“What are you doing?” were her first words to me.

She will tell you, even today, that they were, “Hello. How are you doing?” and not so provoking as to warrant the lecture on shelving that I gave her. But, already smitten, I had the advantage on her there of having written her words down that very evening, back in my little room on Pinckney Street. And I estimate now that within this difference of memory may be found all the conflict of men and women that makes the world go round.

Almost as suddenly, Margaret and I were living together. Not in my little room on Pinckney Street, I should add, but hers, in another of her father’s real estate holdings. Though this was to her parent’s great chagrin, the actual marriage did not take place for several years, and was finally the result of a rather heated Memorial Day weekend at the family cottage on the Cape. The temperatures outside were cool as I remember. Margaret remembers it being sweaty. I proposed in a fit of intemperate enthusiasm.

What did she see in me then? Someone who would change the world? A proto-entrepreneur? An author? Hard to say. But I think she loved me for a time. I know I was in love with her, if for no other reason than because she loved me, which is a form of narcissism that is common in the young and was to me an astounding development, in and of itself!

Margaret is a Yankee in the oldest sense—from a family of merchant traders. What she saw in a skinny New York Irish boy with no prospects but lots of ideas, all of them questionable, I don’t know. As a disguise, she called me her ‘Southern Boy’ in several poems. Geographically speaking, she was at least correct in that regard.

Her father owned the building where the store remains to this very day, but the family trust controls the property now. At first, the space was a sort of continuous gift, even as rents in the area rose well above our budget, and though even the reduced rent we paid her father was not often made on time. Mr. Glover actually loaned us additional funds to keep things going on several occasions. (I suppose, on the theory that I would eventually learn how running a sound business was done.) Though he actually warned us that the shop would fail if we did not change our ways, he had given us the capital anyway. And it did fail. Several times over, through the years. But by then we had the kids, and bailing us out had become a sort of annual family tradition, usually done, not surprisingly, around the 15th of April.

Money can be a grindstone to any marriage. Even one that is so adequately subsidized. I have often wondered what would have become of me if Mr. Glover had ever refused to help—if he had tossed us out to fend for ourselves. Such a missed fate has in fact been the underlying subject of yet another of my unpublished books.

And here is the rub. There is a greater penalty to generosity which is often ignored, or at least disdained, by the theorists. When a helping hand becomes a subsidy, it more often gets a predictable result. More of the same behavior. I’ve certainly confirmed that utilitarian theory over and again. It was for that reason (or so I believe, while ignoring my innate stupidity) that I never really did learn how to run my own business profitably—because I was never actually made to. (This is not to fault the Glovered hand that fed us. I was wholly to blame. Absolutely! But thus, the sting of failure itself was never enough that it could change my habits. Even today, I run the shop the way I do because it suits me. Such a solipsistic and self-serving attitude is truly reprehensible given the realities most people must face to survive. I have no excuse, other than the explanation that it is some congenital sense of entitlement—to do things the way we want and to hell with those who have to bail us out of the consequences—common to my generation. But I must also admit, as I have many times since, that I’ve been a very happy bookseller, as a direct result. Much in the same manner, I have no regrets for writing twenty-four unpublished novels, (twenty-four!) for I greatly enjoyed writing every one of them. I have relished and reveled in both the role of bookseller and writer. What else am I to say, if this is the truth? Perhaps that I have studied failure and made a success of that?

I do not argue with the critics (Margaret, her father, David Brooks, et al), or any of those who say that I would have learned to write better (by which they clearly mean more marketable material) had I been made to meet an objective criterion by some necessity of the marketplace. Or those (usually the same ones) who tell me that the store should have been closed years ago because it is simply unprofitable.

But this disagreement is only what I have mentioned before, namely, that I have long been at odds with the cost of doing business, and most especially with the tax collector, who has become my grim reaper in reality. Publisher’s want to be paid. The electric company wants its past due. The part-time staffer wants what I fairly owe them every Friday. By the time I get around to the taxes, there is always less remaining than what is required.

Besides that, what did it all really amount to?

Given that I have no good excuse (other than my own pleasure) for my unwillingness to comply with the mundane requirements that are apparently so readily met by every other business, I have over time manufactured a better explanation (i.e. excuse; re: conceit)—my biggest problem as a bookseller was, and has always been, that I simply don’t like selling crap! Either my own, or the crap of others. Yes! I have resorted to righteousness. This is now my true belief, whatever vague notions I began with. And it is true, is it not, that most of what is published is crap? Indeed! But the publisher’s put a great deal of money into promoting that crap each year and convincing the public to buy it. And the larger result, and insult, and consequence of such mercantile foolishness is an ever diminishing readership—being those people willing to spend hard-earned cash on something that they will only end up putting aside, part-way through, unfinished, from whence it peeks at them beneath the magazines on the coffee table and reproaches them for having wasted the money, or further disheartening those willing to blame themselves for not understanding why the books they read are so bad when all the ‘critics’ have said that they were ‘fabulous.’ (I’ve heard it said by customers right there in the shop, ‘Thank goodness for cable, or I might have to speak to my husband!’) Thus I am an evangelist. A veritable Aimee Semple McPherson of good literature, at war with bad books and my own flawed nature.

It is thus that the shop has never benefited much from the bestseller list. The prices at the chain stores are necessarily better than ours for those titles, anyway. Other than the classics, our strength has always been in ordering the back-listed previous best efforts by the same author whose latest might be selling well at the present moment. (Often enough, those past efforts were written when he or she was still trying to create something for the ages, and well before they realized that the demands for mortgage payments were monthly.) And many of those early titles are now out of print due to previous lack of demand. Apart from the obscure title that might take three years on the shelf to find the right customer, that is where the selling of used books works best. That and finding titles in a series which have fallen out of print, or even more precisely, mystery or science fiction titles that are not part of a series and only had one printing to begin with. Or, science fiction that does not treat physics as magic, which is the current rage (this used to be called ‘fantasy.’ I am told that word is a pejorative now, a disparagement of the genius of those who envision alternate realities, but I still use the differentiation). We carry a fair section of poetry, most of which was almost immediately out of print and usually sells only to lovers trying to impress their beloved with the true faith of their own unspoken (and usually bastard) sentiments. And drama. Who reads old plays? (I am asked this at least once a month by a customer wondering why I don’t give the space over to something better, like the complete works of Stephen King). And, of course, essays. In a non-reading age, the essayist is the first to be ignored. Still, though, it’s amazing how many classics are out of print at any given time.

When Hollywood makes yet another movie out of a Jane Austen novel, we do well with it. But that too is not often enough. They can’t seem to make another Jane Austen movie every month, no matter how they try, so there we are. (Taken one a month, and each done once a year, six novels will only fill half the need.) In any case, it’s tough to pay the bills hand-selling all those other titles that clog our shelves, one copy at a time, to people who have never heard of them (or seen them on TV). It works to a certain point to constantly be out of step, but the economies of scale are always set against us.

As I say, I leave most of the new and highly touted material by fresh young talents to the other shops. In those by-gone days when people still read, Boston used to have many other booksellers to choose from. But it’s a fugacious hope to depend too much on that coarser prose in any case. The overwhelming number of remainders alone testifies to the foolishness there. And besides, we’ll always get another crack at those titles in a few months when they are remaindered, as even mine own had been, or when the authors have quit writing in favor of the regular pay check teaching University classes on how to write the way they themselves don’t do it anymore (and then list their own books on recommended reading lists—I suppose in much the same way as I display my own efforts at the front counter in my shop.)

What I do do, so to speak, is to go to the auctions and buy large estate lots and break them down. There you will see that there was a deal of crap sold ‘back in the day’ as well. You bag the rubbish up and give it to a church sale, or Goodwill, or the Salvation Army. The provender is boxed and carried to the back room where it is graded by condition and price and then put out on the shelves as space allows, somewhat alphabetically (depending on distractions) in the hope someone will re-discover it. After a few years, when all hope of the mythical customer for this remnant is lost, I give that away as well, along with the remains of much other stock which I should not have carried in the first place if I were better at my job. And the cycle continues.

An old friend (he is actually two years younger than me), Sam Kaufman, designed our bookmarks many years ago. I had thought to have only the name, address, and shop’s hours, set in some elegant type, like a Bembo or a Garamond, and printed on a letterpress. It was his idea to add an additional line below the store name: “The state of mind,” in a flourish of hand-wrought Eighteenth Century italics. I wish I had thought of it myself. I often think of the place now in those terms rather than the more portentous and pretentious ‘A Republic of Books.’

Have you had enough? More about motivations, maybe?

Poor Deirdre had listened to all of it, in one outpouring. But our beer glasses were again empty. The errant prawn shells had been wiped away. The grills on the barbecue pit were cold and scrubbed for use on the morrow. The chairs were up on the tables around us, legs in the air in surrender, and the vacuums were roaring when we left. I could only wonder at Deirdre’s patience, never mind that of the restaurant staff.







In an age of enlightenment

the illuminated manuscripts burn brightest




I believe that enlightenment tends to come upon societies in much the same manner as it occurs to an individual. One day you are repeating your mistakes with all the industry of an ant in a well travelled side-walk crack and the next you awaken to the fresh bliss of a new path of truth, and the thrill of your own brilliance, and begin setting your course apart. It is not unfair to credit ourselves with this renaissance of thought, because we have usually suffered for it. But it is incorrect to assume the cause was some specific discovery of knowledge that was unleashed by our own effort alone. Typically it involves such a morass of thought, so difficult to interpret, that in order to come up with an excuse for our heroism, we are liable to invent a new philosophy. That is how religions are often born, as well as sophism, pragmatism, objectivism, empiricism, and a hundred other isms born of a sudden insight.

I am not a scholar—that is, I am not one to pursue knowledge for its own sake. I selfishly seek knowledge only when needed. I am a shopkeeper and a scribbler. My pleasure in those two things alone has filled my time and exceeds any satisfaction I might gain from parsing the rhizome of some particular root cause. Lacking those spiritual genes necessary for such attention and dedication myself, I have however long been taken with the insight of scholars, per se, and a few in particular. One of those is Walter Jackson Bate, the wise man of Harvard for many years. He was to me an ancient husk of human being when I first encountered him eating custard in a dining area at Eliot Hall. Likely then he was only as old as I am now. I was there in pursuit of books, naturally—those books the students cast off every spring like leaves in autumn. On a good day in May I could fill the back of my truck.

And on that day, as I recall, the great man sat alone at the edge of a field of tables in a darkish hall but in reflected light of narrow leaded windows encased on two sides by mahogany walls, and I presumptively sat down across from him and asked—I might have said hello, or something of the sort first, I don’t recall.

“Is the universal and the ideal the same thing?”

He asked in return, “Did you read chapter four?”

Naturally, given my youth then (I would guess this was about 1974) he had assumed I was a student of his and I had just read chapter four of his great book, From Classic to Romantic, which was the very cause, in fact, of the inquiry, for I had just discovered this masterwork on my own. But I did not have the patience of a lifetime to explore the question and wanted a quick answer. I was on my way to several dormitory rooms where students were waiting to cash in on the used volumes their parents had paid top dollar for when new.

This was a severe looking man, thin, heavy lidded and tight lipped, with the high fore-head you assume of a thinker, and I must have apologized, on hearing the hard tone of his voice, for interrupting his meal.

“Well then, you can already see it is a subject as thick as this,” and he tapped his spoon into the yellow crust of the custard. “But the answer to your question is, no. All cats are mammals but not all mammals are cats. The universal is ideal, but the ideal may not be universal.” He rubbed at a clean cheek of slack skin, and then put the hand to his mouth. “Or is it the other way around? The ideal is universal, but the universal may not be ideal? We’ll have to give that some thought.”

He was smiling when I left him, eating his custard again and looking out the window at a spring green lawn.

I have retold that story twenty or fifty times. I’ve embellished whenever the opportunity arose. But the key element remains the same. Not all mammals are cats.

This was in mind the many years later when Deirdre showed up in the quiet of an afternoon and let me in on the state of things in her own bailiwick. It seemed her editor had announced that she was bored with the storyline concerning our bookshop—the bookseller ‘David’ against the government ‘Goliath,’ was too thin. She had given Deirdre a new assignment.

Given that I had already calculated on at least one or two more articles to publicize my upcoming sale in order to raise money to payoff the IRS, my first thought was to how I might thicken the story line to remedy her editor’s boredom. Perhaps I had to simply accept the idea, as Margaret had predicted, that our fifteen minutes was up, over with, done and finished, completely Warholed, and accept the fact that we weren’t much better off than before.

But I like proving Margaret wrong whenever possible, which is not often enough. I also realized this change of priorities would put a crimp on any time Deirdre might have to be hanging about. Specifically, around me. Whatever attractions I might possess were subtle and would definitely take additional opportunities for study and appreciation.

For her part, Deidre looked genuinely unhappy and says, “I think she doesn’t want to get herself audited by the IRS for giving you any moral support. She’s even admitted as much. She warned me to back off of it, in my own best interest, for that very reason. And I told her, unfortunately, after thirty years at the Post, I didn’t have anything more to declare than my salary, so that wouldn’t pose much of a worry.”

For the first time I could see a glimmer of understanding on the soft blue horizon. She is not just interested in a story that might only pry a few readers away from their computer screens and/or televisions. She is actually coming around to understanding the larger context of what’s going on.

For that, if nothing else, I took her to lunch, insisted on paying, and she let me.

This is a treacherous stage to any relationship. When attraction is magnified by sympathy. For me, the danger lay in keeping my cards down. She was still a journalist and any revelation of fact that might give new life to her story was fair game. And I did want the story to continue. The matter was how much I could offer up to this effort at self-promotion (and illumination), without endangering other possibilities. Or, critically, leaving her with the mistaken idea that I was more interested in revolution than in her.

“Have you ever thought of doing anything other than reporting?”

“Like what?”

“Like writing fiction. You write well. You could write about some of the things you’ve reported on that were left unfinished. You know—‘the rest of the story’ sort of thing.”

She stared at me. This was disconcerting. I waited it out.

“I have.”

“Have what? Short stories?” And then it dawned on me. “You’ve written a novel?”

I think my voice might have risen at the prospect.


“Can I read it?”

“No. It’s terrible.”

She suddenly looked hurt, as if I had said something critical.

“It can’t be. Let me read it.”

“No. I don’t want you judging me the way you judge everyone else. You’re too critical. I’m just a reporter. Let it be.”

“Is that fair? I hang it all out there for you but you don’t want me to see yours?”

“Very well put.”

“I want to read it.”

“No. Leave it alone.”

The tone was definitive. I shrugged, “Okay.”

She shook her head as if gaining some control over her senses.

“Tell me more about the IRS man. Tell me about that. Maybe I can work around that a little.”

After explaining the impact of the IRS audit on our business (skipping over the part about doubts concerning my existential soul and wasted energies) I waited until she had a large bite of burger and onion in her mouth, and said, “I think George Reilly is worried that his battle with the government has spilled over onto my turf. He’s upset with the way things have gone.”

This was a total fabrication, of course. A deceit told to fit the circumstance. I can guess George might in fact be worried. He’s a good chap and has reasonable concerns about his fellow man (or woman). But he hadn’t displayed a bit of it in our most recent encounter. More probably he has his own concerns and like any pilot in a fix, he was keeping those worries to himself lest the passengers panic.)

It took her half a minute to chew and swallow. Faster than I thought it might.

“You’ve spoken to him recently?”

“Sure.” I said, and added, “Yes.”

Had she better known my peculiarities, she might have known I was lying, right then.

Another half a minute was spent looking carefully at the handful of bun and beef as she gathered her thoughts. Time enough for me to speculate on what she might say. Naturally, I was wrong.

She offers me a sympathetic sigh. “Do you think your project to raise funds with a big sale might work?”

I shrugged. “Yes, but I’ll have to have a plan B. I was thinking maybe a big bonfire and then bankruptcy.”

That got no reaction at all. If she had already become inured to my sense of humor, what did I have left?

She says, “Tell me what you’d really do if you closed the store?”

I’d thought about that a thousand times. Several thousand, at least.

“I’d travel. Drive until my eyes, or my butt gave out. Whichever came first.”

“Not Europe.”

“Been there. I’d like to go to Scotland again, of course, at least to study some of the papers of Thomas Reid at Aberdeen and Glasgow. Most of that has never been published and I’m curious what he and his ‘common sense’ philosophy had to say about a lot of things. Maybe take a peek out at the Hebrides while I’m at it, at least to fill in the background color for my reading of Boswell, Norman Maclean, Peter May, Compton Mackenzie, and a few of those other good guys. But I hear Europe is not the place it used to be, any more than Boston is. The quaint there is all packaged and postcarded now. It was probably that way when I visited before, but I was too stupid to notice. What’s left is a Disneyland of a past that’s been reduced to touchstones for tourists in a rush. What with the present all pasteurized and homogenized into soulless efficiencies, even the dialectic is metrical now, or at least geometrical, and the future is mortgaged. Just like ours. And Britain is just for Anglophiles—not a lot better than pedophiles, when it comes down to it—a mental disease that accounts for half the programming on PBS. It appears that most of them just want to be Euros now anyway. One great big regulated asylum. Forget about Dumnonia, or Dal Riata or Manx. Old Arthur is just a myth to them. And besides, I don’t speak the language well enough to find the secret places that might remain. No. I’d like to see a few more of the corners in this country first. The ones I’ve read about in books all my life, before they’re all gone with the wind as well.”

Surprisingly, she seemed to brighten at that bitter bit.

“Where. Where first?”

“The West. Pretty much everything beyond the Mississippi but this side of the Sierra Nevada.”

“I thought I heard you say you’ve been there too. I even saw a picture that you took of your kids.”

“Many times. But there’s an awful lot there to see. I still haven’t gawked at the half of it, even from the distance of a truck window. I’d like to camp around, here and there. Smell the grass. Get the dust in my eyes. Finally learn to ride a horse before my joints get any stiffer. That is, if my bones aren’t about to break first. Stuff like that. I have a customer named Morris who already lives there in his mind and he and I have both picked out our itineraries.”

“Sounds nice. Why don’t you just do it anyway?”

“For one thing, because there’s a war on. You don’t just walk away from a fight unless everything else you are is false.” This sounded a bit righteous and I tried to come up with something to take the edge off, but nothing fit the moment so I just grimaced at myself and added, “Besides, I can’t afford it.” The ultimate excuse.

She started eating again. After another half a minute or so she just says, “Sounds nice,” again, with half a voice.

And that was it. The trout had simply left my fly floating on the water, as my friend George is want to say.

I say, “How about you. What would you do?”

Her voice did not rise to the answer. I was not sure this was to keep anyone from hearing, or just in line with the seriousness of the subject.

“I have no plan ‘B.’ Never had one, really. That was likely always my problem. I started out years ago as a Metro reporter. Fires and dogs. After a while I moved over to the copy desk. Mostly because they asked me. I’m a good copy-editor. But that was pretty boring and I started gaining weight from sitting too much so, so after awhile I asked for a change. They put me on features. Sadly, that stuff is all canned meat. That’s where they ‘appease to please.’ That’s all about the advertisers. I got out of there as fast as I could, so then they attached me to the city desk to cover things at the state house. And that was really awful. They lie in that joint for a living and cheat for sport. They prevaricate to your face and dare you to contradict them. And if you do, they retaliate. I was there less than a year before I was transferred again. This time I think they figured they’d get rid of me by asking me to cover the police blotter. Two days after interviewing the Governor concerning a judge he’d appointed who had a history of pedophilia, I was covering a double homicide for Metro. But I liked it! That’s when—“ Her face suddenly animated with the telling. The blue in her eyes almost shone brighter than the fluorescent lighting) that’s when I wrote the novel that you can’t read, so don’t ask again. I think I wrote it just to get some of the worst of it out of my head. Not the blood and body parts but the characters. There is something very pure about many criminals. They know they are who they are. They won’t say that, but you can hear it in the way they talk. All the pretenses are so blatant.”

She laughed at the thought. She had heard herself, and laughed. This was a good thing. A commendable quality. I kept quiet and after a minute, let her pick up on that where she wanted.

“I was there for about five years before I burned out. One dead fourteen-year old in Roxbury too many. So they stuck me on the court-house beat. Talk about boring. Some trials are riveting—like a good play, but nine out of ten are procedure and as phony as the deal the DA usually makes in the hall to get a verdict. As they say, ‘in the Halls of Justice, the only justice is in the halls.’ Everything is negotiable. The victims get nothing. Not even catharsis. After about three years of that I had no skin left on my teeth, so now I’m sort of ‘At Large,’ like my column header says, with Metro again. I’m down to the bottom limb on that dead tree you talk about. But I’ve known for years, there is no upside for me. No plan ‘B.’ ”

She sipped at her soda and considered something. I knew before she finally spoke again that it might have some bearing on me. In my own interest, I continued to keep my mouth shut.

She finally said. “That was always the way it was with me in love too. No plan ‘B.’ All my eggs in the one basket.” She stopped at that point, and laughed suddenly again, without looking at me, at first, but looking out the window so that I could see the shadows of the cars passing in sky of her eyes, and then at me. “You know, my last real boy friend used that exact phrase. ‘All my eggs in one basket,’ but he was referring to something else. I told him I wanted to get married and have children before it was too late for me. He said, he wasn’t the one. It was all a lot of fun, for both of us, but he was not interested in marriage or children—even though he’d said he was before.” She stopped a moment, “Well, at least said it indirectly before that. That was just courtship, he said. He meant, seduction. He told me, I shouldn’t have put all my eggs in his basket, and then he laughed at his own words as if they were witty. I clobbered him. It’s the only time in my adult life I ever hit anyone outside of my martial arts class. I broke his front tooth. He billed me for it. Twelve hundred dollars for two caps. And I paid for it. Happily.”

I recorded all that on some index card in my brain.

“I can’t imagine that. I mean, I can imagine that you wanted kids—I wondered about that—but not that anyone would laugh at you for it.”

She shrugged, head down. “I misjudged him. That’s all. I knew he wasn’t perfect. But he’s very successful because it’s all about him, even when he’s pretending it’s about you. I met him at a 10-k run to raise money for breast cancer. But he was just there because it was a good place to meet lonely women. He’d learned all about using empathy before he ever left grammar school, I think. But you get tired of waiting for Mr. Perfect.”

I took a chance to step in on that. Probably not the best move.

“I’m sorry that I meet such low expectations as well. I know I’m not so perfect myself.”

My oldest daughter, Georgia, gives me a look when I say things that are really stupid. Not like Margaret’s scowl, where she is letting me know exactly how dumb she thinks I am, but with a little more of the patience you might show to a dog who has just pooped on the carpet—the sort of look I used to get from my Mom. Thankfully, Georgia looks more like my Mom. Though Deirdre doesn’t look a bit like my mother, she managed that look on her face, nonetheless.

“Don’t give yourself too much credit. Women have a tendency to like certain faults in a man . . . a few faults.”

This was not where I wanted to go. Not in a public place, with a limited amount of time at our disposal. So, after an appropriate pause for breath, I changed the subject.

“So why don’t you quit? Do something else.”


“Write another book.”

“It’s you that writes books. I like to look and listen. Please leave that alone.” And then she changed the subject herself. “So tell me what you spoke about to your friend Mr. Reilly? What’s the deal with him?”

“Why not? What about writing down just what you see and hear?”

“Tell me what you’ve seen or heard from Mr. Reilly, and maybe I can.”

She was still on her game. I filled a little with scraps of past conversations. I mentioned George’s ideas about entropy, and staying upright like a buoy in a sea of troubles, and about the inherent socialism of the family unit. I even hit the topic of hate speech and the new forbidden words of hate speech, now that George Carlin was gone and couldn’t defend us. But what I finally came up with was really a fabrication made more of conjecture. A true lie, because it was something that could be so.

“George think’s the government is getting desperate. They can see the writing on the virtual wall. That’s why they’re so intent on getting him. They know they need to get control of the internet, or the jig is up. Even the Anonymous groups and Julian Assange have shown that. And that’s what the Stop Online Privacy Act and Protect IP Act, and the rest was all about. They’ve got the UN in on it now. They need to control Matt Drudge as much as Mr. Assange. They can’t have all that freedom going on out there, behind their backs, or in their faces. Too much freedom going on. So now they’re raising the ante. It’s not just so called ‘hate speech’ they’ve got to control. Now it’s ‘cyber violence.’ My little shop is a drop in the bucket compared to all that. No. Maybe the better metaphor is a hole in the bucket. A physical opening to a universe they don’t understand.”

I wondered afterward if my attempt to respark her interest in our story—at least the story of the Bookshop, was way too obvious. Or maybe too subtle. Buckets aside.


But the answer was on page five in the next morning’s paper: ’Under siege by both FBI and IRS, Boston bookseller plans fund raising sale.’

Holy mackerel! The phone was ringing off the hook from the time I got through the door.

I’m usually alone in the store until eleven, or until one of the part-timers shows up, but the lovely Ardis again saw the story in the morning edition of the Post and she comes in at nine and we faced the rush together.

Ardis is always ahead of the curve. First thing, she gives me the straight face. “It’s serious. Isn’t it?”

I say, “Yeah. But I’m worried about the IRS more than the FBI.”

She shakes that off, “I mean the bleach-blond.

I tell her “I don’t know.”

She shakes her head at me for that. “It’s serious.”

At that point, amidst the dozen or so who have decided to come in the shop at an hour when it’s usually quiet enough for me to write a chapter without much more than a phone call, in walks a familiar face.

I don’t really know this guy, except for the ‘Hello.’ I’ve just seen him around through the years. He ought to be retired. His name is Charlie Flaherty and he works at the Boston Journal, which is now shrunken to tabloid size and on its way to scandal-sheet oblivion.

He waits for his chance to slip up to the counter and says, “How ya doin’ Michael?”

I say, “Fine, Charlie. Yourself?”

“Feelin’ left out. Like you threw a party and didn’t invite me.”

He says that with the ‘paahty’ emphasized.

“Join the fun, then. You lookin’ for a book, or a press release? I’m not doin’ any press releases this morning.”

“No. No, I guess you don’t have to these days. Not now you’re hooked up with Deirdre. But my editor thinks we ought to cover a little of this too, just for old time’s sake. To show we care. You, know. That’s why they sent me. He thinks we’re old buddies.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Because. Because, through the years, whenever I was late getting back to the office, I used to say that I’d stopped in here on the way to see if you had a book on the subject of the hour. My editor’s Italian and from New York and he thinks all of us Irish stick together anyway. You know.”

“He likely knows where you actually were, Charlie. But I’ll tell you, if the Irish really stuck together there would likely be a lot more of them than there already are.”

He nods. “Funny. But listen, can you give me a little something to take back with me? Something that you haven’t already said out loud in your sleep.”

He’s smiling the whole way. You hear that sort of talk in bars as some fellow is verbally slicing up a ‘friend.’ The smile is what makes it keen.

I was at the counter, so I waved Ardis up and stepped over to the side where I could talk. Charlie is sixty if he’s a day and he gives Ardis the up and down.

I say, “How many kids you got, Charlie?”


“Any girls?”

He gets my drift. “I can look, can’t I. I’m not dead yet. Look at you!”

“At least I’m divorced.”

He shrugs, “That’s the problem with marrying a Catholic. They don’t let go.”

I say, “You strike me as the kind of guy who can’t turn on a washing machine or boil an egg. Count yourself lucky.”

He slaps that away with the flat of his hand in the air between us, “I’m not here for marital advice. Tell me something. What’s going on? Are you turning IRA in your old age? How did you get the Black and Tans on your case?”

“Just minding my own business. They came after me. I’d prefer to leave them alone.”

“I hear the tax collector’s investigating. Any fire under that smoke?”

“Sure. We don’t make diddly squat here. I’m always behind. But the tax always gets paid. Eventually. Always has.”

“Who is this George Reilly character?”

I know that he has read all of Deidre’s pieces, but I wonder what sort of field work he has done to prepare for this interview himself.

“It’s like you’ve read, he’s just an old customer. Unlike you, he actually buys books.”

Charlie nods at me. “Then you don’t know about any plot to overthrow the government? Anything like that?”

“Nothing. There’s no such plot. It’s government paranoia. Mr. Reilly is evidently good at keeping secrets. They hate that. They only like the secrets that they can’t keep themselves.”

Charlie pulls a folded sheet from his pocket. “Is all that anything to do with this?”

What he has is a computer printout of something with a header that says ‘Nuspeek Daily.’ Those words are in Boldface Times Roman. Below that are briefs on various recent government probes into businesses and organizations around the country. I had never seen it before. It was short, only about four pages, but impressive. It also had a side bar of links to other online sources attached to each of the stories. My eyes caught on item seven: “A Republic of Books in Boston is under investigation by both the FBI and the IRS.”

“This looks interesting, but I don’t know anything about it.”

He nods again. “It quotes you there. It says that you see what’s going on as an attack on the Second Amendment.” He took the sheets back from me and held them up to his face with his glasses pushed high onto his forehead. “Did you say, ‘The American Republic is dead. Each new Caesar will now feed off the rotting carcass until all we have left are the bones.’”

“Sounds like something I might have hyperbolized.”

“Who did you say it to?”

“I can’t remember. I say stuff like that all the time. But only because it’s true.”

Actually, I knew exactly to whom I’d said it.

Charlie says, “Look, Michael. I’m sympathetic. You know? The world is going to hell in a hand basket. But I can’t do much if you don’t help me out here. I know I don’t have the glands that Miss Roberts has, but I can get your story out there too, if you give me a chance.”

I tried to give him as much of a look of pity as my limited dramatic skills would allow. “Well that explains a lot about both your problems and mine. I didn’t know that science was calling the brain a gland now.”

A shake of the head, “For pity’s sake, Michael. Help me out here.”

“Charlie. The way I see it, you are the problem. This has been going on under your nose for years and you haven’t reported on it. Now you think you can sell a few extra papers on a little sympathy for the ‘old bookseller.’ But it’s too late.”

“Michael! Deirdre is no better than I am. Why does she get the inside track? Is it true then? Is it all pillow talk?”

I think I gave a short laugh. It was a cute try. “You’ll have to go back without a story, Charlie. I suspect it’s time for both of us to retire anyway. You can spend more time with your wife, but I’ll just have to keep sleeping alone.”

Because the Boston Journal is a tabloid, they still get out an evening edition, along with the updates on their website. So, about six o’clock, Deirdre shows up looking fierce. She hits the counter with a copy of the late edition of the Journal while still in full stride. Even as thin as that tabloid is, it makes a good pop on the marble and gets everyone in the shop, including Ardis, to look forward.

I see that Deirdre is handsome when she’s angry.

She says, “Did you tell this ass-hole any of that?”

“I don’t know what it says. But I don’t think I told him anything that isn’t public knowledge.”

She places a finger on the page below a picture of me that was taken for some article they ran a year or two ago. “How about this, ‘Mr. McGeraughty denies he has a personal relationship with Deirdre Roberts, the reporter for the Post who is responsible for recent stories . . .’ Did you tell him that?”

“I said nothing about you.”

She did not look convinced.

But Ardis had come up behind me and cleared her throat. She gave both of us the quick plastic smile. I was suddenly worried. What had I actually said? Ardis raises both eyebrows with her best look of skepticism and a sigh, which is actually her way of showing patience.

Ardis says, “The ass-hole I think you are referring to kept intimating that Michael was sleeping with you and that’s how you were getting your information and that’s why you were giving us so much attention. Michael told him he was lame and said it was probably about time for both of them to retire and Charlie could spend more time with his wife, and Michael would just have to continue sleeping alone. I believe those are close to his exact words.”

Deirdre’s shoulders dropped an inch or two and the fight came out of her.

So I asked her if she knew about the ‘Nuspeek Daily’ website. She didn’t. But at least she did not seem puzzled by the name. Nice that she’s a lit major, even if she is given to the usual Orwellian liberal faiths.

I took a phone call then while Deirdre wandered a bit around the shop. Not idly. It was clear she was working up to something else to say. When I was free again she asked me to step outside a moment. There, against the murmur and buzz on the street, she apologized for ‘flying off the handle.’ I love that idiom. And because I was not upset with her at all, I tried to change the subject.

“I’ve always wondered where that expression comes from. I’ve wondered if it had anything to do with printing and the old presses. The sweat of the hands on the steel lever. But I have a friend who thinks it has to do with the head of the ax coming loose with a swing and flying wild.”

She shook her head at me. “You are incorrigible.”

But at least she didn’t say that in the tone of a reprimand.

I put in, “Do you want to go someplace for dinner tonight?”

She said, “No. I can’t,” as if that were a very unfortunate thing, and I believed her, but then she asked me for a favor.

She said she had something for me to read. She said she’d drop it off later.


Funny thing. I had said the bit about the Caesars and the bones of the Republic at least two years ago—off the cuff. The reason I still knew the exact person I’d said it to is that I was in the truck at the time and on the way to pick up a large load of books from a house in Belmont. Jack was with me for the grunt work and he’d been forced to sit through a particularly vehement tirade on my part because it was October and I had just barely scraped together the taxes to go with our usually late annual filing that year. In other words, I was in one of my darker moods. But I did one other thing that day. I liked the imagery of the phrase and I’d written a few words down on an index card so that I wouldn’t forget them. And then I’d proceeded to loose the card. This three by five had fallen down through the crack in the back of the bench seat in the truck.

A few weeks ago I was doing my semi-annual late spring-cleaning in the truck and the very same card got stuck in the nozzle of the vacuum. So now I asked Ardis if she could speak with Jack about coming by, concerning a technical problem. Somehow, the look she offered back was as if she already understood.

Jack was in the shop the next morning before I opened. The computer was on and the light from the screen was nearly iridescent in the half-dark of the shop on that gray morning.

He says, “What up? Everything looks fine to me.”

I sat down on the second stool behind the counter, and got right to it. “How long have you been working with George Reilly?”

There was no look of surprise. Jack just shrugs. Because he carries a lot of muscle in his shoulders, they don’t move very far, but you get the intent.

“A while.”

“You trust him?”


“Okay. But the Black and Tans are getting close.”

“Black and Tans?”

“Mr. Churchill’s Royal Irish Constabulary. They were sent into Ireland after the First World War to quell the Rebellion. They wore black and tan uniforms. Many of them were Irish themselves and acted as spies to infiltrate the IRA. They did a lot of damage from the inside. Mostly by spreading distrust.” I let that thought sink in. “Just don’t let anything get between you and your trust. You’re better off failing than loosing that, and they’ll be spreading the lies thick and fast.”

Jack nodded just a bit. I didn’t expect him to say much. He seldom does. But then he says, “How did you figure it out? I don’t want to be giving things away.”

“The comment about Caesar and the bones of the Republic.”


“I was reading the piece that was on Nuspeek. Did you write that?”

“Yes sir.”

“It was good. You write well.”

“Thanks . . . But I’ll keep your warning in mind about the Black and Tans.”

I didn’t ask him more. It wasn’t my business, I thought. I had long before accepted the fact that he was conducting some projects of his own on my machine, but any evidence of that was always removed afterward and I was happy to exchange that allowance of time for the help he often gave me at no charge. It wasn’t my place to instruct him concerning what he did. And the less I knew about it the better, lest I slip and say something I shouldn’t to someone else.

But all of this was a real hoot. Now I knew for certain that it was my connection with Jack that stirred the hornet’s nest. And if Jack was part of that, so was Ardis.

With all that in mind, I get home and there is a small box about the size of a ream of paper in the vestibule with my name on it.







Joe Bailey

and the reason for the dog




Honest cops are a lot like honest reporters. There aren’t many of them around, and they both work for naturally corrupt organizations with political agendas that otherwise fill necessary ends in a society that wants more than its willing to give in return. The question comes up, why do they do it? Comes up a lot. Like every morning when I’m drinking my coffee.

            But this morning was a little different. This morning I got a call from Peter Ignatz and he tells me that they’ve killed George Jones.

            George was one of the good ones. He was a cop for over twenty years, had stalled out as Lieutenant because he wouldn’t take the bribes, and should have been good for another ten, at least. Before that he’d been a Marine. He could take care of himself. So they shot him in the back.

            My paper is not going to assign me to the story. My editor knows George was a friend of mine. So it’s on me to do what I will. Peter understands that I understand all that.

            The wisdom that can be found in a cup of coffee can be measured by the ounce. I use a pretty large mug, myself. Still, I couldn’t handle all the thoughts.

            So I call over to Matty Morris, George’s old girl friend, and we have the talk. Out of respect, I would have gone over there in person but I know she has family around and she doesn’t need me in the mix. George married Talia Russell. Matty married Burt Ferris. They both had the kids they wanted, just not the same ones.

            Matty answers the phone and starts crying the second she hears my voice.

            All I can says is, “I’m sorry.”

            She manages to say, “It’s your fault.”


            “Do you know anything else yet?”

            “Nothing. Peter just called and he told me. Georgie was out doing some research in the South End last night. There were a couple of shots. Likely never saw it coming. He was found by a hockey fan coming down the ramp out of the Garden. Peter is putting David Loures on it. He told me to stay away.”

            “If you need anything, I still have friends in the Department.”

            “I’ll let you know. Take care.”

            So I had another cup of coffee to see if it would make me any smarter.

            She was right, of course. It was my fault. Pretty much all of it. I’m the one who talked Georgie into staying on the force when Matty told him she wouldn’t marry him unless he quit. So it’s all on me.

            I went over to see Talia then.

            The kids are too young to understand what’s going on. They’re looking worried because Talia’s been crying and they go all smiles for me with the usual ‘Joe, Joe, Joe.’

            Her whole family is over there. Her mother is giving me the evil eye. Her dad looks lost.

            After the condolences and the hugs, Talia says, “It’s you’re fault.”

            I can handle that, too. I introduced them.

            Next stop was Sudbury Street and the Police station.

            Whenever any cop gets killed, there is a lot of activity. I got a pass and went up to see Fred Elliot. He’s a sergeant and he’s dependable. He’s in community relations now, but he did his time on the street and he was a friend of Georgie’s.

            He waves me into a chair and closes a door.

            I ask, “What do they know?”

            “Nothing. It was out of the blue. He was over there to talk to a ticket scalper named Larry Summers. Summers was a no-show. They have him in for questioning right now. The word is Summers was home because he got a call warning him to stay home. He didn’t even know George was looking for him. He just figured they didn’t have enough stubs to go around. Has no idea why George would want to talk to him.”

            “Was George working solo.”

            “Apparently. But you know the problem there. Who do you trust?”

            “Sure. . . . Any clue what George was working on?”

            “Somebody does. But they’re not saying. I was told to mind my own business.”

            “What does your gut tell you?”

            “It was professional. . . .”



            “Who should I talk to?”

            “You should talk to Robbie Joyce. I know he was talking to Georgie yesterday morning. I saw them. I think he’d know what was going on. But it was Robbie’s man, Shawn, that told me to mind my own business.”

            Something to consider.

            “Any ideas?”

            “As I see it, it’s likely just a matter of simple math. No calculus. Robbie Joyce is part of the task force working on the gangs. Anyone of that lot’s capable of doing something like this. Mostly it’s about the drugs. There’s some gun-running. There’s a little prostitution—but that end is mostly tied up by the locals.”

            “If it was a gang hit, why do you think it was done by a pro.”

            “I didn’t say it was a gang hit.”

            Fred’s voice got hard. I was jumping too fast.

            “Who’s in charge of the task force?”

            “Ed Murray.”

            “He’s the Mayor’s guy, isn’t he.“


            I didn’t say ‘shit’ this time. It wasn’t unnecessary.

            Next item on the menu was breakfast. It’s good to eat at least twice a day. It was already ten o’clock and my stomach was speaking to me loud enough to be heard by others.

            It’s a cool morning. I pumped some more quarters in the meter and walked over to the old West End—what’s left of it. There’s a new place there run by a brunette who used to be a waitress over at Charlie’s on Columbus and it’s worth the walk. Lucille does not like to be called ‘Lucy,’ but she called the place ‘Lucy’s’ anyway because that’s what everyone called it once they knew. She’s very smart that way. For instance, she can’t cook. With her it’s all customer service, but she hires good cooks. And she opened the joint with her own money. I never thought about it but saving your tips can add up.

            I see Lucille by the register and she’s looking very good for someone working sixteen hours a day. She’s over to me before I can get my butt on the stool.

            “I’m sorry. I heard about George.”

            What do you say? At least she took the silence for an answer and went away.

            I told the kid behind the counter what I wanted and stared out the widow for distraction.

            There was a big black curly haired dog there, probably what they call a Labradoodle mix—cute as hell—all curls and posture, and he’s tied up to the meter, sitting at attention and watching the door. With other things on my mind, I’d missed him when I came in. I looked around the restaurant trying to pick out the owner. There’s a petite woman with a laptop on her table who keeps looking up to check on him.

            I’m wishing these days that I had a dog. At least it would be someone at home to talk to.

            The petite woman is only a few feet away so when she looks up again I say,

“It must be hard to take care of a big dog in the city?” I know it is. I was just making small talk.

            “Yeah. But it’s not mine. I got stuck with him.”

            “You don’t like dogs?”

            “Too much trouble. My asshole ex-boyfriend dumped him on me.”

            “Too bad. . . .”And then I had one of those totally irrational thoughts. “If your boy friend doesn’t show up again, call me. I’m looking for a dog.”

            I handed her my card.


            I just gave that a nod. She had my card in her hand.

            I ate my breakfast pretty quickly and on the way out I stopped to give the dog a little attention. It was a good dog, but maybe a little too pretty. But then again, maybe not. Guys can be pretty, I guess. Never thought about it.


So, I was up all night with the rest of this. Literally. It was dawn when I finished it and I was rather excited and even wandered over to the Paramount for breakfast out of old-time habits. But then, by the time I opened the shop, I was in a daze. I’m getting too old for these all night reading binges.

Deirdre was there soon after. I could see her walking back and forth on the sidewalk. First her shadow. Then, when she was closer, I knew it was her, even with the sun glaze on the window. I felt for her. I understood what was going on and there was nothing I could really do to help.

Finally she comes in. And stands there at the door. And waited. I was helping someone so I couldn’t really do anything right off but it gave me a chance to consider the situation a little better. The problem was, in the delirium I was feeling from lack of sleep and my own worries I was not feeling completely rational. The whole reason I read it was not just because it was good—it was plenty of that—but because I needed an escape from all the other crap in my head. I’m no different than anyone else.

I didn’t even say ‘Hi.’ I just came back to the stool behind the desk and looked back at her until she got up the nerve to speak first. I figured it was her hand to play.

She says, “Read any good books lately?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I have.”

There was a little adjustment to that face. She wasn’t sure where to go.

“Something you can recommend?”

“Sure. Something terrific! Really terrific. But you already know that, don’t you?”


Now she looks like she’s a kid looking at some natural wonder for the first time.

“Really. But you understand, I was up all night. I’m a little tired. Forgive me for not jumping up and down.”


“You had me from the beginning anyway, just because your name was on it, but I knew it was going to be a kick when you introduced the dog. Great dog. But to show you how dense I can be, I hadn’t guessed that Joe was a Josephine until that moment. A regular Joe is not going to be gushing over curly hair.”

She is still standing back at the door. Another customer came in but Deirdre stayed there by the side. Like she needed to be close to an escape.

“I guess. Did that spoil it for you? I mean, should I change that?”

“No. It was perfect. The whole damn thing is near perfect. . . . except, . . . Except Joe deserves better. I think she ought to have a boyfriend.”

She missed this entirely.

“You mean, because there’s no sex?”

At the word ‘sex,’ the customer who had just arrived, a guy, turned around in the aisle to sneak a look back at Deidre.

“No. There doesn’t need to be any sex. That’s fine the way it is. But she’s a sympathetic character and I think a reader might want to imagine a little back story if they’re going to put themselves in her shoes.”

She nods a moment at that.

“Did you have it figured out before the end?”

“Yeah. About three pages before the end. You had me all the way. The dog was a great McGuffin, though. Looking for the missing boyfriend was a natural. I knew he couldn’t be too bad because the dog was so good. So naturally, I assumed it was the girlfriend. I mean, who doesn’t like dogs, and especially that dog. But then that whole thing turned into a good surprise too. It made some of the grimy police work around George’s murder more bearable. A good touch.”

“You liked it.”

“Yes. I liked it a lot. Only now I’m thinking that I really want a dog.”


Now listen. This is important.

In his Inquiry Into the Human Mind on the Principles of Common Sense, Thomas Reid approaches knowledge from the points of origin in the senses, and in the manner of Aristotle, taking each in turn: ‘of smelling,’ ‘of Hearing,’ ‘of Touch,’ ‘of Seeing;’ but in doing this he pulls off that admirable trick of conflating the meaning of ‘Common Sense,’ as in practical judgement, with the empirical data we are each most familiar with through the use of our noses, ears, skin, and eyes.

I say trick, not to be critical but in praise. He is a magician most happily willing to reveal his methods. The result is non-the-less marvelous. He has therein founded philosophy not in the abstract, but upon the practical and useful, something to be handy to our daily lives, and not the exclusive province of assumed intellectuals who know better.

It was in this way that Reid took on the work of his fellow Scotsman, the moral philosopher Francis Hutcheson (by way of Ulster and Ireland), establishing the primacy of the individual in any civil society—of self consciousness and self awareness, of a sense of beauty and internal pleasure, a public sense and an awareness of the happiness of others, a moral sense and judgment of our own actions, a sense of honor that gives us pleasure from praise or pain from the condemnation of those we respect, and a sense of the ridiculous and of good humor, not withstanding other palpable senses of our existence. And it was thus that Reid and Hutcheson made possible the most elegant phrase in our language: “We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness—“ because of all those particulars, the one that each of us has the most authority over is our own happiness. But it was Reid who more especially built the logic of a free society upon our individual sense of right and wrong and the need to hone that awareness and maintain it. Where Hutcheson thought there was some innate sense of good and bad, Reid placed himself whole heartedly in the camp of individual responsibility for our actions based upon our common sense, and thus the need for a good education and proper home life were paramount. Where their contemporary Hobbs turned a jaundiced eye on his fellow man, believing self interest to be the root of all human action, Reid saw that there was as great a motivation in our efforts to please others for whom we cared. However, the key here to both is that individual human action must be free in order to reveal itself, else it is only imitation and mimicry and thus counterfeit. And, in that, you will find the source of thinking that guided David Hume and Adam Smith as well as the Founding Fathers.

So this is where I am. Two hundred years later. It seems I am responsible for all this. Everything!

This is just the sort of stuff I’ve been pushing all my life! What good is it? I don’t even have a dog! I live alone in a basement. I garden in boxes. My children hardly know me. My ex-wife wishes she hadn’t. I sell books very few people want and compound that by writing books no one reads. I am an anachronism! A prolepsis after the fact, a solecism of history, a chronological error, a calendared metachronism, antiquated if not archaic, at least out-of-date, outmoded, perhaps ancient, and nearly antediluvian, certainly bygone and no better than a stiff parrot in a Monty Python sketch, passe, superseded, unfashionable, stale, outworn, old-school, old-hat, a dinosaur, a fossil, extinct, gone, had it, dusty, done for, disused, and worse. There are a lot more words that apply, but I’ve had enough. I’m kaput.

I have asked a dozen people in the last year—likely more because I’ve lost track—if they knew who Thomas Reid was. Not as some sort of experiment. Just for practical reasons. I wanted to make him a character in a play with Benjamin Franklin. Franklin certainly must have sought Reid out during all those years away from home. I thought it would be fine to watch them interact—the heady Scottish philosopher who could think in Latin and Greek, and the American icon of common sense. I’ve searched libraries and other bookshops. I’ve asked everyone I thought was likely to have a glimmer. And always in the course of a conversation about the philosophies of the Founding Fathers. That’s a conversation I have pretty frequently. . . . But no one—not even one person—has come close. The librarian wondered if I meant the fellow who was the father on the Brady Bunch television show. A retiring philosophy professor at Tufts that I met when I was buying his books asked me if it was a trick question. It appears there is another professor running around with that name. So you see, I am at a loss. I am pursuing the thought of a man who changed the world, and nobody noticed. Well. They did know it in his own time and for a hundred years after, but he is forgotten today, as are pretty much all the principles of reason that he lived for.

What good is it that?


There is a reason for having a dog.

I don’t mean those nervous canine lap-cats so common in the city. I refused to let Margaret get one of those for the kids—she actually brought one home once and I brought it back, in spite of a protest of tears and wailing from the kids. Better that they have a doggie ideal than one of those. Margaret just reduced her estimate of me by another notch. Our apartment was large but not large enough for a real dog.

I need a dog now like the one I had when I was a kid.

Dogs are full of common sense.







Bird is the Word

trifles taken from the alms-basket of words




The door opens abruptly, only seconds after I’ve unlocked it. The customer is in a hurry and makes that clear with several wagging gestures and a quick huff of breath. She is young, in her twenties, and has the sort of blue eyes you see on con-artists and movie actors—hard, as if outlined in black. Maybe its the mascara. The muscles of her cheeks have the stiffened took of pulled taffy. Not pleasant. Her unlikely nose extends between her cheeks like the foot of a clam.

She speaks before the abused mechanism has closed the door again, “I’m looking for something to read while I’m on vacation.”

My own few tomes are displayed now by the cash register, just below the lip of the counter and readily at hand. They are generally ignored nonetheless.

“Would you like to read a great new novel by a local author? Hot off the press! Terrific story. Not at all like anything else.”

I do not promote them more than that. Not much. The last thing I would want is for someone to buy one and be disappointed. Better to cling to the illusion that if they did read just one, they would love it and become a lifelong friend than to fail at that singular joust of minds. These are the ploys of the aging writer, weary of rejection. But not me!

She shakes her head, “I want something light. What’s that new one I heard about—the one about the politician who’s supposed to be a child molester?”

I understand it is no revelation at all that a novel is a condensation of life, or that this particular art form was just that for a very long time—at least until our actual lives were existentially reduced to a series of reflexes, mere automatic impulses, as biological extensions of electronic media whilst on the tether of Wi-Fi, to be lived vicariously through some one of the most recent manifestations of an MP3 player, iPad, or smart phone. But I had another thought or two, by further extension.

“We have the latest Swedish cold-cereal killer thriller in, but I prefer hot oatmeal myself.”

She didn’t seem to hear.

This occurred to me awhile back when I was first considering the publishing of my own next novel as an e-book. Having given up on the prospect of finding an agent for my curmudgeonly efforts, which are always ‘too long,’ or ‘uncomfortable,’ with characters that are ‘unsympathetic,’ and humor that is ‘off putting,’ and thus recognizing the reality that if it was to be published at all, it would have to be done by myself, I was made to ponder what medium I might use for my message—given that the immortal words of Mr. McLuhan are still with us. The cheapest means were clearly the virtual pages of an e-book. But there was obvious irony in that, in bowing to the very death of the corporal book that I had long fought for, though it might actually accomplish what else I wanted—what any author would wish—a small measure of personal immortality: to wit, to be read.

She says, “Do you have any Stephen King?”

In any case, given the rate of attrition with electronic devices as they age faster than hamsters and the quick surpassing of software made to be as babelously obsolete as all the ancient languages within a decade or less, an e-book might give me at least a couple of years of accessibility. This status, of course, would hardly be akin to those frequent rediscoveries of once published authors I have myself uncovered in attics and basements; the ones I’d never heard of before the moment of extracting some faded volume from a dusty bin—those being better by far from the first paragraph, scanned on the spot in that diminished garret light, than the average hack work currently promoted full-page in The New York Times Book Review or Publisher’s Weekly (journals that support their efforts by selling advertising space, and though I don’t fault them for that, I do hold them to task for the editorial matter squeezed between the ads that serves both mammon and balderdash).

“We have one by Florence King.”

“Is that his wife? I don’t like her.”

No. I turned to my truer enemy for salvation. The mighty Amazon. They had now made a publishing device called CreateSpace which allows the lowly author to present his own work and shelve it in that super-colossal bookmart in the sky (that being well above the attics I am so fond of), where it might be found by the diligent aeronaut or the severely lost balloonist or cosmonaut, and ordered—print-on-demand. Thus, actual physical copies of the benighted work in question (lacking all the grace of proper editing and design), can be had in hand in paperback for a reasonable price. How nice!

Despairing, I pulled the Florence King from the shelf and tried to hand it to her. “I don’t think they’re related.”

The hard blue eyes scanned the cover without taking it.

“She’s Southern. I don’t like Southern writers.”

I despaired.

‘Print on demand!’ What need is there of the bookshop, when the buttons on keyboard will have it to you with 48 hours if you choose the express-mail option. You can watch TV until then. And better that than the Augean drawer; the silent death of neglect (an awful fate!), and then the dustbin when at last they clear out the accumulated detritus of my life at the end. Then again, ’They’ may be thankful for that clearing out, at least.

Is it the fear of death then, that drives us? Just that? Then Stephen King must have it right, by God!

I relented and pulled the most recent doorstop by Mr. King off the shelf.

She says on sight, “I think I read that.”

But in that brief instant I had already calculated the opened space that could be used to hold two better books in its place.

She took it from my hand and studied the flap-fold.

Worse still is the thin broth of contemporary lives lived in fear of everything: afraid of germs and cholesterol, snakes and CO2, clowns and ghosts; afraid of being alone, and of commitment; afraid of guns (even while thrilling to the pretend vengeance of a Matt Damon, Liam Neeson or Daniel Craig shooting anything that moves); afraid of being too fat, or too thin; afraid of both failure and success; afraid of commitment and of disappointment; afraid of offending Muslims (but not Christians), or women (but never men!), or blacks (not whites), or gays (but not the unhappy). By necessity, such a fallow and hesitant existence is lived in hatred of anyone who dares make something more of themselves than the banal—just for having made the insignificance of their own lives so obvious. I think it is jealousy feeds their self-contempt. But such comparison is unfair, or so I am told.

The blue-eyed scallop! That’s what I was reminded of by her face! Well, not exactly. It was the terminology. The name itself. Scallop is such a good and underutilized word.

She says, “I’ll buy it anyway.”

The relative safety of modern life for several generations has meant a large increase in the number of these types who exist from moment to moment without true purpose, having been confronted with the existential needs to feed and cloth themselves, or unable to fight for anything other than a place in the queue. And they vote their fears. Just one more deficiency of democracy in our modern era. Having skipped the actual text of the last century for the headlines alone, they fear big business but not big government. Yet, withal, from the loins of any of them might arise a better issue. We are all one species, after all, and of the same genetic stuff; the next hero might even yet come from the womb of the lowest form of bureaucrat!

Perhaps not in this case. I envision the crusty little mollusks that might drop from between her pants-suited legs like turtle eggs. Horrors! A sexist thought!

I step up behind the register. “That’s six dollars.”

She says, “Why so cheap?”

She studies it again.

I say, “It’s used.”

The scallop blue eyes fix on me. ”What about the tax?”

“We include it in the price.”

The blue eyes widen, and brighten as they catch the light. “You really shouldn’t. People ought to know what they’re paying for. There shouldn’t be a tax on books in the first place.”

Once again, I am slapped up-side the head. She may not be pretty, but she might easily be able to teach me a thing or two.

“You’re right. It’s just another mistake I started making so long ago I’ve lost track of the purpose in it. I hate bookkeeping and small change. It was always easier to calculate the tax all at once on sales at the end of the month. But you’re right. People ought to know.”

She smiled. Like many people, she was prettier when she smiled.

This one exception aside then, here I am, publishing my own novels as electronic data—i.e., not real. False typography set upon a phony topography of electronic pages, to be conjured into corporeal form at the push of a button (and a two-week wait for shipping and handling if you’re not in a hurry). Where’s the beef then? I am no test pilot. Nor a soldier. Merely an observer (and an admittedly faultful one at that).

My gripe as I grasp at the potential half-life of the e-book and its progeny of print-on-demand is not only that, along with the tragic loss of craft in paper making and typography and binding and all the rest of that now buried art of bookmaking, it represents a small aesthetical fraction of its ancestors and also, with the collapse of publishers who once showed their mettle in risking good cash on what they adjudged to be the finest words they could find (unlike the State funded verbal masturbations issued at most colleges and universities that toe the politically correct line, or the wholly unfunded maunderings such as this to be found almost anywhere clogging the internet), that with their loss comes the end of any means of viable distribution, which is, of course, the death of the bricks-and-mortar bookshop as a purveyor of what some curmudgeon such as myself might judge to be the better of those titles offered (thus achieving a good Darwinian epitome of the best we have). What I publish myself is merely a cake to be eat (as in et) alone, or by a few friends, or lacking that, to be left out in the rain. Sadly, what seed is actually spread in our time is only that of the fast promoter and not that of the slow hand.

Yet perhaps that too, by its own devious means, is another aspect and function of the processes of Darwin’s natural selection. Thus, in my far less dramatic way, I am properly destined for the cold crevasse as well.

But to be reduced to fertilizer for electronic worms offers no consolation. Cold comfort farming at its best.

Scalloped indeed!


For all of my life I have been taught and heard repeatedly all the wrong things about writing, and about how to write. I think of this as the E. B. White school of authorship with John Gardner and David Lodge as adjunct professors—all of them worthy practitioners of the craft, and all of them dead wrong. Dead for sure. As I will be, soon enough. And, in that they have the advantage of some professional success that I do not, this fight would seem to be unfair. Still, I persist with the thought.

These authors, as well as half a hundred others, ranging from Ambrose Bierce and Mark Twain to William Zinsser, have indulged themselves in the mud-wallow of explaining what they do and what they do not do and why their methodology is the best, or at least the better. I admit I have not read them all, but I have read some parts of them all and you will find that in large measure they agree—and they are wrong.

The point is that they have missed the point of writing. The very purpose of it! The paradigm, if you will—one they have followed since the time of Dickens and that was wrong at the start and this business has much disintegrated in the interim. A clarified communication is not a reason to write. Clearer to whom? A grunt or laugh is enough for most of that. Nor is a fat paycheck reason enough. Nor fame (though glory might suffice). Nor approval. Nor any of the other bullshit foisted on generation after generation and now codified in writing programs at universities and writing groups gathered in living rooms and functions rooms at libraries across America. And good writing is most certainly not about the acceptance and approval of the agents and editors who make a living as the procurers and pimps of a much sullied profession. They trade their souls along with every new Stephen King contract.

But it should not be all about the money. Money is fine if the value is there. Money is great if it’s made and not stolen. But there must be a value to be traded for. And that is all about the content. You can argue that Stephen King’s name is of value and I won’t disagree. But King, or Dickens, or Hilary Mantel are not more than a small fraction of what is written (no matter how fast Mr. King tries to produce). What about the rest of it? The reason to write is a matter worth writing about. Good writing is a creation of time and effort as much as any small genius that might occur. It is God-like. But the subject of what is written is what matters most. Saying it well is the task. The craft, if you will. The art, if you can. As a writer, you have spent a piece of your life in the bargain. And after that, what follows is, for the most part, beyond the author’s hands. You may hewn this craft. You may polish it all you want. But if you have nothing to say, it will still be a sneaker.

I do not look down on prostitution, per se. Most of us do that to one degree or another in our lives. We sell ourselves, often for very little. But writing might be a more worthy profession if it were not tied to the pimps. Truly, the courtesan has much in common with the writer in that the practitioners in both trades might get a great deal more pleasure from their craft if they do it well. And too, doing it badly is not worth doing at all. But to do it at the beck and call of a pimp takes all the fun out of it.

I have mentioned before that I had a good friend who was a professional author his entire life, and earned a good living at it. His astonishment that I wasn’t willing to adjust my writing to the demands of the marketplace still resounds in my head. He told me that anyone who wrote without prospect of being paid was a fool. I told him I was that fool. And he was correct, of course, if what I wanted was his success. Though that pleased him, it never appealed to me.

And I do not disparage Dickens, or Hilary Mantel for that matter. I admire them both. They wrote and write about what matters to them, and have done it in a manner that appeals to a great many people. There is nothing wrong with that. But that can’t be taught. It is a personal chemistry that may be learned—as Michelangelo learned to cut marble. But if it could be taught, we would have to crawl over the statuary to get to the grocery (much as we now do stepping over those tomes by my instant whipping boy, Mr. King). The learning, which is a bringing to bear of soul and craft is done by the author. The artist. Whether a creation is drawn from the life of the author, or an imagined instance, the writer must care intimately about the subject or else it is hack work. The best of authors often seem to find themselves doing a little hackwork, trying to pay a mortgage. But for the reader, what matters is that it be worth the time taken from their own lives to read. It must be an enlargement of the life they know. Hack work, though it might briefly entertain, does not do that, unless the life of the reader is very small—again Mr. King comes to mind.

My evidence for all of this begins with the dead body of literature now lying in those morgues we call libraries, most of it rotting so badly it must be disposed of regularly despite the ever growing quantity of it being written under the aegis of writing classes preaching the mammon of fame and fortune possible to those who do it right, and the continuing reduction of space that is allowed for it as the corporal bodies of the books themselves are quickly incinerated or reduced to zero’s and ones, thereby diminished to pale images on screens—and thus made increasingly unimportant. The case I’m making ends with the realization that a computer can write just as well.

In the mean while, Jane Austen, Mark Twain, Victor Hugo, Charlotte Bronte, Robert Louis Stevenson, Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, George Eliot, Joseph Conrad, Willa Cather, and a few hundred others remain in print—on ink and paper—and continue to fill those library shelves, and are replaced when the pages become shabby with turning. How come? . . . Take your time. . . . Excuses may be deposited in the round file at the end of the library desk.

I may not be up to the measure myself, but at least I know which standard to follow into battle. And, most importantly, given the homogenizing advice of Gardener and Lodge and White, one particular distinction all of those ‘great’ authors have in common is that they do not write in the same way. They are not alike. Simply that. Toss your Gardner, Lodge, and White into the same file with your excuses. Not necessarily their own literary work, mind you. None of the three write the way they preach. To my own reading, they are often good. But you can rid yourself of their manuals on the craft. Besides, you’ll be needing a Virgil or Beatrice where you’re going.

But look at the consequences of what they have done! Most of an entire century of our literature is lost! Yes, to them! They are responsible for what they have written. I can name a hundred authors of as fine a merit as Gardner, Lodge and White that you will never read—that you never had the chance to read because you were given such dross in school and taught with such a heavy hand that now you hardly read at all. That is, if you are the general public. If you, in particular, are this far into my own small essay, you are likely of sterner stuff. But ask yourself, what have you read of late that has magnified or intensified the time of your own life, not diminished it.

That is the real crux of my own argument. A good novelist gives us additional time. A good story enlarges our hours. A great novelist defies the laws of physics, offering an experience of the present or some imagined past or future, at the same moment we are living our own adventures. When we have lived another year we can look back and survey what we have done and the best of the novels are there amongst the storms and the sun, spring flowers, and babies smiles, tragedies and deaths. They are part of us. Our lives are that much greater. We have gained time!

I am aware that there are some who read only to escape the lives they are living badly. But most of those will not hold themselves responsible for what they do, even as they complain about their petty aches and pains, much less for what they read. And I am aware that the schools are much to blame for the quality of education—no, not the schools themselves—the walls and floors didn’t do it. The teachers did. Blame them fairly. And, truly, the publishers and editors and their handmaidens, the literary agents, have much to answer for as well, since the days when the great Blanche Knopf published authors simply because she liked them.

What most disturbs me is the authors who have lowered their art to craft and then preached a doctrine of prostitution—the authorities who preached form and function without purpose—the perpetrators of the apparently not so grand larceny that, instead of enriching, stole another few hours from you in your search for some larger context to the pace of your own life.

Novelists and storywriters properly take upon themselves the role once played by the old woman at the stove, the aunt on the porch, the guy sitting at the end of the pier with his fishing pole, or the strange fellow on the bench at the bus stop. Gump may have been a fool, but he was a sage for the fact that he saw his life in context. He saw through time. And that is the role of the good writer. All the technique in the textbooks will not help with that.

What I argue is simply this: what the Whites, and Lodges, and Gardeners have instructed is only technique, and not very useful technique at that. They have not taught their readers who or how or what to write about—that is, tell a story worth telling. They have taught method. Like a theatrical Stanislavsky asking a girl from the wealthy suburbs to imagine being Tolstoy’s Lydia Ivanovna and act accordingly, or a Russian immigrant raised in New York to pretend he is a cowboy in order to ride a horse. It may be an interesting exercise but it will be artificial and likely injurious.

Mere technique changes from decade to decade. More from century to century. What was common usage in 1914 is not now. Technique is only a device. It may serve well for purposes of reader comprehension, or it may just as easily inhibit thought and reduce the experience being offered. And the worst of it is that there is an assumption these days, with most of these writing instructions, that the reader does not need to be told certain things. In fact, should not be told. Prose should be spare. Hemingway was the master of that. Less is more. But that hardly serves to enlarge the reader’s mind—expecting them to draw upon their own experience alone, having been raised in the flickering light of a television set. Does the reader actually know the smell of death? Of child birth? Of rotting heather? Is that important? Yes. And more.

And more. Why do so many characters in recent work act as if their philosophies are a given? Do all modern heroes actually think alike? Do all villains do their dirty for the same purpose? Having been properly instructed in the public schools, and well-trained by the major networks and the Hollywood marketers to the political correctness of the moment, can you now bear to read something that does not fit your reduced cosmology? Considering Dostoyevsky, for instance, can you read the thinking of Raskolnikov and understand his motive for the murder of Ivanovna? Is this made easier simply because she is a pawnbroker? Are his other good deeds sufficient to make you forgive him? Most of the crime literature of late is not so complex—well, Raymond Chandler aside.

Yes, I am aware that the same sterile and artificial authorship has spread to other artistic disciplines. Music. Sculpture. Painting. Clearly the academically approved writing methods of the 20th century reflect other aesthetic trends. But that becomes just another excuse and the reasons touted for it are as poor as the literature that attempts to capture it. A tautology. If the literature did not accept this reduction in the subject matter, devaluation of meaning and degradation of purpose, would the other arts have diminished on their own. Writing, as I see it, is the first of the arts. But the philosophy of life that is au-courant—seeing human beings as mere cogs on the wheels, or the meat ground between—is somehow pervasive. It is nihilism. I am not alone in rejecting that.

The great pity of the moment, beyond the needless loss of life to violence and the pain of lives lived in poor circumstance, is the waste of otherwise comfortable lives by those who should know better. And I ask myself why that should be? Why do so many people today spend the precious time of their short-term existence, even a full four score and ten, looking at the screen of a hand-held device filled only with the intelligence of others willing to do the same? Is it because their parents spent their own hours in front of the two-dimensional gray fields of glass on their television sets instead of looking into the stars? Whatever the reason, isn’t that a passive acceptance of nihilism?

Less than one percent of the population of this benighted country has listened to a Rachmaninoff concerto—I mean, listened, not passed through the sound of it on their way up an elevator. Is it elitism to wish beauty on the lives of others? And is it unfair to judge the best hip-hop against an average Duke Ellington melody? What sense is it that’s lacking there? Common sense, certainly. It is the lack of judgment, as well as the basis to make such judgements. And how much smaller is a life that has never heard A Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini? Measure that, if you can. Because you can’t. It is simply a dead loss.

And the greater part of that loss is time. Mistakes can be repaired. Judgment can be reformed. But time spent will never be regained. A glimpse of paradise known in a few moments of music, or poetry, or a novel will not be theirs. Instead, they have won or lost a petty game that will not be remembered by the very dawn that they will miss because they slept in the empty exhaustion of a wasted effort. And repeat.


And too, remember, my ‘art’ is at the expense of those who have made me safe. My debt is to them. Not to the taxman who takes his cut and serves the interests of the political kings, or of the crowd (aka, the ‘public’) that fill the benches of the virtual coliseum to see the spectacle. (I suppose, in the living rooms at home, those would be called couches.)

Understanding the collapse of Western Culture does not require a critique of a specific individual who has reduced his considerable talents to the lowest common denominator. The catastrophe is world-wide. The bankruptcy of our time is whole-hearted. As the good Lord Byron said, “When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; and when Rome falls, the World.” The West no longer believes in itself. Heart rent, it bleeds to death on the asphalt, beneath the wheel of the Toyota Carolla as much as the heel of the vandal.

            Oh joy!

Sadly, you know, I could go on. But the rant must be foreshortened here lest the larger work still be unfinished when comes the knocking at my own door.

So, as I was saying, I decided, as ephemeral as the effort would likely prove to be, that I should publish the bloody things, print-on-demand, one at a time, like they used to do in the monasteries of old, but instead of a monk amanuensis, I would use that robot artifice called CreateSpace, a bastard child of the Amazon gorilla and a Xerox machine, wherefore actual physical copies might then be obtained by any who could give a damn for a few dollars. Better that than the dust bin.

There is a very good article by Adrienne LaFrance that appeared in the Atlantic Monthly magazine recently. It neatly epitomizes what is in store for the electronic media product of our time: disappearance. Total loss. A sort of virtual EMP. Right now, the literature produced in Microsoft Word or Apple Pages a mere ten years ago is fading away if left unattended by updates. For the writer who made the mistake of dying just then, tough luck for anything they wrote that never found its way into ink on paper.

This vision of the future even caused me to imagined myself as a burglar, sneaking into houses and hiding physical copies of my own self-published novels there in the attics or basements, that they might be found in some future decade by another bookseller, just as I have done so often through the years. I am fool enough to have begun a short story on that line before yet another unfortunate depression of thought occurred to me—there would be no future booksellers.

I have proceeded in this process folly, nonetheless.

Should I have let the young scallop-faced woman in a hurry leave my shop empty handed? At least I’ll leave the novels built around political pederasts to the chain stores and to the higher altitudes of Beacon Hill.

By the bye, the category I had long before chosen for my own work, rather than merely fiction, or science fiction, or fantasy, or horror, or romance, or western (though I plead again for that particular tradition) is ‘honorificabilitudinitatibus,’ as it is found in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost, if for no other reason that it allows me the citation as well as the use of three possessives in one sentence: “O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word; for thou art not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier swallowed than a flapdragon.“ That was Costard, in act 5, scene 1. This was, according to the first edition published at London by Cutbert Burby in the year 1598, “A Pleasant Conceited Comedie called, Loves Labors Lost,” and presented before her Highness Elisabeth the First for the previous Christmas.

By God, flap-dragons!

But now I have ‘lived long on the alms-basket of words’ myself.







Jack is back

and rather upfront about it




And more still, Jack had a word for me too. He appeared from nowhere that evening before closing, told Ardis he would be along shortly and, after we locked the door, he asked me to have a beer with him. He knows enough of my habits to figure I didn’t have a better thing to do.

We went to Duggin’s and sat there at the bar because the booths were filled. I had some ideas about what he wanted to say. I was wrong.

But Doreen lingered in front of us after she had pulled the beers, towel in hand, decolletage agape.

She says, “How goes the battle?”

I said, “Not well.”

Jack said “Fine.”

“Tell me about fine,” she says, looking to him hopefully and waiting for an answer.

Given that it was Jack, I didn’t figure he would say much, but he said, “The Ebola outbreak in Liberia is spreading, Women and children are being raped in Sudan, throats are being slit in Syria and Libya, six young black men and three women were killed in Chicago over the weekend, Isis has taken Mosul, again, the Taliban is resurgent in Pakistan, Russia and Ukraine are at war, and Mr. Rogers and Katherine Hepburn are both dead but this beer is mighty fine.”

“Geez,” Doreen says. “Peas in a pod. Doom and gloom. Michael comes in here with that kind of talk every week. I thought maybe we would get something happier out of you.”

Jack shrugs. “It is good beer.”

Doreen shakes her head and moves away.

It was a small thing, but I immediately realized he had done this with purpose.

Jack has one of those faces that makes him look younger than he is. Especially with the way he shaves close. Deceptive. Not quite a baby face but you’d think he was a kid if it wasn’t for the muscle he carries in his shoulders.

I said, “What did you want to speak to me about?”

He says, “I wanted to apologize.”

“About what.”

“I’m afraid all this mess is my fault.”

“How so? I was feeling rather proud of myself about it.”

Jack cackles. He doesn’t laugh outright very often. But he frequently cackles.

“I thought I had them beat. I thought using your computer connection was a clean entry point. Once I’m in on the dark web, they can’t track me. But at the entry they can tell that I’m there. That is if they are waiting there for me in the first place. I don’t know how or why they had you tagged before I even started. I guess you can take some credit for that. You must have been causing them some concern. Anyway, I couldn’t see any sign of it, even though they had to be there from the beginning to track me. It’s a lesson. You’re never as smart as you think you are. Even when dealing with the FBI. I haven’t done anything from the bookshop since the Feds showed up, but I did set some of my own tags in return and they are still in place. So I’m positive. Not right there in the shop. They could be outside at the cable link, or somewhere else close. So I know now that this is all my fault.”

“You are telling me all my good work is for naught. All my rabble rousing and noise making had nothing to do with it?”

Jack gives me another cackle.

“Well, maybe. A little. You are the synergist, after all.”

“It’s a good Greek word, but I’m disappointed. I was just getting ready to appoint myself a hero. A veritable Leonidas at the Thermopylae of modern Western culture.”

He says, “But you don’t look Greek.”

This is a continuing joke between us. When we had first met, and he asked me if I had any work he could do, I asked his name. “Jack Holt,” he says, and I repeated the name after him and added, “Funny, you don’t look English.” It’s the sort of esoteric humor I am given to. But he didn’t let the ball drop. He answered immediately, “On my father’s side. My mother is black Irish.” Of course I would have hired him just for that.

“I wonder what it was I said the got them interested. It couldn’t have been something I wrote. Nobody reads that.”

“I have a guess,” he says and drinks down half the glass.

So much of what we do is a weave of what we have done with what we will be. It is a synergy of sorts.

‘Adam Smith was a synergist. He wrote two great books. Without The Theory of Moral Sentiments it is easy to say he would never have written An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, because the one grows from the other. From the ethics inherent in all human action, and individual interaction, Smith realizes the moral foundation of government and the commerce of whole countries. But it is in his understanding of human beings that he discovers insight into the working of nations.

‘The lovely conceit of Adam Smith, or any good philosopher for that matter, is that things matter, and that the individual must care that they do.

‘Believing that people think about consequences, beyond what they believe they can get away with, approaches having the faith of a religion. Smith is guilty of this near credulity throughout, consistently begging the assumption that any of us might reason through our actions and do what is best instead of grabbing for the largest piece. Of course it is true that we generally do. Both. Each of us reasoning in our own way. All of us. Even the bloke who only grabbed that largest piece. Our individual interests may differ and our particular reasons may be faulty, but there is an invisible hand in our aggregate will to do what is best, even if it is only for ourselves, and thus for the humanity that we each represent, in microcosm. And it is upon the accumulation of these individual judgments that a good society is founded, and why a nation ruled only by the few is more likely to stumble, or worse, to fall and suffer the consequence of poor judgment. That was, of course, the brilliance of Cleisthenes’ device of the demos and his inadvertent invention of democracy.

‘Flipped as much as it is reversed, this is also the indicative stupidity of the socialist investment in the collective. The socialist speaks of ‘the people’ as if they are one organism and assumes the existence of some sort of corporate mind that knows its mutual will even before the individual human actions that might make that clear. The individual is insignificant by this math, and the collective powerful. As if a gathering of the insignificant might amount to much at all. But the sum of a thousand zeros is still zero. Still, the socialist believes such assumed faith in the collective can be indoctrinated. It is the very source of the totalitarian nature and also why it is so easily dominated by some bloke who really just wants the largest piece.

What Heracles do we have among us to lop off the head of this Hydra?’

I wrote this festive essay as part of a pamphlet that I gave away with every purchase last December, attacking the very concept of ‘executive orders’ and the one-man rule by executive order of President Obama. That a key failure in our national governance in recent years can be found in the abandonment of democracy in favor of oligarchy and dictatorship is without question. That the Congress, acting in fear of one ‘emergency’ after another, and first concerned for any appearance of being heartless, or prejudiced, or without foresight, all the while grabbing the main chance to insure their own wealth and re-election by accumulating power, have acquiesced to these presidential mandates rather than cause a fuss in the fawning Press that might bring unwanted attention upon themselves, has made it clear that any pretense to, or semblance of, the constitutional republic that was our last underpinning had been finally subverted and our government is no better now than an inefficient soviet.

I managed sixteen thousand words of this kind in a twelve point Garamond on heavy cream-colored stock folded by hand to twenty-four pages and saddle-stapled, with a bright green cover wishing everyone a Merry Christmas. I gave away about three thousand of them. The title was, “Death and Taxes in Obama’s America.” Not very creative but to the point. I had struggled for a more poetic title but failed. Within, I tried to explain that every book they purchased was more expensive than it needed to be as a consequence of the same politics that appropriated half their income, and why re-electing the same politicians every two years, as they had done again that previous November, would only insure more of the same. I also made the case that they were responsible for this tragedy and they would have to bear the price. Very cheery. I was in a bad mood at the time, mostly because, for various reasons, none of my children would be coming back to Boston for Christmas. That always piques me.

As a whole, my customers are fairly tolerant of my behavior. But I suppose at least one of them must have objected to some one of the many authorities that have jurisdiction over my very existence these days. It was Jack’s thought that a particular line—a throw-away, I might add, over-wrought and not intended as anything but a bit of color because I was not yet thinking about actual revolution at the time—had lit the match.

‘What Heracles do we have among us to lop off the head of this Hydra?’

I asked Jack, “Why that?”

And he said the oddest thing.

“Because I know that it inspired others.”

“What? You think someone thought I was advocating assassination? That’s insane. Besides, that sort of stupidity would only make things a thousand times worse. We’re already close enough to a police state now.”

“That wasn’t the sort of inspiration I was talking about, but it might have been the sort of thought that crossed some other stupid mind and made them report you.”

Does humility demand subservience? I don’t believe that!

Isn’t it the very act of taking our selves seriously that gives us any importance at all? If we belittle ourselves, are we not smaller? And isn’t it in the nature of the creature we are, to look in the mirror, and see ourselves, and not the skin.

You can argue that we must cringe at our own ignorance and know vertigo at the lip of that grand canyon of our stupidity, or you might appreciate the magnificence of the view from there instead and consider the opportunity for flight. It appears to me that those who argue for our insignificance always then demand our following and allegiance. It would be better to attempt flight.

Recognizing the greater sum of what we do not know does not command us to discard the little that we do; only that we should take care and make the most of it!

But imagine that! Someone had read those words and thought them dangerous!

I said to Jack, “So you think it was something I wrote that was my downfall! Isn’t that glorious? I wouldn’t have dreamt it after all these years. To die by my own sword! Hoist on my own petard! Drowned in my own bile! How fine!”

Doreen looked concerned for me from the far end of the bar.

Jack frowned in mock doubt.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be? Is there anything worse than being ignored?”

“You are mad.”

“Yes! Thank God.”


And this just in: ‘Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.’

I have encountered this titbit several times lately, within this quotation: ‘All the lessons of history in four sentences: Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad with power. The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small. The bee fertilizes the flower it robs. When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.’ So sayeth the Beard, they say. I have no specific origin for the attribution, but then, given the purported source—Charles A. Beard, socialist prick extraordinaire, historical revisionist, and general all-purpose know-it-all, and a man who often borrowed what he found useful from history, and from his betters, and simply made up what he otherwise needed—I have no reason to doubt. From Henry Longfellow he took the rephrasing of the old aphorism, ‘Whom the gods would destroy they first make mad’ and added ‘with power.’ Which is fine, given Beard’s authoritarian mind. I actually prefer another version of that phrase which goes, ‘whom the gods would destroy they first make proud.’ But I suppose I like that because, never having had power, and suffering too often from unwarranted pride, that version strikes closer to home. However, the purloined Beard quote I like best is, ‘When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.’ A much more positive version of the sentiment, ‘it is always darkest before the dawn.’ A surprising view from a man who so belittled his fellow man. But even that one was taken from a better thinker, Ralph Waldo Emerson, though that too is still fine. Emerson was a man who appreciated the stars.

Which is what brought me at last to the conclusion that whatever happened, it was for the best. Not a resignation, you understand, but a recognition. I have persisted long enough. I did what I could and it was not sufficient. I must accept responsibility for that much at least. It was time to make way for a chain store. For designer jeans, crafted by a twelve-year old in a Jakarta factory working for a dollar a day and then sold to stupid people for $89.95, was not such a bad thing. Just absurd. At least the children were not out wandering the streets. Right? And they had the dollar, or what was left after it was handled by the overseer, and the boarding house and the company store and the paterfamilias who bartered his children for the security of a hovel in a better part of the slum. And truly, the chain-store could use the difference of $88.95, or what remained after shipping and handling, to hire ample Americans to run the cash registers. The stupidly (and temporarily) affluent who spent their cash on such haberdashery would have only wasted it on something else just as bad, anyway. Right?

My task now was to fight to the top of the bluff, colors aloft, and there to take my arrows and lose my scalp. I might be blind, but I could at least be a soldier in my own cause and die with a modicum of dignity, even without my hair.

My father might approve of that much, at least. He lost his hair at an early age—scarlet fever it was said

He was an army guy, and the war—that is the Second World War—had changed him greatly from the youth he had been, but I only knew the man he became, because he never spoke about being a soldier, or his youth. I learned about some of the other after his death a few years ago. What my mother told us, after he was gone, was that he had once expected to die young. That was the kind of surprise that opened doors on thought considering his later life and disappointments.

He was a salesman for most of his working career. But when he was in his twenties he had traveled the country in the teeth of the Depression, taking jobs where he could find them. He was a happy guy, she said, and for him selling anything at all was a lark. They had met in Chicago. She was at Northwestern there, getting her teaching degree, and he had sold himself to her right on the spot and then they had gone off to New York together. They were not yet married. That did not happen until the week after the attack on Pearl Harbor.

If you browse in old magazines and see ads with dads with smiles and grey suites, going off to work in the Chevrolet, and moms at the door in aprons waving goodbye, you have the picture of my youth. Mom taught high school English through the war and for a time after, but stopped shortly before my sister was born, and then I came along and then my brother. By the time she was teaching again, I was in high school and too concerned with my own matters to notice anything else. I assumed that ‘home’ was exactly what I had known.

What disappointments were there for my dad? Besides myself, I mean. He never said. But I have filtered the silence for what was unheard. He wished he had gone to college himself, and believed he might have accomplished more if he had. I never got to tell him that this was wrong, or wrong-headed. Nor that his exhortations against the manifold corruption of all politicians had had another effect.

And this is the history that actually matters most importantly to what history I am to make, however small, just as much, exactly, as the history of each of us does to our own story.

I am not encumbered by the scholar’s need for caution. I may imagine what I wish, and will, to the best of my ability. Where a scholar cannot sing the praises of a Raphael Sabatini in the night and then assume his usual chair in the faculty lounge come morning, I can, and do, unabashed, and acclaim that Italian wordsmith of Scaramouche a better writer in English than nine out of ten pet authors studied today in American universities. And yet, he is not nearly my favorite. I will leave you to guess at that, if it matters to you. But there is a reason beyond the generosity of Margaret’s father, and then of Margaret herself, that the shop survived all of those years. I think it was in the accumulation of such small attitudes and not any one great innovation.

For example, around June 16th of each year, when Joyce’s Bloomsday was the fuss at other bookstores, we would put up our annual window display in honor of Adam Smith. Just as we always recognized Shakespeare the week of April 12, in a public esteem of Edward de Vere. It was the sort of thing that kept devoted customers and made for some added heat from the indignant protest of the self-appointed scholars on those colder days of Spring.

I may be wrong about Mr. Shakespeare, but better that than to assign him to the mediocrity of the man who raised his own daughters to illiteracy, had a wife who didn’t scold his using her foibles as meat for characters because she could not read his plays, spelt his name differently on each of the few documents that survive, wrote splendidly in the language of the Royal Court without ever having spent a day there, and used Latin, French and Italian very and very freely, with only a local Avon grade school education behind him. (Just think for a moment about the insider trading portrayed in one play, Love’s Labour’s Lost). I tend to see my characters as men in full, and the women too. That they might act without reason, whether right or wrong, to my mind could only be a sign of insanity. It is, in fact, this very point that makes me despise so much of what passes for ‘modern’ literature. Characters act on inexplicable impulse and the focus of attention is on a situation without cause and effect. This bedlam is then projected as having some meaning to modern life, as if the laws of physics have no role to play, and the human psyche is unfathomable. The meanest thug has his priorities, and gravity governs the fall of the apple even when Newton is not sitting beneath the tree. We may never know who Shakespeare was, but he was certainly better than the near cipher left to us by the history outside of the plays themselves. I see the man as a lion, and a dreamer, both reckless and ambitious, trapped by the circumstance of his birth. That is partly why I favor de Vere as the perpetrator. Elizabeth’s favorite, Earl of Oxford was certainly that.

At last and least, the thing I think you should ask about any man when he is gone is this: ‘Did he know joy.’ If the purpose of life is only to further the species, then this conceit is incidental. But joy can be had and should be found, I believe. It cannot be stolen, or borrowed, but it can be spoiled.








Knocking Wilson around

whilst castaway on the island of no return




It was James Wilson who first asked the simplest of questions, “Does man exist for the sake of government? Or is government instituted for the sake of man.”

One in a thousand Americans knows who James Wilson was today. Comparing that to James Madison, I would guess our fourth President and erstwhile ‘Father of the Constitution’ is known to about one in five, mostly for having a buxom wife named Dolly (such are the muddles of time and tide). Thomas Jefferson is likely known to about one out of two, perhaps, and not because of the two dollar bill, but for assumptions of a calumnious affair and for having ‘written’ the Declaration of Independence. George Washington likely registers with the most Americans for being the first President, and perhaps as commander of the American victory against Britain in the Revolution, but most likely because of all those bothersome one dollar bills. These figures are conjecture based upon experience. I have never polled, surveyed, quizzed, or tested. But if I err, in this age of public school miseducation and progressive pedagogics, it is likely for having given too much credit. On the few occasions when I have asked a customer—mind you, my customers are well above average intellectually, if I do say so myself—a question such as, “do you think there ought to be limits on the First Amendment,” I usually get a blank look and a question in return.

“Such as?”

“I asked you first. . . . Any limit at all.”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“But I was asking you. . . .”

“Remind me again, which one is the first amendment?”

This example is true. In other words (much the same words) it actually happened. And from that anecdote multiplied over thirty years, I extrapolate my surmise concerning James Wilson, that one in a thousand would know who the man was—if that.

Well, I’ll tell you. For one thing, he was one of only six who signed both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. And he was against the addition of the Bill of Rights to the Constitution. His reasoning went something like this—the Constitution is the Bill of Rights. Those guarantees of our freedoms are in the very fabric of the document itself. Enumerating them and particularizing them will only reduce them, and debase the Constitution itself, or both.

James Wilson was right, of course. Most people—that is ninety-nine out of a hundred by my self-agreed calculation—have no idea what’s in the Constitution other than that Bill of Rights—and they would have trouble relating more than a few of those. The Constitution itself has not been taught in our public schools for several generations. How is the citizenry supposed to know anything about it? Following their indoctrination—that is especially if they have matriculated college (and survived intellectually) they’re busy trying to earn enough to take care of their families and pay the taxes leveed by an unmanageable and unconstitutional government. But Wilson was often correct about such matters. As a land speculator he was a fool. But as lawyer, he was a genius. As a philosopher he was a sage. As a politician he was savvy. And as an author, he was a poet.

The inattentive ignorance of modern Americans is embarrassing and good enough reason for the continued collapse of the Republic in our time, but in Wilson’s moment, well before public schools had become a device for social engineering and a social ordering aimed at reducing the population to approximate masses good only for paying taxes and fighting wars—the blunt instrument of an oligarchy intent on levying the taxes and choosing the wars—James Wilson could (and did) deliver lectures to public audiences in support of the ratification of that now much neglected Constitution which he had helped compose. Importantly, his oration was rife with the sophistication of historical reference and grammatical allusion both engaging and well understood by his audiences.

The fact that Wilson is so much forgotten today is a testament to the intellectual poverty of our schools and to the fact that he is not easily caricatured. Born and raised in Scotland, he chose to move to Pennsylvania and, through furthering his own education and family making, he had gone beyond the mere learning of the law to the understanding of it, to comprehend a philosophy of jurisprudence and government that made him indispensable to his fellow founding fathers who joined with him in the rejection of Royal authority. He was a man of honor, a product of the Scottish Enlightenment, and not really unlike many others in the Congress of the time. Yet, as I say, he was one of only six, along with fellow Pennsylvanians Benjamin Franklin, to sign both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution he had helped to write. For this wisdom, Washington appointed him to the very first supreme court—before his real estate speculations at last overcame him. And he is all but forgotten today.

James Wilson is important to me as one of the few proto-libertarians of his time. There were conservatives aplenty, and liberals, though the designations had different benchmarks. But there were few who understood the necessary supremacy of the individual in the ordering of things. Then, as today, conservatives are fundamentally tories and believed all rights come ultimately from the King—or Parliament, whatever nomenclatural authority was given—authority that is ultimately derived from God. Liberals (Whigs, like followers of Edmund Burke) believed all rights derive from society—that is, in practice, again, government itself. The difference, to some, is simply a matter of parsing. For instance, you might as easily see an argument for a socialist society in the thinking behind Burke’s Vindication of Natural Society as for a Christian one.

Wilson was in the minority of those who understand that our liberties must originate with the individual ‘lest government have no governing.’ In that this government is conducted by quite fallible human beings, government is naturally corruptible, and must be leashed. If left unfettered, every evil imaginable by purposeful power or stupidity will manifest itself. Alternatively, however, when kept in bounds by a constitution, government might be harnessed to the good. But a constitution is only as good as the knowledge of an informed citizenry. Thus, the great and fatal flaw in Wilson’s cosmology was education. As the socialist John Dewey readily understood, controlling the schools was key. James Wilson’s belief that curiosity and a thirst for knowledge would breed an open society and thus liberty would triumph appears almost childlike when compared to the deliberate intentions of the modern socialist state.

James Wilson’s mortal flaws as a business man and real estate speculator might have been many, making him all too human for the ideologues only wanting an idol to clutch to their breasts, but he was fine enough for me. Certainly as good as any slave holder preaching the cause of human liberty. James Wilson had cast himself across an ocean and flung his fortunes into the winds of change while cultivating an inconvenient philosophy that might survive his own wants. For that alone he deserves credit.


After watching the excellent movie, Castaway, I was deeply depressed. The whole experience became, in my mind, an exercise in metaphor. I couldn’t sleep that night. Most especially this melancholy was felt when the hero, Chuck Noland, having conjured the companion he needed to survive his ordeal from a ‘Wilson’ brand volley ball, then lost this imaginary friend in an attempt to escape his prison island and later returns home at last from this four year hardship to discover that his true love has married another.

Margaret and I were still married at that point, but our marriage was pretty much a lost cause. Neither of us were sure how to handle it. The final moments of the movie Castaway, after most of two hours on a remote island in the Pacific, take place amidst the vast plains of north Texas, a sea in itself, when Noland chooses the right road to take. (This resonated in me with another unforgotten film moment from North by Northwest that was, by contrast, filled with an opposite menace.) Happily, I realized then that I had not become cynical enough to reject such an ending for Chuck Noland. Love might triumph after all. But my only Wilson at that point in my life was myself—as I imagined myself to be. So I spoke to him—that is, myself—on this desert isle in the midst of a city. And this is, of course, how books are born that no one else will read.

I hold myself responsible for this. That I might ‘light out for the territory’ was clear to me from the first, but I chose to stay in the midst of familiar comforts. I was in love and that was enough cause. The original James Wilson went west, and found a new life to match his new ideas.

Many, especially conservatives themselves, see libertarianism as a cousinry to that political faith. This is primarily due to an abuse and confusion of the concepts of ‘natural law’ and ‘natural right,’ and arguments that only a Whig could comprehend. We can leave that lecture aside for the moment, but it should always be pointed out whenever possible that wanting your liberty and having it too, whether from a king or a republic, if you are still expecting it to be given to you, it is not yours to start with. ‘Taking liberties’ is the phrase to understand here. I see more in common between liberals and conservatives than I do with any viable libertarian philosophy.

What I had advised myself, given my desire to escape the hegemony—that is the doctrinaire liberalism of my own time and place, allowing for the idea that this could not be any worse than the demesne of bewigged Whigs and the divine right Tories of James Wilson’s time—was to keep my head down and if I could not right them, at least attempt to write the wrongs that troubled society as well as my own soul. But in the end, I could not prevail over my own family, so what chance had I to win over anyone else. My little books did, at least, quiet my own worries. (A conquest of one!). My wife had already taken herself out of the equation with her own new religion. And my children were left to fend for themselves as the battle raged between her Randian purity and my unalloyed doubt. (Given that half their genes were hers, they should do well enough, I think.)

But now the willing compliance of conservatives and the authoritarian nature of liberals has conjoined to create a truly wicked state of affairs—a two headed dictatorship, and I am now unable to avoid the fray. I suppose there is some cosmic justice to that. Or at least, some Eastern sense of fate—what you hate is what you make. I wanted to run my little bookshop on the side, both literally and figuratively. I believed I could have my cake and eat it too, just like the rest of my generation. And now we are all sucked into the maelstrom. Our own welfare state, the one we had hoped would last at least until we were gone from the scene, is collapsing about our ears. The children we raised to shoulder our debts are incompetent and resentful—and why shouldn’t they be, having been sold into the slavery? We failed them as well as ourselves—worse, we abused them and indentured them to our own catastrophe.

I recall a comic book meme of my youth from Howard the Duck, a cynical and nasty bit of work which is summed by the catch phrase, ‘Trapped in a world he never made.’ It appealed to the egocentric youth of my time by excusing us from responsibility for our own shit. Howard was a perfect counterpoint to the whiny insecurities of Spiderman. That webweavers psudo-ironic and anti-humanist loathing caught the zeitgeist of an unending intellectual adolescence. (Why grow up if you can stay on your parents insurance policy?) What is truly ironic is that our parents had given us a better world than had ever been before. Better food, better shelter, easier work. Our lives were plush by any historical comparison. They still wiped their butts with their hands in much of the world while we turned a jaundiced eye on Mr. Whipple. We had dentistry. Flu shots. We commonly survived childhood. And we ate strawberries when the snow drifted at our doors. No. We had never made our world, and it is for that very reason that we couldn’t keep it. We didn’t know how it was made.

In 1787, Elizabeth Willing Powel, wife of the mayor of Philadelphia and confidante to George Washington, John Adams, William Morris,’ and James Wilson, among others, met Benjamin Franklin in the street as he left the secret deliberations on the Constitution and asked, what form of government the delegates had agreed to. “A republic, Madam, if you can keep it.” The exchange was recorded by James McHenry, then secretary of the Convention. Her generation did at least that much and more. As did their children, and their children’s children who died in civil war before they were able to correct one of the most egregious faults of that document.

Questioning ‘a world they never made’ would never have occurred to any of them. That particular doubt came only to us.

‘It’s not my fault,’ is our motto.

And the Republic fell.

We are at Empire now. A colossus! We straddle the known world,

Why work? Where’s the fun in that? We have made the world our circus and a circus of the world. And the beer is good, and we build coliseums very well. Or at least, someone does. We buy the tickets for our own amusement. Amusing ourselves unto death.

As Byron said, “While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;

When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls—the World.”

When Byron wrote that, it was understood as metaphor. The British saw their own empire straddle the world but they knew then the engine of that was their culture, their language, and their liberties. This sense of the cause and consequence was understood by all. It was why so much of British culture was retained in America after defeating their army and rejecting their king.

There was no sense of utopian perfection to this. The rough edges were also clear. The idea was that those breaks might be honed. They had made a system that was all for the bettering, encouraged it, praised it, and raised it up. And that they did, for some time.

I will excuse myself now with the thought that I was merely following in that tradition of bettering. My efforts here in old Boston were indeed made toward making a world safe for those who wanted better, not those who wanted to declare they knew best. Such brags are always false. To build a philosophy on such ground is foolish. But the nature of this society had already changed. There was no longer a belief in such an Algerism. Old Horatio was scorned and scoffed at. He was a striver. Like my James Wilson. Bourgeoisie. The mentality here was already that there is a best for all and now we will tell you what that is.



What might I have done? Putting aside any feeling for my children, who would never have been, and allowing for the children that might have thus been made or found elsewhere, I should have followed the example of Mr. Finn. I should have gone first to wander, perhaps following the example of my hero Patrick Leigh Fermor. Perhaps there is no place where people still believe in the bettering. Perhaps everyone only wants the best now, without the effort to earn it, but I don’t now that now and certainly didn’t know it then. I could have written my books anywhere at all—though, like my children, they would have been different books.

I never learned to read music, or build a house, or grow a crop that might feed me, or properly raise an animal worth husbanding. (Funny word, that; from the same root meaning as to husband a wife—all a matter of subject, you see. But I don’t know when to plow a field, or plant a seed, so perhaps husbandry wasn’t my particular talent from the start.)

Still, if I had once managed to ‘light out for the territory,’ I might have found a better place to open a bookshop (I do like selling books, as I have said) where the rents and taxes are no so high. There may be fewer customers, but fewer needed, and a better clientele among those who still think they are responsible for their own lives. I might have done.







A veritable husband of imperfections

with a virtual wifeful of corrections




I wrote this a few years ago: ‘He was a virtual husband of cute imperfections and she a veritable wife of helpful corrections. When first they met and fell in love, they lived together happily enough, until married, and only then found the weight of the actual contract too heavy a burden for either of them to bear; his endearing defects became unbearable to live with and the scorn of her complaints left him weary. She was not so very virtuous, and he most nearly imperfectible. He wanted verity, and she needed variety. Their divorce was inevitable.’

There was no need, I suppose, to hide behind a third person, but later I even changed the wording to make the writing more comfortable to read. I was, of course, the veritable husband of imperfections and Margaret a wifeful of corrections. I was a husband of too many faults and Margaret too fond of pointing them out. That much could not be argued. Had the marriage survived, that much would still be true. On a social scale, she is very much the superior woman: smart, witty, generally kind and generous, reasonably ambitious, matter of fact, capable, rational, and not least, very good looking. And I was never happy with her.

True, I was in love and blind to my unhappiness for some time. I still love her. And I care that she is happier now than she was. She is the mother of my children and I want her to be happy for their sake if for nothing else. And I suppose she should be forgiven for the mistake of marrying me. I might have cut a romantic figure in those days. At least at first, I think. The struggling author and idealistic bookseller could have touched some chord. Remember, she did want to be a poet in those days. She wrote poetry in the style of the time: staccato, oblique, repetitious, redundant. It was self-consciously Objectivist, as in Randian, taking care to follow her religion of choice and never admitting to ignorance through ambiguity. I tried not to be critical, but likely my very silence was worse. Then again, she never had a great deal to say about my stories either, after those first years of being together. Why did she marry me? She had to know by then that I was the fellow I am. And it’s just the sort of puzzle that has driven the plot of several books, I’ll admit.

To my knowledge, she was never unfaithful during our marriage. More, it was a matter of being faithless—as in always skeptical, always doubting.

I was not allowed to fail. Her father didn’t want it. She didn’t want it—meaning the bookshop of course. My writing was assumed to be a failure from the first, and a mere foolishness of youth, until I was a youth no longer and that excuse was tired and retired.

“Why can’t you write something more marketable,” her Dad asked once. But Margaret never did. She just didn’t talk about it. . . . No. That isn’t true either. She did make remarks. Usually in the manner of a sniper from a thousand yards away. “We can take the vacation in June. You won’t be busy then,” while knowing I was in the middle of a novel that wouldn’t be close to finished until the fall.

Had the bookshop gone under, as it might have done a dozen times, we could have moved to—take your pick—a dozen possibilities come to mind from the places we had visited over those years: Bloomington, Indiana; Taos, New Mexico; Charlottesville, Virginia; Bellingham, Washington; Grove City, Pennsylvania; Brunswick, Maine; Missoula, Montana; Davidson, North Carolina; Hillsdale, Michigan; Laramie, Wyoming; Sewanee, Tennessee. Maybe only eleven that we actually knew from our travels. But I might have opened another bookshop in any one of them and made a living—a more modest living perhaps, but sufficient. The financial demands of Boston or New York were always prohibitive of the sort of non-bestseller bookselling I was willing to do.

In the end, I was either unwilling to run away from myself, or like Thoreau, too willing to forgive myself for my own faults. And too, it has long been my argument that marriage is the basic template of society. It is the smallest fractal of the larger whole. If my marriage was unhappy, so must the world be. And given our common human heritage, that success or failure is determined by two elements alone: imagination and empathy.

This then turns out to be something of a philosophy. At least a philosophastry. A sort of aspiration to reason. Flailing about for some solid footing in those days after my divorce, I turned to that, I suppose, rather than something else, because too much booze gives me a terrible headache.

And there are not so many philosophers I will read more than ounce. One or two. I think, because the most of them give me a headache as well. Most of them had peons to peel them a grape when need be and, like Plato and Marcus Aurelius, were inexhaustible founts of advice for the upper classes. They didn’t have much truck for the slaves. That is true both East and West. Buddha certainly seems fat and happy—but where did his food come from? I have already killed too many flies to want a part in the great Hindu cycle of life. And besides, much of that credence is too fierce for my timid soul.

I have long consoled myself with the hypocrisy of Thoreau, however, even though he was a bachelor. So I turn to him again.

Published criticism of Henry David Thoreau would fill many many shelves. I have always had a few of those in the shop, and after another bout with Walden (I even have the annotated copy of the Norton Critical Edition I first used forty years ago, next to me now) I began to write one of my own pans of the philosopher some years ago before I realized I was only wanting to swim in a pond already warmed by the pee of others. After the fact, what is the point? So, he was a hypocrite. Immodest. Incompetent. At least he was brilliant. So, he was often wrong, at least he ventured to be right. So he lied—frequently—don’t we all. This was mostly by omission. And he seldom lied in order to hurt others, though he often wrote his hurtful thoughts out with the innocence of a child observing the size of a fat man’s belly or a hag’s nose. At least I don’t know of him purposely damaging anyone. After the fact, his sin was putting his lies on paper where they could be held up to the light. (Did he not guess this would happen?) So he was a braggart, he did in fact do so many extraordinary things—things that few men of his time would ever imagine, much less accomplish: walking the length of Cape Cod, hiking the eastern wilderness to Katahdin, rowing the Concord and Merrimack rivers to the sea—but still, a hell of a lot of walking. He was a wonderful writer—one of the best of his age. He said of Katahdin, “This was that Earth of which we have heard, made out of Chaos and Old Night. Here was no man’s garden, but the unhandeled globe.” And most importantly, he was an original thinker. Too impatient to throughly study the wisdom of the ages or yet be content with the Hebraic study alone, as so many are, and quite apart from the milky maundering of his dear friend Emerson, he jumpt to his own conclusions and was often right or at least in the right direction. (That is, ‘jumpt’ as in leapt.)

I say hypocrite.

“The ancient philosophers, Chinese, Hindoos, Persian, and Greek, were a class than which none has been poorer in outward riches, none so rich inward. We know not much bout them. It is remarkable that we know so much as we do. The same is true of the more modern reformers and benefactors of their race. None can be an impartial or wise observer of human life but from the vantage ground of what we should call voluntary poverty . . .” said by a man who was never truly poor, ever willing to live off the fruits of others, but had admitted his ignorance of the lives of other philosophers while adjudging them to be poor—I suppose in the same way as he saw himself.

I say immodest.

“I should not talk about myself if there were any body else whom I knew so well. Unfortunately I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience.” ‘Nough said.

I said incompetent. Read his own testimony about the living conditions in his immortal cabin. Drafty, cold, leaky, pest ridden—but wouldn’t you give a great tooth to spend one night with him there! He was an indifferent carpenter, or worse. He was an unwilling farmer, an unreliable pencil maker, and a poor friend. Perhaps that is the poor he had meant to admit of himself. Though he always lived from the generosity of others, he never managed a sufficient wealth to help anyone other than himself. Except, of course, with words.

“In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and the future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe the line.”

What better admission to purpose in life is there?

“The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.” There! All those heavy volumes on economics reduced to a single sentence!

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” Art in one lesson.

“As a single footstep will not make a path of the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we must walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.” Is this what might be missing from education in our time.


“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” Isn’t this the essence of my own libertarian nature?

And, “Truths and roses have thorns about them.”

You cannot read Thoreau quickly, lest you miss his greatest virtues as well his faults. In both instances, it changes your own mind.

Thoreau did not command crowds. He was an indifferent speaker, at best. He had no family other than his friends. And most of his work was not published in his own life time. Still, this did not dissuade him.

I suppose I could aspire to worse. But he never had a wife. So there is a half of life that he never knew at all.



As is so often the case, the Greeks got there first. Perhaps not always exactly or correctly, but at least in spirit. I think it might have been the hard soil and the marble benches. The togas could not have helped. Better to get on with it than linger.

The seven liberal arts, as set out in ancient thought as the keys to education, are grammar, logic, and rhetoric, enhanced by arithmetic, geometry, music, astronomy. Building a home, for instance, might require several of those elements. (Thoreau had most likely skipped those classes at Harvard so as to study the butterflies on the Charles.) In ancient Greece, every free person was expected to take part in civic life through the conducting one’s own affairs, which would necessarily require debate, the ability to defend oneself in court (there were no lawyers), serve on juries, and participate in military service.

But a missing element in those requirements that I find interesting is the skill of agriculture. My guess is that animal husbandry and the growing of food stuffs was a given and an assumed chore for every person to survive—especially the slaves. (It was certainly disparaged by Thoreau as needless toil, as he sat watching—never unwilling to eat the fruits of others.) But this omission troubles me in the same way that most philosophies do: a grand order is envisioned without recognizing the nature of the human beings who must abide by it. We must eat. We must drink. Some philosophies will address one aspect or another of our human traits, but few will propound their tenets based on what is, while more usually envisioning what should be.

Yet, all of these were skills that would not have been missed even by Carl Barks in the ‘Junior Woodchucks Guidebook.’ And I have often wondered if that illusory enchiridion of human wisdom had as much intellectual allure to me at the start as anything Thoreau ever wrote. Simply for wanting it to be. Wanting it to be—isn’t that the point? Didn’t I spend as much time reading comic books in my youth as I did reading philosophy in College? Which had the greater influence?


One of my favorite philosophers for all of this is Thomas Reid. The Scottish Enlightenment produced most of my favorite philosophers in fact, but he is special. His mentors were David Hume and Francis Hutcheson. His friends were Edmund Burke and Adam Smith. His spawn were the likes of James Wilson, and on this side of the water, George Mason, Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison, Alexander Hamilton, et al. Reid alone—to my knowledge, since the time of Aristotle—attempted to see philosophy as the outgrowth of human characteristics—the senses. He builds his castle of reason then with the hard stone of human physical limits. He is the source of much of my own thinking on these matters and deserves all credit but no blame for any enlightenment I might have found.

Another favorite of mine is Robert Nozick. He was a regular customer in our bookshop, and a friend, and even a good counsel. I wish he had lived longer for many reasons, but more so because he was uniquely open to a change of mind—to good argument. Too many philosophers are dogmatic, as if all of what can be known is known and the limits are set. I became acquainted with Nozick soon after he published Anarchy, State and Utopia, when he was a professor at Harvard and already carrying the weight of his success, yet he stood in the aisles of my little shop and debated Locke and Hume with me. (The thrill of that is still felt.) It was just this openness that meant that his views were amendable over time, but not his willingness to reason. I would love to ask his opinion of my thesis.

Reid too was an open thinker and his influence on Adam Smith as well as our founders was great and can be read in both or Declaration of Independence and our Constitution, and easily seen in our civil society to this day. But without the bona fides of a Reid or a Nozick, I would like to put forward a philosophical theory of my own that I think is useful, and different, and perhaps even enlightening, even if less weighty.

It is my conjecture that there are actually seven senses of perception, not five, as assumed. I propose that a recognition of the two that I add to taste, touch, smell, hearing and sight are just as essential to human life and are keyed to the very same nervous system and brain that make the other five possible. Simply described, the two additional senses are imagination and empathy.

My opinion here is that it is the acuteness of these additional senses that has made human society possible, and the physical need to protect the values identified by all our senses that makes a civil society necessary and gives meaning to philosophy itself.

Without imagination, the five basic senses are essentially no better than reactions to the light, heat, sound, acidity, and contact (or the opposite and/or variation in each case—such as the feeling of music vibration). Imagination is the sense of those perceptions brought together in any combination and identified, a common faculty shared to one degree or another by all creatures, but so far ignored as such. (It is cold outside and therefore I imagine I should put on my coat before I leave or else find myself chilled. And of course, this grows quickly to more sophisticated thought such as, I think I’ll stay home instead and write a novel.) Even sea otters show imagination in opening abalone shells with specific rocks. This may be taught now, but once upon a time, it was merely imagined.

Empathy is the sharing of our senses with others. As a creature of a specific nature, we are ill prepared to survive without social behavior. If we share our knowledge with others, we enhance our own value. If, as an individual, we are constrained in our perceptions, our value to others is reduced. Moreover, recent studies have even identified regions of the brain devoted to empathy and noted that a lack of capacity in those areas seems to correlate with sociopathic behavior.

To take the last matter first, as it is key to the rest: the reason individual freedom is so important is that we each serve as a validation for the experience of others, much the same as an independent replication of results is necessary to scientific method. If our senses are impaired, so is the result. And empathy is greatly enhanced by our various forms of communication: speech, writing, even winking. If what we say or write or wink is restricted by custom or law, we are reducing the result of each individual test in our lives. Certainly the degree of freedom can be questioned and some guidelines or restriction made necessary by physical circumstance (watering a lawn during a drought is an example), but it must be understood that restriction has consequences. Worse, by forcing a society to accept only certain kinds of knowledge, as happens with certain religions, we can create the sort of mass hysteria that causes conflict with other societies. Thus, empathy is important for both negative and positive reasons in our actions. The insanity of some cultures is well explained by their restrictions on sharing knowledge.

Imagination too is dependent on individual freedom. If that faculty is proscribed or confined, our understanding of the universe around us is equally closed. If we are not allowed to fully perceive what our other senses offer us to know, the real world is not ours. Reality is defined by our senses—and the truth of those results is confirmed by experience. We burn our finger poking at the fire—we imagine a stick to poke with. Imagination then is essentially our natural reaction to our senses, without which they are relatively meaningless.

Reason is a tool, like the sea otter’s rock, first imagined by some long lost genius of the past for relating through the tool of language what we have perceived with our senses. Because reality exists with or without us—it is what it is—we must accurately portray what we perceive in order to have a common experience with others. Reason makes that possible. The interaction with other individuals allows us to confirm our perceptions and thus imagine practical uses for that knowledge, using reason, or math, or logic. Empathy opens us to ways to share our knowledge and establish relationships with others. Our senses as human beings are useless without both.

It is this reasoning that is my mainstay now. I am not alone in this, I know. I have Thoreau at my side to help me make my mistakes and muddle through. Because my own enchiridion is too short to serve my purposes, I turn to him, and to Thomas Reid, and to Robert Nozick.

Robert asked me once, when I had complained about the weight of things at the time, “What is important to you? Do you have a clean sense of what is important?”

“I did,” I said, “but on second thought those things don’t not seem so valuable to me now.”

“What is important to you, particularly?”

“To write,” I said. (My children were grown by then and this was in the midst of my divorce, you understand).

“Your stories,” he asked?

“No. Not the stories exactly. I’d like them to be important, but I can’t make that be. That’s for other’s to judge. No. It’s the act of writing itself,” I said. “The writing of the words for a purpose that matters to me.”

“Then take that as your key. There might be others, but you have at least that one to use.”

But I knew that already! I had made that choice before! A hundred times before. It was at the heart of why Margaret had given up on me at last. In the end, the writing was more important. The shop was more important.

And isn’t philosophy, most essentially, a guide to what is important?

Should I then forgive myself for my wrongs, or simply ignore them like the rest of us do?







Beyond the age of reason

wherein love is lost and found




Has our Thirty Years’ War only just begun, or has it ended long since and the news simply not yet arrived via a slow internet connection? I have often felt that way about history—in my youth especially. In those days the various socialist religions had long been at odds, much as the Catholics and Protestants of the Reformation once were—Christian killing Christian, with one Wallenstein after another rising in the ranks: Lenin and Stalin, Mussolini and Hitler, Mao or Khrushchev, Fidel and Che. From 1918 to 1989, this bloodletting had been an endless seventy years, more than twice the length of the key Reformation conflict, but a hundred times more deadly if mere lives are counted. Mere human lives, you understand, unlived. But then again, there are those who believe the Reformation never ended. And I see all of that in the troubled eyes of some students today.

Why do I carry this book, or that one, they ask?

Their Marxist professor (this political identity is unstated, but it’s a given by the very nature of the challenge) has reliably informed them that this book is evil. Don’t I know that the author is a Nazi or a fascist? By which they mean, not that the offending author is a Hitlerian National Socialist (as opposed to a Leninist International Socialist), or merely an advocate of the sort authoritarian nationalism that is Fascism and a first cousin to that. No. Remember now, this is an Orwellian universe. The same professors have determined that anything not international socialist is right wing. Internationalist socialism is the ideal for all. And perhaps they are correct that the Nazis are to the right of them, but how can they tell? Other than their fear of nationalism and its unregulated passions, their priorities are exactly the same—total control of society—a rendering of the population down to a homogeneous equality and an elimination of misfits. However, the unfortunate author who has offended their sensibilities thinks everyone is different and believes anyone has a right to say whatever they please, within civil limits, no matter how unpleasant. There is no attempt to reconcile the objective with the motive. This evil writer they abhor, believes, at least to some degree, in an open society. And that cannot be permitted.

Few of these students know what a ‘Nazi’ actually was, though many of their fathers or grandfathers died to stop those creatures. Fewer still understand what a fascist is, because they seldom if ever look at themselves in the mirror (beyond the makeup) or take the responsibility for their own actions.

I ask them, “How many died in Stalin’s purges?”

The answer, “That doesn’t matter!”

“How many more died in Mao’s cultural revolution than in World War Two?”

“That’s not the point!”

They continue to find the good war of seventy years ago, rather than the real and present evil in their midst.

“Exactly what did Adolf Hitler think he was going to accomplish?” I ask, by way of pointing out the similarities with their own objectives.

“Don’t change the subject! You should not be selling that book!”

This was also the disdain for actual human life, rather than the theoretical, that you’d commonly find in the political tracts of my early age, with people classified as bourgeoisie, or proletariat, blue collar or intellectual, rich or poor, male or female, black or white. It didn’t matter. The theories were all the same in the end.

One of those thinkers I didn’t especially like early on was Elias Canetti, who wrote Crowds and Power. He was a prick, and a dilettante, and a prime example of mid-Twentieth Century European self-supposed intellectual smugness (having successfully destroyed several hundred million other lives in there pursuit of a pan-Europa, he and his superior insight had somehow survived) but then, I suppose, even Elias Canetti had a few good things to say. This is my favorite of those: “It is always the enemy who started it, even if he was not the first to speak out, he was certainly planning it; and if he was not actually planning it, he was thinking of it; and, if he was not thinking of it, he would have thought of it.” Unwittingly (as I am sure that bile, not wit, was one of Canetti’s main strengths) he has captured the Orwellian mindset of the modern progressive of the early Twenty-first Century, whether in Cambridge, England, or Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Their fear was, and is, nationalism, not government—the distinctive cultural differences that are at the heart of that much abused word ‘diversity’ which in and of itself multiplies the natural differences of individual human beings exponentially. A larger and more powerful government, they say, is the answer. They’d get it right this time! Nationalism is too divisive. Exclusive. It breeds discontent. Prejudice. One culture is no better than another. Everyone is the same, after all, so they deserve the same government, whether they like it or not. And exactly what government is that? One that insures equality, of course. One that can enforce equality!

The Marxist ideal of equality is an evil unrivaled in human history. Why it appeals to youth, overcoming the natural narcissism of adolescence, is a mystery to me. Is that answer to be found in some unconscious fear of being different? Certainly the teaching of history must be proscribed. All the lives that were ever lost throughout human history to tribal warfare, religious purges, and barbarian invasion do not equal the genocide of the Marxist era alone.

But it was that one bit of wisdom from Mr. Canetti that kept me from placing blame, you see. And this was infuriating to my inquisitors as well, especially to those who wanted another body to whip, because, “It is always the enemy who started it, even if he was not the first to speak out, he was certainly planning it; and if he was not actually planning it, he was thinking of it; and, if he was not thinking of it, he would have thought of it.”


When I next saw Jack, I took the opportunity of telling him about Deirdre’s request. It seemed simple enough. She wanted to talk to George. An interview with the head of a rebellion would be worth something to her editor, and to her as well, just for the politically prurient interest I suppose, if not the educational value. Oddly, Jack found this a little amusing.

I said, “She’d just like to get a statement from the leader of the ‘group’ as she called it, about your intentions and objectives. Nothing elaborate. The FBI knows you exist. Because of my getting hung-up in it, now everyone knows you exist, I suppose. Maybe it would make some sense to offer a straightforward explanation of purpose at this point, maybe just to counter the stupid press releases from the FBI.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Sure.”

“You think George will be okay with talking to her?”


His assurance was not satisfying. It seemed too easy.

I bluffed. “Somehow I thought he might.”

“Just tell her he’ll give a call at the paper and set something up.”

He’s still smiling so I have to ask. “What’s up? What’s so funny?”

“You and Miss Roberts. You’re a hoot.”

“That’s one of Ardis’s expressions.”

“She told me she picked it up from you.”

“Maybe so.”

Nonetheless, Deirdre showed up at the shop the next morning, pokes her head in the door and says, “Can we meet for lunch?”

Only one question. “Where?”

“That first place we went. Meet you there at two?”

I immediately picked up on the fact that she was being circumspect, but I did not really know the half of it until later.

She appeared to be quite excited when I arrived at the deli. Effervescent, I’d say. Right off, she orders a couple of hot pastramis on dark rye, pays for them both along with some Dr. Browns, and I follow her to her car. She then drives over to a little park a few blocks away down Beacon. There, she spreads our bounty out on a bench seat between us, wax paper held down against the breezes by pickles at all corners, and despite the sun, her baby blues are wide practically the whole time.

“So he calls me at the paper yesterday and asks me to meet him at The Boyne. You know. The tavern just around the corner from the newspaper. But once I’m in there I get a call on the bar-phone and he wants to meet me up at Dorchester Heights instead. Right by the monument. Do I know where that is, he asks? And I tell him I just live a few blocks away. My guess is that the watchful eyes of the FBI have gotten more plentiful. Then again, it was a great day out and maybe George just wanted a little fresh air. The Boyne can get pretty stuffy.”

I noted the use of his first name. She lets that sit in my mind as she starts to eat. She is obviously making a nice little play out of the whole thing.

“So what happened then?”

“So he’s standing by the base of the monument when I get up there, leaning back against the granite with his eyes closed, getting some sun. Very relaxed. Not what I expected. A very trim looking fellow. Better looking than I guessed he would be. I’d say handsome. And he has a little drawl. I think he’s from someplace down South.”


“You never told me before that you knew that!”

I tried shrugging that omission away, but I did not say anything.

She nodded a little. “But I would have guessed it was Texas. And he has that calm deep voice. Very nice. You remember years ago, that was the kind of voice you’d hear on the radio or on the TV News. Not any more. They’re all whiny now. But maybe that’s just the news these days anyway. All complaints and disaster, all the time.”

I admit I’m a little concerned at this point, especially with her making the same connections from the sound of his voice that I had always made. “So what did George have to say for himself?”

“He didn’t talk about himself. I really have to ask again if you know anything more about him than you’ve already told me. Anything you’d forgotten. Like the fact that he’s from Texas.”

“Nothing. And I didn’t mention Texas.”

She gave me a brief and doubtful squint at that comment, and then continues, “So the first thing Mr. Reilly does, before he even opens his eyes to look at me face to face—like he’s been watching me through the slits the whole way up from the curb—is to say, ‘Look around,’ and I do. And he says, ‘What do you see?’ and I say, ‘I don’t see any FBI, if that’s what you mean. I see a couple of kids from the High School over there near the azaleas, smoking cigarettes. And he says, ‘No. All around.’ So I say, ‘Houses.’ And he says, ‘That’s right. Triple-deckers and Victorian townhouses and brick apartment buildings—and the school, of course, all the way around.’ And then he opened those brown eyes of his—very nice brown eyes—warm I’d say—and he looks at me with a very serious frown. A very cute frown the way the wrinkle dips at the ends. He’s not wearing a ring so I’m guessing he’s not married, but he’s much too cute to be single. Especially at his age. What? 45?”

I had to shake my head at that. She had overplayed her hand and we both know she’s trying too hard. “Really?”

Deidre says, “Yes. Well? He is!” she waves off my tone of voice. I’m finally getting the idea now. She’s just trying to get a reaction out of me. “And then he asks me, ‘Do you know what this place is?’ And I say, ‘Sure.’ And he says. ‘Good.’ But then he tells me a story about when he first came to Boston and drove up there looking for Dorchester Heights. He tells me he’s a bit of a history buff, and couldn’t believe that this was it. There was no sign on the fence at the time. The small one down on the fence at the street had been defaced with graffiti. And, he wasn’t even in Dorchester, so what was that all about? He stops a guy by the curb right there, walking his dog, and he asks him, what is this monument for, and the guys tells him, it’s some kind of monument, but he’s not sure. . . . Can you believe that? Here is this giant granite erection that the guy is walking around everyday with his dog and he doesn’t know why the hell it’s there! Your friend George stands up straight then and looks me in the eye to tell me he is being absolutely serious about all this and there’s a reason he’s telling me. He says, ‘So, I asked the guy with the dog if he’s sure he doesn’t know what the monument is for? Maybe he’s just a local putting the country rube on a bit. And the guy says, no, but he speculates it’s probably for a war. Maybe the Civil War.’ And so George asks him, if he knows the area pretty well because he was looking for something in particular. And the guy says that he ought to—he was born a few blocks away and went to high school right next door!”

Deirdre nodded at the revelation and sat back again to eat almost half her pastrami. She practically inhaled it while she nods her head as if agreeing with some inner testimony.

I ask, “So is George working as a tour guide now?”

She lets that slide, “He says, ‘You know, that’s the whole problem in a nutshell. People don’t know where they come from anymore, or why they’re there. Most people. You ask and they say South Boston, or whatever, but they really don’t know. They don’t know who they are. And not just in South Boston. Everywhere.’ He tells me most people have lost touch with the very stuff that made the world they live in possible, and the things that still make it work even now. And they don’t teach that kind of stuff in high school anymore, either. Not even at the school that’s sitting right on top of one of the most important places in the country, . . . or anywhere else for that matter. And their fathers and grandfathers obviously didn’t learn much of that in their turn. Maybe a little more, but certainly not enough to want to pass it on. And that’s why they thought it was just fine to build a bunch of houses and apartments all around this place so you can’t see any of what George Washington or Henry Knox once saw during the siege of Boston.”

Deirdre shook her head and ate another bite or two. I’m enjoying the sun and just listened. At least I was learning something about George Reilly.

Deirdre says, “It seemed to me he was on a roll and I didn’t say a word to any of this. But now I’m thinking he is some kind of ‘Tea Party’ type. And then he says, ‘Take all that as a kind of living metaphor, if you will. The entire country is that way. We’re living as well as we do by the good graces of a bunch of men who’ve been dead for almost two hundred years. It was a great push-off, but the momentum has finally run down.’ ”

Margaret was looking right at me then. All I could say to that was “Sounds about right to me.”

She says, “Your Mr. Reilly thinks he’s a goddamned patriot!”

I didn’t think there was any doubt about that. “I think so too. Probably the ‘goddamned’ part as well. It’s not a politically correct state of mind these days.”

“And he actually has the cockamamie idea that he’s going to change things.”

“Nice word, ‘cockamamie.’ ”

“You used that word on me the first time I ever had a conversation with you.”

“When was that?”

“Longer ago than I want to remember.”

“Why do you remember it then?”

“I don’t know. You remember some things. You told me I should read George Eliot instead of Nora Roberts. I told you that I’ve read George Eliot. But I can’t read Middlemarch and keep my sanity. I needed to escape all the bullshit and misery every once and awhile, and I refuse to watch TV. There has to be a little love in the equation somewhere. A little passion.”

“What did I say to that?”

“You said that was cockamamie.”

I certainly would have said it. It was just stupid enough. But I couldn’t remember the conversation.

“I don’t think I was referring to real passion when I said it. I was probably still just trying to dump some feces on the facile Miss Roberts.”

Deirdre sits up, obviously re-offended by my implication of long ago. “Why do you sell her then. You certainly have a whole lot of romance novels for someone who looks down his nose at it. You’re a hypocrite!”

“You’re right. Selling them bothers me. It’s like soft-core porn. But Margaret used to read them too and it was my way of trying to be broadminded, so to speak. Being snotty wasn’t going to make things any easier. And they account for about ten percent of our fiction sales, with all those snooty Beacon Hill types sneaking down for a fix. So it’s hard to get rid of them now and still pay the rent.”

“That’s compromising, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Sure. But it’s not a moral appeasement. It’s not a matter of right or wrong. Jane Austen wrote romances. So did the Brontes. And Henry James. It’s just a matter of taste. . . . So, did George tell you anything more than just how ignorant people are these days? You’ve been getting enough of that from me, haven’t you?”

She readjusted herself to the question.

“Yes. He told me he had no manifesto. No declaration of grievances. He actually said, ‘That was all done before, by smarter men than me.’ So I asked him, what was he trying to accomplish then. How was his little rebellion going to work? He tells me, ‘What I’m doing now is simply helping to open up communication with other people who agree with me. If everyone who feels the same way I do knew they were not alone and could communicate freely with one another without interference from the government, that would be half the battle.’ He says, ‘Right now, all of that’s controlled by the bureaucrats who benefit from it, and by people like you.’ “ The baby-blues flash beneath the arch of her eyebrows. “ME! He looked me right in the eye when he said it. He says, ‘It’s not much different than it was two hundred and thirty years ago when the Crown controlled the news. Most people just don’t give a damn and never will. It was the same way then. That hasn’t changed either. Most people will happily live off the fat of the land, as long as they can, whomever’s in power.’ And then he says—and remember, he’s looking me in the face the whole time—he says, ‘the Boston Post is part of the tyranny.’ And that I was part of it as well.” Her shoulders go up as if to say she didn’t know what to say. “Well, I objected, of course. I pointed out that I was there, talking to him, wasn’t I? . . . Just like I did to you once. Remember? But he says ‘That’s incidental,’and just ‘entertainment for the cynical.’ God, he even sounds like you. And he says that the FBI is just hoping that I’ll end up leading them to him—that I was just ‘the staked goat.’ I like that. I’m the goat, now. But then he said they’d eventually track him down, anyway. ‘They have all the means. All the resources they want,’ he said. ‘The only thing standing in their way was their own incompetence.’ So, I asked him then what he was willing to do if he was caught. I was thinking about guns, of course. And he shrugs and says, ‘Go to jail. Like Thoreau once did. I’d be honored for the spiritual company.’ Now, Michael, I’ll admit I did not remember about Thoreau, so I looked that up last night when I got home. Do you know about that?”

Thoreau going to jail to protest the Mexican war is a good story and I’m a little sorry Deirdre was not acquainted with it. But she had the same public school education I did and I know it was never much mentioned. I had found that out on my own.

“Yes. I think of it every time I pay my taxes. Some men are just braver than others.” That got a longer look out of her. And a long silence. I didn’t want to ask what she was seeing. So I say, “Was that it then? Was there anything else?”

She sighs. “I asked him about what you mentioned. I asked him if he was part of the hacker group—that ‘Anonymous’ bunch. You know what he said? He said, he didn’t know! So I had to follow up on that, and he says that he has certainly learned a lot from watching their activities. But he doesn’t join groups,’ and I say, but isn’t that exactly why the FBI wants him? And he says, he’s not sure why they want him. And then he tells me the most interesting part of all. And I’m pretty sure he was telling me the truth. At least the truth as he sees it.”

She paused the revelation. A nice dramatic touch. I couldn’t wait.

“So, what the hell did he say?”

“He said that he was pretty sure the reason Anonymous still existed was that it didn’t have much of a central authority. It couldn’t be controlled. Most of the people who express opinions as ‘Anonymous’ appeared to be left wing, but not all. Some of them are probably government plants. Spies! But their whole methodology was actually libertarian. And I knew you would like that.”

“I already knew that.”

“Sure. Well. Everyone does, I think. But George says, a large part of the activities reported on the news with that name attached are really infiltrators. Phonies. Like the Surete, or whatever the French call it now.”

“National Police.”

“The National Police, or the FSB, or NSA, or FBI, or whatever.”

“Don’t forget the Chinese MSS. And the German have the BfV. It’s hard to keep track of all those acronyms.”

“Why do you know about them?”

“Because I’ve used them in a few stories. I write novels, remember? I usually make them the bad guys.”

She nods, “Whatever. He thinks they all have a hand in it. It’s wide open to anyone.”

“If you can’t beat’em, join ‘em.”

“Exactly! And most of those governments are socialist, so it’s only natural that even the real anonymous hackers have a tendency to that, but because they’re not controlled, the libertarian spirit comes out anyway. So I ask George why he’s not sure if he’s a part of it? And he says, there’s nothing to join so how would he know if he was a member. The only thing he could try to be sure of is that none of those government agencies are involved in what he does. And that was what was important. And he suspects that’s the way it works with Anonymous. The real ‘hacktivist’ groups seem to know who’s one of them and who isn’t. They are not interested in finding new members. People find them. But he thinks that’s why the FBI may be interested in him. They have an eye on the others, so they must be letting that go on, but what he does, gives them a pain in the ass.’ So I say, ‘what do you do for a living then?’ And he says, he can’t say.”

I wasn’t getting a lot of writing done anyway, but all this was now more interesting to me than some two hundred year old space traveller playing cat and mouse with robots.

I know I could have asked some of those questions of George myself, but I was working from a different mind set. I didn’t want to know what I didn’t have to know. Now, Deidre had asked the questions for me.

Deidre’s excitement alone was enough to get me worked up. Women are very sexy when they are excited. But I now had another concern. And though I do not know George as well as I would like, I had the idea that he might be having his own thoughts about Deidre. And he is a very good-looking fellow, or so I am told.


When you listen to Helene Grimaud play the Rachmaninov Second Piano Concerto you understand the music itself a little better, I think. There are other, ‘bigger’ performances. ‘Grander’ performances. But in this one she is paired with Claudio Abbado conducting and it is quieter presentation of the work and you are not overcome with the brilliance as much as the substance. I am not qualified to criticize Martha Agerich’s performance of Rachmaninov’s Third, by comparison. It is stupendous, I know. I have loved it for the better part of my life. But the composer is such a genius of the language of music that I wonder if I am missing some of what he has to say simply by the overwhelming technical virtuosity of Argerich playing. She overwhelms you. You can’t escape. But with Grimaud, I’ve had people in the shop stop their browsing and stand in awe to listen.

This was the matter in my head the next day as I tried to write, not only because I had the Rachmaninov playing while I worked. What I was doing with my story had me trapped by the presentation. I had to concentrate more on the substance than the circumstance. What more was there to say than that humanity had failed an obligation to itself. The blatant proof of that was in their very absence from the Earth, was it not? And that was like saying that God’s creation had failed. Was that possible? Wasn’t the idea now that a creation of mankind itself, not of God, could possibly save the day—and perhaps even enough to draw the link back again to God?

The atheist would reject all of this quandary from the start and miss the substance of the argument. God or not, mankind had failed in its primary responsibility. That was, God or no God, to itself. Not to the robots, or to the birds and bees. The birds and bees would take care of their own priorities. As would the robots. The arrogance to believe that we knew enough to outwit nature was part of the problem, was it not? The question becomes: ultimately, what reason would I have then in my story for the robots to save the ass of mankind? We are obviously a failed species, yes? The robots would see this. Except for the fact that we’re not. Not yet. We are still hanging on, by a single mortal thread, perhaps—at least one of them, my Charley, was still in the fight, and what should he be doing now? What next?

That’s the way stories get along.

Remember now, Charley has returned to the earth after a long voyage—he is my Odysseus, and all the human beings are gone, either wiped out by disease or escaped into the heliosphere, but the robots have preserved human culture and continued to perform the various tasks necessary to support all the human facilities, awaiting their return. The robots believe there will be a return because they know some humans fled and others, like Charley, were sent out before the holocaust. And their own survival is dependent on the very same infrastructure and they don’t want to change anything because it might result in a chain reaction of failure they cannot resolve. They are not creators. They are duplicators, but by performing these mundane human tasks and the daily effort of caring for the things of human society, some robots have gained a human self-consciousness. As I have Charley realize, the very effort to act like humans has made them human. And now some of these self-conscious computers are concerned with the idea of actual human return because they understand people will want the robots as slaves again. Charley’s life is now in danger.

Where should my story turn? What I wanted just then was to coax the value of being human out of my protagonist so that he might persuade his digitally blooded captors of his worth. Commanding the keys with some pyrotechnic swordplay was not going to get him anywhere. And the deus ex machina of computer generated graphics simply would not do.

This is the sort of thinking that can put you in your own ether. You miss what’s going on around you. This has happened to me before. I’ve had customers leave the money on the counter and walk away. One moment, I was alone in the shop with the sun catching a corner of the window, and illuminating the glass like a chandelier, while Helene Grimaud explained to me with her fingers what I had been missing, and the next there was a fellow standing at the end of the counter staring at me.

By his look, I was sure he was FBI, but I was evidently wrong.

He says, “I’m here to inspect the building.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a building inspector.”

He handed me a card with the two words, ‘Liberty Mutual,’ in bold 24 pt. Garamond type, and the rest in an eight point nearly too small to read.

I held this card out at focal length between my fingers like a specimen. “You are Mr. Gregory?”

“That’s the name on the card.”

“I just wondered if maybe you had grabbed the wrong one in your rush to get out the door this morning. Besides, you didn’t call first.”

He has all the demeanor of Mr. Clifford. That is, none, which is a demeanor in itself. Sort of a missed demeanor.

He says, “That’s not required. The policy says that we may conduct periodic unscheduled inspections to assure compliance with the restrictions of the policy.”

I was not in the mood for this. I said, “You look like an FBI agent.”

He stood there a moment longer and stared back at me and then turned and went off into the shop to do whatever he had intended to in the first place. But my concentration on the story was broken. I sat a moment longer and then followed him.

At first, he seemed very interested in the height of the shelves, hauling a rolling ladder over to the highest of those and pulling the tab on a tape-measure to hold the stiff metal strip up to a sprinkler head. I already knew the tops of all the shelves were more than eighteen inches from the sprinklers, which is what I understood to be necessary by fire code. I thought I could hear the disappointment in a released breath as he let the metal tape ravel back into the case.

I watched him from the end of an aisle.

He suddenly turned and asked me, “How much does one of these shelving units weigh?”

“Varies. Less than the weight of a horse. This was a stable at one time. The beams in the basement are all over twelve inches wide.”

He answers that with a, “Yeah?” as if the added detail wasn’t relevant. It was, of course. Margaret’s father had made a point of the fact years ago, to his own satisfaction.

A customer came in then and I went back to the desk. By the time she was taken care of, the ‘inspector’ had disappeared into the back room. My guess was that he wasn’t a reader, so the experience of that more obscure stock would not offer him any more subtle pleasures.

I stayed at the desk to answer a phone call, and then simply to act like I really didn’t give a damn. Ten minutes later Mr. Gregory was back at the counter himself.

“You shouldn’t have boxes on the floor back there. If there was a fire, it could impede egress.”

“That’s from a lot I just bought yesterday. I’ll be taking care of it this morning.”

Mr. Gregory wrote something out on a white form and then tore a pink sheet from beneath and handed that to me.

“Your insurance is suspended pending a follow-up inspection.”

“You can come back this afternoon. It’ll be cleaned up.”

“You’ll get a notice in the mail about when we can come back.”

“That’s not soon enough. My lease is dependent on having insurance.”

“You should have thought about that when you left the boxes there.”

Now, I have dealt with such personalities in the various officious departments of government and public utilities all my life, often displaying the symptoms of the insidious virus of petty power on the human mind. But this was a first for an insurance inspector. They usually issue a warning and give you thirty days to clear the problem up.

I went right to a more accurate defense. “I believe that constitutes harassment, on your part. I’ll be letting your company know about it directly.”

“I don’t care what you believe.”

“No. I don’t think you do.”

Another gauntlet had been thrown down. The revolution was afoot, and I was somewhere beneath the heel of a boot. And all the while Helen Grimaud played Rachmaninov as if that was all that really mattered. And I think she is right.


In a world managed by tens of thousands of pages of law and hundreds of thousands of pages of regulations and code requirements, all of which are theoretically intended to support the laws, administered by millions of bureaucrats appointed to interpret the code, never mind the thousands of judges empowered to interpret the laws themselves, there was no actual justice. There could be none. There wasn’t time or allowance for it. And worse, there were no manners. There was no fair play. There was only force and reaction. And, ultimately, compliance.

I called my new lawyer, Martin Guinn, and left a message with the details of my visitation from the building inspector.

As I expected he might, Martin called the insurance company before he called me back. He’s not the type to waste a phone call, any more than his buddy David Brooks. Martin confirmed that the insurance company had to give me the thirty days lee-way for a minor infraction and that they would speak to the agent about the matter and a corrected notice would be sent out.


I did not know what game George was playing at. I could guess, of course. He would have his own flight plan. And I was unlikely to understand the objectives of either Jack or Ardis. I was simply too old to see through those eyes and not be distracted by my own prejudices. As I have said before, the human mind is a compilation—an anthology, a portmanteau, a miscellany, a digest—of all our experiences. Reason does not play a role other than guidance. We will choose chocolate over strawberry out of habit. One is not right and the other wrong. Not to choose at all is to deprive our senses of delight. To choose without reference to our past experience is to waste an opportunity for pleasure. To purposely choose against our own judgement is foolish, even destructive.

So long as I knew them to be good people, I should not interfere. What was happing to me was not George’s fault, or Jack’s. It was my own doing. What I had to do, without betraying them, was to do the best I could for myself under the circumstances.







Unto an age of Romanticism

or, On the Beach



It was a great blue-sky day, June-warm and too nice and full of summer to be indoors. When Ardis showed up, I told her I was going to play hooky for a few hours and left her there at the shop with Stella.

I had no plan at first except to go to a beach, and the closest place for that was in South Boston. Well, true, I knew that Deirdre lived there, so perhaps that was behind my thoughts, even at the start. She’d told me she liked to ride her bike from home to work at the Post whenever she could. So I called her up.

She has a way of hesitating with her answers that can leave you with all kinds of time to imagine the worser alternatives. Worser being somewhere between worse and worst—but before it becomes the fabric of things, which is worsted.

“You mean to swim?”

“No. Just to go. Sit. Take a walk. Talk.”

She looks worried. I could tell, even over the phone, but she says, “I have a piece to file by six . . . But it’s pretty much done . . . Where should we meet?”

“How about your place?”

“My apartment?”

“Your apartment.”

Long hesitation.

I say, “I’ve seen bachelor apartments before.”

She answers dubiously, “Okay.”

I’m not sure she even remembers saying the same thing to me, but there was more hesitation.

I say, “I need an address.”


Her voice lowers as she tells me. I figured there might be someone else close by her desk at the office.

When I arrived at 5th Street she answered the door with a deeply caught breath, as if she’s been furiously cleaning things up and I had arrived ten minutes too soon. Or maybe she had ridden too fast on her bike. She immediately moved toward me to leave, pulling the door shut behind, but I didn’t budge, which got her plenty close for a moment. I could smell her sweat.

“There’s nothing to see, really.”

“Sure, I’d love to.”

She sighed and backed up.

I already knew from conversation that her apartment was more than twice the size of my place, at less than half the cost. I saw right off now that she likes blues and whites, and a splash of orange—like the orange of an apricot. The blues and whites remind me of a bed-and-breakfast where Margret and I once stayed in Holland. I remember very well that the bed was hard there.

I discovered several other things immediately, besides the fact that Deirdre had a Grey parrot in an enormous cage by the window.

As required by law, I tapped on the wire grill.

“He only says one word,” she says, “I think he was too old by the time I got him at the shelter.”

The parrot stared back it me in defiant silence.

Deirdre likes bric-a-brac. She has collected hundreds of odd objects from the places she’s visited on vacation over the years; mostly small stones and obviously kitschy figurines.

And I see too that she doesn’t keep the romance novels she buys from me. Or else she’s thrown them out recently. Beside the bric-a-brac, the bookshelves were relatively empty. Mostly she has a few classics and a few dozen more recent hardcovers that I figured might be Christmas gifts. Those looked like they were never read. All except two of them, which were mine. Those two were out on a coffee table where I would spot them right off, so maybe she had expected me to want to come in after all. But I had hoped they might be in her bedroom, maybe on the bedside table. But the bedroom door was shut.

I made what I thought was an obvious snarky remark concerning the lack of books in the place for a lit major.

“I thought you said you were a Lit major, for Christ sake.”

The Grey said, “Nuts.”

Deirdre says, “You have a good memory, for your age. Yes. Well, I just don’t keep a lot of books. They’re heavy. And it seemed like I used to move every couple of years.”

“You told me you haven’t moved in twenty years. You buy paperbacks!”

“Right. Well, when I do it the next time, I won’t have to worry about all that weight again, will I? I throw them away.”

And the Grey said, “Nuts.”

She has a television—what they more appropriately call a ‘monitor’ now—and this is enormous. I couldn’t guess the size, really. But it looked too thin to hold anything, much less a two dimensional image. She saw me assessing the thing from one side.

“Yes. I watch a lot of television. A lot of movies. And I know you don’t even have one. I noticed that when I was at your place as well . . . And I don’t know why you’re even here.”

I said the first thing that came to mind. I was trying to be witty.

“I do have one. I keep it under the desk where it can’t beg for attention. But I’m trying to broaden my horizons.”

“That’s very open-minded of you.”


She did that backward weave she does, and then she says, “We are not alike, you and I. And I have no idea why this is happening. Probably some sort of desperation. You know, women of a certain age, and all that. Truth is, I’m a little disappointed in myself. I thought I was more self-sufficient.”

All I could do was admit the fact. “That’s two of us. Nature is perverse.”

“Are you saying this is perverse?”

“Yes. Haven’t you ever wanted to be perverse?”

“In the middle of the day?”

“Well, that’s a fine time. But I don’t think we should take advantage of that thought just yet. I only wanted to take a walk . . . And talk.”

And the Grey said “Nuts.”

But I took her hand when we were out on the sidewalk. There didn’t seem be any hesitation to that. She’d grabbed a blanket and carried that under her other arm.

The sand at Carson Beach is cleaner now than it was when I first came to Boston in the 1960’s. I’ve noticed this before but it still surprises me, which says something, I suppose, about just how bad it used to be.

There is a fair crowd this day. The tide is on its way out though still high and everyone is thick along the top of the strip of sand closest the wall. Very few people are in the water. It’s only June, after all. But quite a few are as near naked as the law allows. Both men and women. Deirdre and I are just wearing shorts and shirts.

I told her then about the old days of coming over here when the water was an obstacle course of floating Styrofoam, condoms and battered pucks of offal from the sewage plant.

“Why did you come at all?”


“With Margret?”

“No. Before Margaret. Margaret had a car, so then we used to drive down to her parent’s place on the Cape.”

She considered this a moment while I considered the physical characteristics of some of the more blatant exhibitionists.

“Tell me why things didn’t last with Margaret? After all those years. ”

This was rather bold, I thought; simply launching right into the heart of the matter.

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. That’s exactly the sort of thing you would have though about a thousand times. I’ll bet you even wrote about it.”

Her count was low but in the right direction. And there was the novel.

“I have. Sure. But I don’t know. I don’t know why we even got married in the first place. We always argued—well, I do know that. She was pregnant. But then we kept compounding the thing until . . . It was hopeless.”

“You didn’t love each other?”

“Of course we did. I still love her. But we are a lot happier, apart.”

“What was the problem?”

I was looking at Deirdre for maybe a moment too long when I answered that. Actually, at the reflection of myself in her sunglasses. I could see the logo on my Red Sox cap.

“We have nothing in common.”

Immediately she is sitting up again.

“Do you mean you and Margaret, or you and me?”


Her back went straight.

“Well, that sums things up pretty quickly. And I didn’t even get a kiss out of it.”

“Yeah. Yes? No. That part is really disappointing. I’ve been thinking about kissing you since a couple of weeks ago. No. Actually longer. You know, once, when you came in the shop a couple of years ago I had that same idea, pretty definitely.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“No. I was just turned sixty-five about then and feeling sorry for myself.”

“Was that the time you were standing on a ladder and trying to put something up in the window?”


“It was a model plane. I was doing a display of old flying books.”

“I remember. I remember that I thought you looked pretty cute. But I thought you were only sixty-four.”

Suddenly, there was the sarcasm again. She had that streak of mind. So did Margaret.

I defended myself with the facts. “You had on some very red lipstick and I was taken with the idea of kissing you right then. It was the way you were looking up at me, with a little grin on your face, as if you were just waiting for me to do it. Maybe it was just the lipstick.”

“I thought you were just looking down the front of my blouse.”

“I was. That too. But you must have stood there at the bottom of the ladder for at least a couple of minutes. What were you grinning at?”

“I didn’t know I was grinning. Maybe it was just the bright light from the window. I know I thought you were going to fall. I think I was afraid you were going to fall and I should stay there and catch you.”

“You did.”

She considered this is a minute of silence and then said, “But we have nothing in common.”

“Sure we do. We have that much—I mean, the fact that we have nothing in common.”

“If two negatives make a positive, then lets start with that.” She nodded definitively at the idea. “What is it we both have nothing in common about?”

“It might be better to find something we agree on. At least something that would just be a positive.”

We both sat in silence again for a minute more and stared at one very unfortunate looking human being of uncertain sex who disrobed about ten feet in front of us. There was no bikini top so I guessed he was male, but his boobs were definitely larger than Deirdre’s.

She finally said, “I like your shop.”

“That’s something.”

The fleshy fellow settled himself on his blanket and began polishing his skin with suntan lotion. This was pungent.

She says, “Come on, can’t you find anything you like about me?”

“I like your shape.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you about that.”

“So that falls into the other column, I guess. But you’d be wrong.”

She picks right up on that thread again. “What else am I wrong about?”

“I thought we were going to accentuate the positive. I like your voice.”

“That’s stuff I was born with. How about something I’ve done.”

This was the clearly greater challenge for me.

“You have the advantage there. I have only read the one novel you never published. I told you that was terrific, and it is. . . . And I’ve read some of your stuff in the Post, but mostly just the things you’ve written about me lately. I don’t know if that counts. I guess I really don’t know a lot.”

“Why don’t you read the Post?”

“It’s a load of claptrap, misinformation, and progressive propaganda.”

“Other than that, what do you really think?”

“I wonder why you’ve worked there for most of your life. That doesn’t seem like a worthy thing for someone to do.”

“Journalism is an honest trade!”

“It can be.”

“Are you saying I’m dishonest?”

“I hope not, but how do I know? I’ve read is the stuff you’ve written about the shop. That’s been okay, I guess. I guess I can go to the library and look up the other stuff.”

Now, in my defense, I had told a lie. What other depravity would I stoop to? I had read dozens of her pieces. The only ones I usually skipped were the very sad ones. The bag lady they’d tossed out of McLean mental hospital when the progressive idea was that no one should be incarcerated, even for their own good, and she lived on the streets for twenty years. The Vietnam vet who still sends Christmas cards to the families of his lost buddies—only the list has grown through the years to several hundred as so many have died by the rapine ravages of time. The two sisters who lived together right there in South Boston for fifty years after their husband’s both died in World War Two. All good stuff. Her writing was well above the usual for the Post. But I didn’t want to get into that. Not this day. She would only want to know why I did not like the other ones. Women are like that, and that was dangerous territory.

She shrugs and draws a question mark in the loose sand with her index finger and says, “It’s all on the internet now. You can read it there. It’s indexed.”

“Then I’ll have to look it up there. “

“What did you really think of the pieces I wrote about you?”

“They were okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Just. But that’s not necessarily your fault. You wrote them the way your editor wanted it. That’s your job. You don’t always get to write the stories you’d like to tell. Most writers don’t. Not like it is with me. That’s the real benefit to publishing your own stuff, I guess, even if fewer people get to read it.”

The corpulent fellow in front of us had settled back on his blanket liken a walrus amidst the harem of bodies surrounding us. His hide glistened with each breath. The topography of the sand was raised so sufficiently, given our own recline, that he blocked our view of the lap of shallow waves at the water’s edge.

I asked “What kind of stories did you want to tell when you started?”

She laughed first. “You wouldn’t have liked those. I was very much the feminist then. Very political. Everything was seen through that lens.”

“When did you give that up?”

“AD. After Dennis. He was the editor there at the Post that I was in love with—the one who took the job at the Times in New York. But I don’t want to talk about that rat. Tell me what you came here to say.”

I had tried, very deliberately, not to think about that.

“I just came here to talk.”

My mind scrambled. I had nothing. What had I been writing about that very morning?

She says, “Well, we’re certainly getting that done.”

I had avoided discussing philosophy with Deirdre for obvious reasons. Where might that argument end? But as my children know too well, my diversions often fail. When I first attempted to explain to each of my daughters, on their sixteenth birthdays, the problems associated with birth control, both practical and metaphysical, and including the joys of sexually transmitted disease, I was a year too late in one case, and two years early in the other. Nevertheless, Margaret had already taken them both to see the gynecologist. (To his credit, my son Ben came to me first, in order to head off the uncomfortable moment—and then when he was not yet fifteen). It was just such a dolesome moment that I wanted to prevent between Deidre and I. But biology is no longer a branch of natural history, and philosophy has long since been overtaken by politics. Did she fully understand what I stood for? More importantly, would she sit still for it given her own inclinations?

She was sitting back on the blanket then with he arms stretched to the sand behind. I liked that incline well enough. I could approach the subject obliquely. And Mr. Carroll might offer a key to that.

“The time has come, ‘The Walrus said,’ to talk of many things: Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax, of cabbages, and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.”

That is to say, I could talk about love while we were lounging on a blanket at Carson Beach, while an unfreshened breeze off adipose flesh pestered our nostrils. Or I could put that off.

She ignored my verbal ruse. Her first thoughts were more practical.

“Are you trying to put me off by all of this jabberwock? After all, I’ve actually known you for twenty years. Many’s the time I’ve heard you expounding your recidivist thoughts aloud to some stunned customer who’d only asked a simple question. It’s true, I don’t always understand what you’re going on about, but I usually get the drift.”

She had a point there. I thought of an appropriate lie in response and started in on that before I realized it was the truth as well.

“I’m too old for this. I like romance well enough, but likely, I don’t have enough heart left for the breaking.”

She answered that with a clearly feigned acceptance, “Go ahead then. Tell me what you’d really like to, in your own way. I’ll catch up.”

And then she lay back with her hands behind her head again. Very nice sight. Not conducive to rational thought. But the steam was out of the pot by then. I felt like I had nothing left to say. As I’ve said, scrambled. A truly unusual sensation.

“About making passionate love to you?”

The sunglasses hid her eyes.

“Besides that!”

“Not a lot, really. I have a few more novels I’d like to write. . . . And I’ve always wanted to spend a year or two out on the Prairie and maybe write a novel there.”

This direction to the conversation made a frown out of her sun squint.


“Because it’s flat, mostly. I’ve driven through it a dozen time and always wondered what I was missing.”

“What about the revolution?”

“It can wait.”

“That doesn’t sound quite as committed as your buddy George.”

“No. I sort of feel as if I’ve already done what I can in that regard.”

“What was that?”

“The shop.”


She was staring directly up at the sky, I think in disbelief. I couldn’t tell because of the glasses. Or else she was lying there just looking into space as blue as her eyes, but I couldn’t be sure of the exact match.

I said, “You know, we’ve probably never voted for the same candidate.”

But at least she was still awake. She said, “I stopped voting a long time ago. They’re all frauds and phonies”

“Well then, that’s something else we can agree on. Most of the time.”

“Whatever. So the problem you have with the world is a general lack of integrity and responsibility.”

“I guess, in short, yes—well, that and a lack of class.”

“We can agree on that, too.”

The low din of beach voices gave the air a buzz like bumble bees.

Once more, into the breach, “And I’m boring. Margaret told me that, and it’s true. I like to be at home when I’m home. I enjoy the traveling but I like to stop and dawdle wherever I can. I’d just as soon spend the day on a beach at Cardiff as looking at the castle.”

Deirdre shrugs, “Me too.”

“Beaches are all different to me, and castles are too much the same.”

“ ‘Such quantities of sand.’ ”

She had conjured that much of Mr. Carroll while I was jabbering.

“I though you weren’t big on memorizing things.”

She smiled. Or perhaps that was just the sun. “When I was a girl, I went to a parochial school. We had a sister there, Sister Mary Francis, who was quite intent on us memorizing things. I’ve still got a little of that in me.”

“Then we have that in common too.”

“What? You were a girl in parochial school too?”

“No. But I sat close to one.”

“Did you have a crush on her?”

“Pure lust. She was very well developed for her age.”

“Did you send her notes?”

“Until the nun caught me and confiscated all the rest from Maddy’s desk.”

“Did you tell this Maddy that you loved her?”

“Madly. I copied poetry from Byron and Shelley.”

“Excellent! I wish the boy who wanted to grope me in high school had quoted Byron. Lord, I do. I would not have been a virgin until I was twenty-eight! What happened then? What did the nun do?”

“She read them aloud to the class. And when she was done, and poor Maddy had sunk completely beneath the desk in shame, Sister complimented me on my choices.”

“God, I wish I knew you then!”

“What sort of notes did your groper send you?”

“He was illiterate. He drew pictures. Nasty pictures. My fear was that someone would think I had encouraged him in some way. So, when he wouldn’t stop, I turned them in.”

“You turned him in?”

“No. Just the pictures. But the Nun knew who it was. He had a distinctive style. Picassoesque.”

“You are tough. How old were you then?”

“Fourteen. And not much more developed than I am now, I’m afraid.”

“But already a reporter.”

“Yes. I guess I was.”

“Tell me about your first boyfriend?

“You mean the first man I slept with, or the first I fell in love with?”

“Don’t tell me about the sex. Please. Just the one you first fell for.”

“Russell. Rusty. The boy next door, almost. Two doors away. He used to take his shirt off to mow the lawn. He played the piano and you could hear him every evening at six o’clock when his lesson started. The repetitions were mesmerizing. He was Jewish. And unfortunately for me he was gay. But we were great friends until he went off to college.”


“Why? It was a lot better than sitting around with the girls and just talking about boys. Rusty talked about all sorts of things I’d never thought about. His hero was Cole Porter, and he wanted to write music for the theatre.”

“Did he do it?”

“A little, I think. Rusty died of aids in 1988.”

There was a story.

“Crap! Double crap!”

“So, who was your first girl friend? Maddy?”

Was she asking to balance her own admission.

“No. I don’t think Maddy spoke to me again after the notes debacle. I don’t remember. I don’t think I actually had another girlfriend until Margret.”

There was a pause. I was curious what she would say and waited.

“Lucky Margaret.”

“I don’t think she was ever that happy about it. Like I said, she thought I was boring. And she had to teach me how to use a knife and fork.”

“She was more experienced than you.”

“Pretty much.”

“You’ve never been in love with anyone else?”

“Not that I knew. I’ve often had crushes on women from afar.”

“Anyone I would know?”

“Jane Austen.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. I wrote an essay about her in my freshman English Lit class at BC. I was very serious. I wrote a time-travel novel just so I could go back and make love to her.”

“Oh my god. You are insane. Really! . . . Anyone else. Anyone alive?”

“I fell in love with Ayn Rand shortly after that. She was alive then. Just a little desiccated. But she quickly assumed possession of my abandoned Roman Catholic soul and the need for certainty in an uncertain world. It was a torrid affair, and that infidelity continued until it drove Margaret crazy. But even when the infatuation was over, I don’t think things were ever that right between Margaret and me. Those are the real wages of philosophy and sin.”

There was no answer for that. Silence. I looked to the bay for inspiration.

Deirdre remained unmoved in her position on the blanket. At the last, I figured she was unconscious. Hadn’t I intended this as some sort of romantic outing? Any mention of Ayn Rand to a knee-jerk liberal was usually enough to cause automatic twitching. But Deirdre lay silent.

Even on a busy beach, the unquiet silence can be palpable when you stop talking.

“But enough of that.” I said

And she turned her head toward me, as if she agreed.

“Is that it?”


“What you came here to tell me?”

“I guess it’s by way of context.”

“What’s the text?”

I might as well go all the way.

“I’m in love with you. Either that, or I have the flu.”

She had turned her head to me with her mouth hanging open.

“You are very romantic.”

It is a funny thing to consider what will make a boy read. The film From Here to Eternity was handsomely advertised by a poster of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr entangled half-naked on a beach with the waves at their feet. At the time, it was the most sexually electrifying portrait of love that my young eyes had ever seen, and the owner of the small movie theatre in my home town must have agreed with me because he left this soft-core porn displayed behind the glass of a lobby case for many years after the movie itself had come and gone. But I did not really take notice of it until the summer of 1959, when I turned twelve. A devastating time. That was just about the time a new movie had opened called On the Beach. This was a calmer affair by far, especially in that it involved a wooden Gregory Peck in Naval officer’s garb and a teary but fully dressed Ava Gardner, begging to be disrobed. That, and incidentally, the end of the world. I had already tried to read the novel of From Here to Eternity and found it boring. But when I read On the Beach, I was up all night with it, unable to sleep. And when I think of On the Beach today, I always first see Lancaster and Kerr, out of time, and place, and in the circumstance.

It was, perhaps, a better place to be.

She said, “Are you done?”


“Well, I’m not.”

She sat up then and kissed me. Right there. On the beach.







All slaves are equal

but some get to live in the big house.



A novel is a flimsy currach indeed in which to set out on a journey such as this. The urgency to remain afloat supersedes all else. But a reasonable destination must be chosen and achieved, while most heavy baggage must be left ashore. The number of passengers is necessarily limited, and movement therein is restricted. Nevertheless, we sally forth, if a barging may be called a sally.

Revolutions are not made. They are stumbled upon. Many are attempted. But few revolutionaries avoid the gibbet. One moment the malcontents were arguing among themselves about what sort of association might be allowed with their King, and in the next a courier with news of shots fired at Lexington and Concord arrives. Thence, the ne’er-do-well editor of the Pennsylvania Magazine, previously a peace loving chap, has “rejected the hardened, sullen-tempered Pharaoh of England forever.” The point is, no matter all the talk, not one of those true geniuses that fashioned the old Republic we have now lost had imagined a United States of America before April 1775.

I am thinking that the lack of preparation to that end was what saved them. Had they thought too long on the subject they would likely have found room to compromise. At the least, they would have turned on themselves, in an effort to gain the upper hand. Power does that to the mind. For proof, just look at what happened as soon as the steady hand of Washington was off the tiller of that fragile vessel, the first of its kind, and now perhaps the last.

Understand, I am not yet making revolution. Nor am I, as Mr. Paine was when that lost country of our past “was set on fire” about his ears, “a wisher for a reconciliation.” But alike him now, having failed at all my other endeavors, I am finally hoping for that sort of struggle. Against all odds. For my children’s sake, for I myself am lost.

I am already far older than George Washington was when he led that ancient endeavor. As for myself, I’d rather sit on the beach and study the waves, or watch the pale grass bend to an autumn wind in Iowa. Or maybe not. But I am here.

I had arrived at the shop this particular morning to find a now familiar sight. Eggs had been thrown at the window. None had managed to break the glass but this vandalism must have been done late in the night, soon after I had left, because I did not actually notice the mischief until I was inside. The liquid egg had dried to a nice sheen that reflected the morning light nearly as well as the glass itself, giving an appearance you might see in very old windows where the slow flow of the ancient glass has created the streaks. The yellow of the yokes offered an artistic streaking of color, making a crude sort of stained glass.

The oddest thing I thought just then was that perhaps I should take the advice of my accountant and convert the business into a nonprofit corporation, given that no profit was ever likely to be made in any case. That thought was raised again by the egg on the glass, you see. Stained glass being good for churches, which are tax exempt, perhaps it would be fine for me. Yes? That, and the idea to let the rest of working population of Boston pay for the pleasure of my company by covering my share of property taxes. Not ‘A Republic of Books,’ perhaps, but the ‘Wholly Church of a Good Books.’

As I scraped this foolishness off with warm vinegar water and a squeegee, I was thinking that this might in fact be the last time I have to wash egg, or spit, off of this particular glass in any case. Apparently, according to a letter I’d received the day before, I have to replace it with another grade. Though this particular harassment is not the only one. And I don’t mean the egg, but the demand by the City of Boston that I spend more money to meet yet another regulation which is being selectively enforced, when in fact my glass is already better than most other shops on the street, simply because it has actually been replaced more often due to the intellectual shortcomings of unhappy critics over the years. The ubiquitous brick of Beacon Hill easily come to hand when an obdurate statement needs to be made. However, the special problem for me this time is that my insurance will not cover the cost of the upgrade. I had immediately inquired and established that fact.

The irony might be appreciated by some. Our notoriety had greatly helped our bottom line. But there were consequences.

Just as the words ‘Banned in Boston’ used to make a hit out of questionable goods in the theatre—so much so that my hero Mencken, in an effort to boost sales of The American Mercury, once arranged to have himself arrested for selling a single copy of the infamous ‘Hatrack’ issue on Boston Common, in full view of the minions of the Watch and Ward society (that story of small town prostitution and hypocrisy would not merit a yawn today), now the government attack on my little shop has made me something of a local celebrity.

Between commercials for ‘nostrum remedium,’ snake oil pharmacopoeia and other such Kickapoo Joy Juice, I had now been framed editorially on the six o’clock news, along with a child rapist in Somerville and an arsonist in Quincy. For the time being I have to be more careful of what I say aloud in public lest some human wart record the morsel and make a mountain of it. This thought came too late, however, given the foolish comments concerning the subject of abortion that I made to a television reporter the previous afternoon, only minutes after I had returned from the beach.

Without preamble, (but perhaps having spoken to Ardis first while awaiting my arrival) the reporter had asked me in sympathetic tones for an example of the sort of thing that was getting me in so much trouble. The sudden camera light from the skeletal stand had washed everything else from my mind, I suppose. Naturally, I picked that most difficult of topics, not a safe subject like censorship, with which most of the TV audience, already hooked on the phony wrestling of Celebrity Wife-swap, or American Ninja Warriors would agree, but abortion—here in Boston, where this proscribed, codified and politically sanctified infanticide was a holy sacrament of the elites in their continuing efforts as dutiful followers of the secularly sainted Margaret Sanger to reduce the population of inferior races.

The reporter herself was aghast. How could I possibly object to a woman’s right to her own body?

“I have no objection to that at all,” I said. “She can tattoo it, enlarge it, reduce it, botox it, pierce it, intoxicate it, drug it, abuse it, or use it in any way she sees fit.”

“But you said you oppose abortion.”

“What about the infant girl’s right to hers,” I asked.

“A fetus has no rights.”

“You mean an unborn child. I don’t remember that restriction being in the constitution. But a woman is responsible for the child she has created, especially so long as that child is dependent on her.”

The dialog was not as simple as this, but the mind of the interviewer had immediately led her to a fairly constant string of cliche ad hominem attacks so I shortened it considerably for my own use by editorial prerogative.

Even knowing it was a useless and emotion verbal wrestling match I could not win—on the basis of my gender alone, reason having been bifurcated thus—and that the sound bite that would be used, or patched together in this case, would not connect with the intellect of anyone silly enough to be listening to this particular communications school graduate with an ample bust as I tried to explain. Every sentence with a clause had been interrupted with a new question needing an additional answer, such as “Few aborted children are the product of rape.” “Pregnancy is not a disease. It is a natural biological result of having sex.” That sort of thing.

According to a now former customer who called and gave me an animated report on the two minute segment that aired a few hours later, I had been made into a villain for my vain attempt to defend the right of a woman to be responsible for her own actions and avoid punishing an innocent child for her own profligacy—a villain indeed, who hated women and would not pay my taxes to boot. Evidently, reactions to this had been strong enough to warrant repeating the report at 11 PM. Deirdre called to tell me about the second showing.

I did not watch, but evidently, the subject of books never came up. And they even managed to avoid the name of the shop.

But we were in the midst of interesting times.

Concerning revolution, a revolt by slaves looking for a new master does not have a better outcome. And this was the very point I attempted to make with Evelyn Wright, a friend of Stella’s, later that very morning. She is clearly very bright and, I think, given Stella’s testimony, well intentioned. But Ms. Wright is nonetheless a product of a ‘progressive’ public educational system that was turning out bigots and fascists faster than learned reason or the common sense of experience could accommodate. In her frame of min—as she had been carefully taught in school, and on television, and through the lyrics of her music—everyone was now necessarily judged by the color of their skin rather than the content of their character. That is, all whites were guilty of the actions of their great-grandfathers, whether they had been potato farmers in Ireland or rag dealers in Minsk. Original sin had now been reborn, without the sacraments. And I, particularly, was suspect because, as Stella’s ‘boss,’ I’d apparently exerted some terrible influence over her.

Born at the same hospital, and raised in the same Roxbury neighborhood, Evelyn and Stella had been near-sisters. They had gone to the same schools. Each had made their way, against many odds, to Northeastern University. Now it appeared, suddenly, that Stella had become very disagreeable company. My name had been used in arguments. Evelyn had finally come around to see the source of this trouble. Importantly, and not by accident, Stella herself was not in the shop on that particular day.

This young women, large headed and carrying the formidable shoulders of someone from Chicago rather than Boston, had circled the counter several times before stationing herself before me. I already knew that, unlike Stella, whose focus at Northeastern was a business degree, Evelyn was majoring in Health Management. Not medicine, or medical practice, or nursing, but the far more lucrative and fast-growing field of managing the welfare of nurses, doctors, and patients. She was a smart cookie.

With no other customer in evidence, she begins, “I hear you’re against Obama Care.”

This statement was made even before she introduced herself, so I thought from the first that she might benefit from an additional college course in more effective communication. Still, I also and immediately knew then just who she was. Stella had mentioned her often enough.

“I am against any government appropriation of individual human responsibility.” Those were approximately my first words in return. And I added, “who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

It was still morning and I was hunker down there at the front counter of the store, having been just previously perturbed over other matters, and in the midst of writing something about eggs and glass for my new effort at blogging. Thus, I was already full of vinegar.

“You’re right about that. But I already know now that you’re rude, so I’ll take that into consideration.”

“What do you have against Obama?”

“Other than his being a profoundly ignorant, smug and small minded but glib racist, with megalomaniacal tendencies, and one who projects his own hatreds on others and happens to currently hold the absolutely corrupting power of the Presidency in his incompetent hands, nothing.”

By her facial reaction, this appeared to strike her as a series of epithets.

“You’re the racist. You’re a bigot. You don’t like Obama because he’s a black man.”

“You are entitled to your opinion, just as I am to mine. But you came in here looking for trouble. I don’t know why. Could you enlighten me?”

“I wanted to see the beast! I wanted to look at the honkie filling Stella’s ear with all that shit.”

“You are Evelyn!”

“You don’t know me!”

“Stella told me yesterday when she came in that she was upset because you’d been yelling at her. You’re roommates. That must make it kinda tough on her given your manners.”

“She doesn’t get her shit straight, she won’t have one much longer. But that’s none of your business.”

“You’re wrong. Stella is a friend of mine. That makes it my business.”

“You are no friend of hers. You’re her white boss.”

“She works for me, true. And I’m lucky to be able to pay cheaply for the privilege of knowing her.”

The conversation was not going in a direction Evelyn wanted. She shook it off with a non-sequitur.

“The Massa just lookin’ for his opportunity.”

She over articulated the word ‘opportunity’ in a clearly derisive way to match her dialectical pejorative for a slave owner.

“I think Stella works here because she likes it.”

“Stella works here because she’s looking for a new massa. But the revolution is coming. And we will be coming for you!”

Now, as I’ve said, I’m never sure what I say is ever listened to. That’s why I tend to repeat myself. But clearly, Stella had absorbed enough to cause quite a lot of friction at home.

“You know, a revolt by slaves looking for a new master does not have a better outcome.”

“Who you calling a slave?”

“I think you need to listen a little more and talk less.”

“You are telling me to shut up.”

“I’m suggesting that your expressed ignorance is making you look stupid.”

“You’re calling me stupid.”

“I’m saying it’s better to shut up and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt. You clearly need a better grasp of language, because you’re missing the meaning of much of what you hear. Maybe you should take a course in basic communication at Northeastern while you have the chance.”

“You’ll see about that!”

And she was gone. The whole exchange was less than four minutes.

I went back to my blog.


So here I was, in the midst of this abject failure to accomplish the basic goals in life that I had set for myself, and yet enjoying more attention that I ever have before. The shop has had sales lately to match its prime years in the 1980s and 90s—that is, in terms of cash alone. Books cost more now. We actually sold a larger quantity of books back then. But still, the city inspectors will not easily back down from their demands that we enlarge the width of the doors, both front and rear, so as to better accommodate wheelchairs, though no one has ever complained to me before. Nor would they negotiate their command to widen the aisles, which would necessarily reduce the number of shelves and thus the number of books I could put out for the public. Nor to reduce the height of the shelving which they deemed ‘hazardous.’ No particular code was mentioned. And their demand that an assessment be made on the load bearing strength of the floor beams is enough, by itself, to break us. Engineers do not come cheap and my emphasis on history and literature meant that I had no ready friends over at MIT.

Additionally, more displays of books will not be permitted on the sidewalk outside, in as much as they pose a hazard to passersby—after more than thirty years of displaying dollar books there to attract attention with nothing worse happening than the theft of the books. Now I have been notified separately that the window glass, already a safety glass, is not of the correct kind—being ruled unsafe if shattered due to it’s large size. The estimated cost from the glass company for the now appropriate safety-glass, to replace the perfectly good safety-glass that is there already, will run at least $4000. I sent back a copy of the original insurance company approval for the current glass, but I suspect that will not be sufficient.

There was no doubting that a war had begun.

And then, this very same morning, as I looked hopelessly at my notes concerning the estimate from the glass company, a publisher called me about one of the unpublished novels she had found on my website. She would like me to send her a copy for further consideration and possible publication. Given all else, I was simply not in the mood for that. My hands still smelled of vinegar. I told her, if she liked it so much, she ought to order a copy from Amazon. It was only $16.95.

So here I am. But not for much longer. I will go down to City hall and perhaps be able to get a temporary waiver on some of those issues, but there is no chance in hell of getting all the alterations done. And Margaret will not help me pay for them. In a flash, she can have some fancy chain-store boutique with a foreign tax address in here paying twice what I do (and half the taxes) and they’ll be happy to pay for their own renovation costs as well.

Still and yet, it is strange to me that there does seem to be a great number of people around who’ll pay a hundred bucks for a pair of jeans. (I remind you, jeans made by our new order of slave children in Bangladesh or China or some place of the kind, for less that the cost of a latte at the coffee emporium of choice—where the entry is emblazoned with posters railing against various forms of injustice.)

Self-pity is not in order. I had had plenty of time for that as I doused the egg splatter and scraped the window area several times with the warm water and vinegar.







A Gift of Fire

When the matches are all wet




I have a tendency to fully imagine my revenge fantasies. This is very useful as a writer. It is difficult to conjure up real meanness without a sufficient cause. When you have invested some hundreds of hours into the invention of characters and placed them in jeopardy, it is a good thing to know how your hero is going to survive when faced with the malignancy of evil. Washing dried egg from windows is as good a time as any to exorcise these demons, even if my wayward shop would never be a church. Though, in my most recent effort, the measures taken are as extreme as any I have previously conceived. Perhaps that in itself is a measure of my personal age and physiological infrastructure as well as my level of general rage and frustration. Would a secure and happily married man think much about destroying the world?

My hero, in The Keeper, escapes from the robots who dominate the earth, while on trial for his life. The trial is, of course, pro forma. Just another gesture on the part of the machines to preserve the culture they have assumed. He is now alone, the last man on Earth. However, others will be returning in time and they too will be destroyed by ‘The Keepers’ as a natural threat to their hegemony. He must do what he can for the sake of his own kind. His one chance for this is to get back to his space ship. He does not have the fuel, or a means to effectively leave orbit, but he can use the tools he has there to make a difference.

After successfully breaking into the storage facility where his ship has been impounded, he finds and removes several crucial electronic devices, which he wraps in the same ‘leadfoam’ that protected him from background radiation during his journey and hides these away. Amidst a brief battle with security forces, he then uses the atomic engine of the ship itself to re-launch the vehicle, with himself aboard for guidance, and explodes this manned missile in the stratosphere above North America, thereby killing the robots with the electromagnetic pulse of the blast, as well as himself. But not before launching a single emergency probe into orbit to broadcast a warning about what has happened.

This impulse to murder one’s opponents, however fanciful, was still troublesome to me, as was the self-sacrifice involved. I was not satisfied with the ending. Emotionally, I wanted my hero to survive.

In the fourth century, when the original Christianity had decayed or divided into factions, there were hundreds if not thousands of heretics wondering about with their own versions of the true faith, from Gnostics who believed in their personal experience of God, to followers Mani who saw there own man as the true prophet of light, but the Catholic Church bothered to direct its full authority against one in particular, a peripatetic Briton by the name of Pelagius, and it was this very attention, as Mencken would have predicted had he been around to comment, that made this particular Celt most famous and spread his word throughout Christendom. For a time, his philosophy of free will and a rejection of predestination and original sin made him the most dangerous man alive, condemned from pulpits far and wide, and thus compulsory reading for any who thought for themselves. But in the end, this hero too had been obliterated from humanity, living on only in the stories of his equally ephemeral but more romantically accessible pupil, Arthur.

And given my natural hubris, this might serve as some short comfort to me now. The closing of the shop is not, after all, the end of it. As much as it is likely to be the end of me. But something I have written or said might endure.


I was sitting on a stool in aisle three, with all this curmudgeonly thought still on my brain, while trying to straighten up some books in the drama section which had fallen over because gaps were opening up from what was selling and I hadn’t bought anything much in over a month to replace them. A dyspeptic moment for any bookseller. I looked up from that just as Deirdre came in the door and spots me.

She speaks almost immediately, “I’m being fired.”

That got me standing up.


She shrugs as if it’s no matter at all. ‘No matter’ to have lost the job you’ve been doing happily for thirty years or more.

“Cost cutting. That’s the excuse. I’m the oldest reporter on salary at the paper now. Have been for months, since Charlie Johnson was cut. First thing when Charlie got the notice back in January, he came over and told me I was next, so I can’t say I didn’t know it was coming.”

She was standing before me then like a little girl who had done something wrong.

“Starting when?”

“This morning. They took my key card.”

I figured I should be practical.

“Is there any compensation?”

“It’s a buy-out package. Either that or I can take the 401 k and unemployment compensation. I’m taking the package.”

“What will you do now?”

She was straight-faced and being willfully unemotional. The shrug went half way up her shoulders before it collapsed. Pretty shoulders.

“I thought I’d come work for you.”

I laughed. But she was serious.

“We won’t be around much longer, Deirdre. I’ve already told the staff that it’s nearly done. I thought I’d told you that it was likely after the IRS weighed in. I’m going to end up owing David a small fortune for his accounting time to take care of all that, whatever the levee is from those guys.”

“I’ll have $250,000 in the bank next Thursday. You can have all of it!”

This sounded to me like a very large sum. But she still had a straight face. I think she had no idea what I might say. She didn’t really know me yet, or else she’d realize I had no idea either. Standing there in the middle of the store was not the right time but I was pretty much useless unless I did, so I gave her the best kiss I could muster on short notice. When that had evolved into a good hug, I could see the front desk and Ardis giving me that droopy face that meant I was being hopeless.

I said, “That won’t work. You don’t understand them. It’s like dealing with the mafia. If I come up with ten thousand, they’ll levee twenty. If I come up with twenty, they’ll say they need forty. David will work some sort of time payment out with them. Sure. But if they think I have access to anything more than he files for, they’ll just go after that too.”

I said all that before I realized there were tears in her eyes.

She shakes her head. “There’s nothing else we can do. . . . ”

Was that a question or a statement? And there was the matter of the pronoun.

“Whatever they say we owe, we have to pay. And because I’ve been posting all the correspondence with them right on the website, they are not very happy with me to begin with.”

“So how does it end? Bankruptcy?”

“I’ll talk that over with David and find out what he thinks. But mostly just to get an idea of the time we’ll have. I figure it’s over by Christmas. Likely, before. We’ll have to have a big sale. Everything. Every bookcase. Every typewriter. The works. Just to pay off the bills. If we’re lucky, when it’s over, I’ll still have my truck. I’ll rig my tent up in the back of that and sleep there.”

“You can stay with me.”

She said that immediately, as if the idea had already been well considered and decided. As if to say, she was the adult here. She knew what she was about, even if I did not.

“That would be nice.” Not a strong answer to another momentous thought. “For awhile, maybe. But I‘m going to need to find some other line of work.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you know, there is a very big demand for 68 year-old men with bad backs who’ve worked for themselves all their lives and don’t like taking orders from anyone else. Especially the ones who are currently under investigation by the authorities. All I do know anything about is books and that’s not a growing field of interest.”

She smiles.

“You can write.”

“Well . . .”

“I mean articles.”

“There aren’t many magazines left, and the internet has pretty much made all that a non-paying proposition. But I think I’ll be doing some of that, anyway.”

“You have Social Security.”

I hated to be reminded of that. It was an embarrassment to me, even if I could pretend it was just my own money that they were giving back and not a mortgage on my children’s heads or an added weight on some child who was not yet born.

And then an old fantasy came to mind.

“Sure. I have that. Gas money. So I think I’ll just start driving and see how far it takes me before my eyes are completely useless. Maybe I’ll just write about what I see along the way. I think I’ll still have the website. I’ll need that.”

“What about me?”

This was said with the same straight face as before. No begging. Of course, I hadn’t yet thought that far. Not yet.

There was only one answer possible.

“I’d like you to come, if you can. I’d like that a lot. But I expect you’d get tired of me pretty quick, so I wouldn’t give up that apartment of yours.”

“No. Of course I’ll come. I mean, I could write too. Travel articles. I’ve done a little of that before. And I’m good with a camera.”

But there was no weight lifted from my shoulders. No relief to be felt.

“That’s it then. Done.” I gave her another kiss to seal the deal. Nothing too wet.

But where would I be then? What about my revolution? What was to become of that?


Writing is, fundamentally, a conversation with yourself. That’s it, in the nutshell. (The nut shell of your own head, of course.) Remember to listen to yourself and answer your own questions when you can. Don’t just talk. Be polite. Try to finish the conversation as you would want to with anyone else. Beyond that it’s a dressing up, or down—to gussy or hone. If you can’t talk to yourself, you can’t talk to anybody, so forget about the whole thing. If what you’ve done with your words embarrasses you, revise. Never tell the truth if the lie is better. (A lie is less likely to embarrass you or anyone else.) But tell the truth if you must. And if, after an appropriate period of absence, your words confuse you, revise or recant. If your tone seems strident, soften that. If it feels too serious, make a joke of it. If you can’t laugh at your own joke, remove it and replace the blunder. If the whole thing bores you, toss it in the round file with your other failed efforts—but keep a copy. You may be in a better mood at a later time. And always keep in mind (the afore mentioned nutshell) nothing written is ever lost.

Everything I have or that I do myself is founded on this simple act of self-consciousness. All the books. All the debt. My shop. My own history. Everything. And it was always thus. Most of what you read that was written prior to 1776 was produced by clearheaded clerks with a distinct awareness of the gibbet. They can more easily and fairly be forgiven for their occlusions and embroidery. But where they stand tall is in the language they used to deceive. Perhaps that was why they worked so well with the words—that industry being the one outlet for their own artistry, and what might survive the parching of their bones. And the traditions for this in English go back to its beginnings.

As you may have read, the events at Hastings had a far reaching consequence and are felt even to this day, as I sit here and write, nearly a thousand years later. But likely not in the way you first assume. There have been hundreds of books and thousands of theses on the subject and I don’t wish to add to that lot, but I do enjoy thinking about the whole thing and especially those consequences. You might recall, this particular battle occurred on the 14th of October in the year 1066—nine hundred and forty-eight years ago to be exact. Normans (a recalcified form of Swedish Viking with French manners) under the leadership of William the Bastard, invaded England, which was then under the united rule of Harold Godwinson, previously an Anglo-Saxon thegn, grandson of Wulfnoth, and cousin to King Sewyn Forkbeard of Denmark. Harold had married into the Danish clan of King Cnut and was also a nephew of the previous English king, Edward the Confessor. For his part, William was a descendant through hanky-panky of Rollo the Fat (aka Gaange Rolf) and a clan of pirates (aka Vikings) who had invaded France just a few generations before and taken possession of the area at the mouth of the River Seine for its lucrative trade potential. In any case, despite the cool names, neither Harold nor William had any more right to be king than any other thug of the moment. It was all a matter of force of arms. Literal, and metaphorical, rape. And they were each pretenders to a shaky and makeshift throne less than a hundred years old to begin with. The Anglo-Saxons Germans had invaded (immigration we call it today) England five centuries before, following the collapse of the Roman Empire, displacing the Britons of Arthurian fame, and establishing much of what we think of being ‘England’ today, which was then divided into seven kingdoms. In the tenth century, one of these kings, AEthelstan, strong-armed his way to uniting most of the lot before he died. However his successors were soon overthrown by a Dane, the afore mentioned Sven Forkbeard. In any event, what all that raping and pillaging amounted to (given our inability to feel their pain over the centuries) was an alloyed and strengthened steel of language more powerful than any sword. Certainly there were other traditions of importance, but language was the key to all else. If you cannot put it into words, it cannot be remembered. And the words become the history.

This then all becomes the fault of one John of Worcester and his like, may they roast. John was the Anglo-Saxon monk who wrote a favorable account of the Norman invasion (lest his head be removed from his body) and this became the history we now know. If not for the writing of such chroniclers as John of Worcester, and the Irish monk Marianus Scotus of Regensburg in Germany, a refugee from another Viking, King Olaf of Dublin, we would have none of it. And you must remember, all of that history was written (all of it by hand and then transcribed to each copy by another fault-prone and obedient scrivener in fear of bodily separation or worse, damnation) and approved by the authorities of the moment, so you know that very little of it was true. And so it goes. You see, the fiction I write today has deep roots.







For Wednesday’s child

Perambulation is nearly as healthy as walking




On another morning, another woman is the first customer through the door. Dark haired, neither brown nor black, and that much cut short so that her ears are exposed. At least she has cheerful ears. She wears a dark blue pleated skirt that makes me wish more women still wore dresses. She is fashionably thin. Not my type, but she is eying me as I straighten up the shelves. That alone is warning enough.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, I think you can. My name is Nancy Claire.”

She says this as if I should know who she is, and as if the attitude she strikes is enough to insure the fact. But I have no idea.

“Hi. What can I do for you?”

She scans the store and sees that we are still empty.

“My agency is interested in your work.”

I have an instant conception. I know this woman, where she is from, where she went to school, where she lives today (New York, of course), what she reads (The New York Times and mystery novels) and just how she does what she does for a living. Schmoozing.

I have known a few literary agents over the years. I have met many more, but I have known several. Beacon Hill is riddled with them. Little Brown and Houghton Mifflin used to be just over the on the Common at the other side.

Without adieu, I ask, “What have you read?”

This question was a defensive gesture. The fact of the matter is that based on experience I believe such people never actually ‘read.’ They ‘looked at.’ They ‘see.’ They ‘pick up’ and say they ‘peeked.’ Actual reading requires too much of their time. They are, as a group, very happy in this internet-hand-held-device-googlized world of ours. But the exception might prove the rule.

But she has her hand out to me, and I shake it. Fairly firm, I thought.

“I read that short story of yours on the web site. Just this morning as a matter of fact. ‘The Tape Measure of My Dreams.’ Very witty. “

“Anything else?”

The Keeper was fun. But I didn’t particularly like the ending on that one. Your hero took dying a little too easily, I think. And I didn’t much like your first two published books either, but for different reasons. Too yeasty with the heavy handed angst of youth for my taste. But I am intrigued by the essays on your website. And I take it from those that you have written much more lately and that you do not have an agent.”

“Where is your agency?”

“Boston. And before you say anything, I know. I’ve never been in your shop before. I am not the type that haunts bookshops. I was raised in up-state New York and there were no bookstores near. Not even a Barnes & Nobel. But we had a fine Library and I practically lived there. I’d just as soon order anything I want on-line these days. That makes me a cretin in your eyes, I suppose. But this stretch of Charles Street is a little off my beaten path and most bookshops these days aren’t worth the bother to go out of your way for in any case. You have to admit that. They’re just another sort of virtual reality made real by artificial means; filled with all this season’s promotions and the remainders from the tired promotions of seasons past. Totally unnecessary. But I see right off that this is not that sort of place at all.” Her eyes scan again. “And you should know that I’ve been following Deirdre’s stories in the Post.”

Being wrong on so many counts so quickly had my back up and guard down at this point.

“You know Deirdre?”

“Not well. She doesn’t write reviews.”

“Then I suppose you’re aware that I write about a lot of things that are not politically correct, and I don’t follow conventions in my story-lines, and I tend to play with grammar enough to put most readers off. I am often accused of having terminal catachresis. Why are you interested in me?”

“I think that about sums it up exactly!”

The quality of a non sequitur lingered in the air, and I was off balance. She smiled like Burt Lancaster often does after doing something untoward in a movie. Perfect teeth. She must have worn her retainer when she was a kid. Either she had more self-discipline than most, or her mother was attentive. In either case, I should give up speculating about Ms. Claire until I knew more. But this was a challenge and I was supposed to meet it.

“Then, you’re interested in the kerfuffle of the dog and pony show?”

“You mean with the FBI and all that? Certainly. I could be. For the entertainment value at the very least. It would sell a few copies, I’m sure. But I wouldn’t say you’re in that class.”

“Better or worse.”

“Neither, I think. Just different. You are curious. But dog and pony shows can pay the bills. Is there anything wrong with that? It gives me the freedom to publish what else I want.”

“I suppose not.”

“And you’ve made me think. That’s a nice surprise. A lot of writers can bring a tear to my eye, but you made me think. And you are very funny. I like your sense of humor.”

We are standing at the front of the shop by the card racks and Morris Dunn comes in the door behind her and I see his eyes give her the up and down and then he gives me a wink and a grunt before he heads off to the Westerns. Ms. Claire’s eyes do a half roll. Some women can see the men’s faces without turning. I suppose some women can more than others.

The next step in my own defense was to play stupid. Which is easy enough for me to do. Typecasting, Margaret would say. So I say, “I’ve never had an agent, so I’m only aware of what agents do from hearsay—mostly the complaints of other authors—and the occasional article. What is it you think you can do for me?”

She shrugs. Bony shoulders raise the fabric of her dark blue jacket up and I see that it is likely very thin cloth and very expensive.

“I have no idea. I came over to see if you’re interested. Given all that ‘kerfuffle,’ as you call it, I figured others might have already been in contact with you.”


“ ‘Yes,’ other’s have been in contact with you or ‘yes’ you’re interested.”

“The latter.”

“So, I can look into this and not be wasting my time?”


She put her hand out again. I shook it.

“I didn’t expect it to be this easy. I was prepared for an argument.”

“I suppose that’ll come later.”

An eyelid twitched, but she smiled, “I’ll look forward to it. For now, I’d like to look around and see what a real bookshop is like.”

It was nice to think that handshakes might still matter.

Morris was at the counter a few minutes later. He had a copy of the Jack Schaefer stories.

I remind him, “You’ve read that before, Morris.”

“Yeah. I know. I gave it to a friend. A former friend. He didn’t return it. Whose the dame?”

“A literary agent.”

“Aw, geest! Don’t go all James Patterson on me.”

“Not likely.”

When Ms. Claire returned to the counter, she asked me for any typewritten copies of the unpublished novels that I might have. I keep copies of all of them of course. Just in case. There had never actually been a case in all the years, but still. You never know. And I have many times given copies to friends to read who dropped by. I pulled out three of my best—by my own estimate—-perhaps a little finger soiled from the loanings, and put them in a book bag and gave her those before she left. I noticed that she did not buy anything else.


Now, perversely, I was suddenly thinking of ways to disinterest Ms. Clair in my work. This is an easy thing to do. Politics rules, as I have said, and the dogma of our age is not only authoritarian but absolute in its righteousness. Odds are, if I told Nancy Claire that I thought the idea of abortion was an abomination and the act itself should most simply be defined as murder, she would be appalled. It’s not that pro-abortion people are not aware of the fact that there are people who think as I do, as much as it is that they believe as strongly that my thought on the matter is evil in the same way as I believe the act of murdering babies to be more than uncivilized.

As I have repeated here before, I am no scholar, but in arguing the matter I have usually resorted to scholars. My favorite of these is that much neglected co-author of the United States Constitution, James Wilson in his anti-federalist lecture on the Natural Rights of Individuals, “With consistency, beautiful and undeviating, human life, from its commencement to its close, is protected by the common law. In the contemplation of law, life begins when the infant is first able to stir in the womb. By the law, life is protected not only from immediate destruction, but from every degree of actual violence, and, in some cases, from every degree of danger.”

Now Ms Claire will discover this way of thinking if she reads much of the work I gave her. It is my guess that her fantasy of plucking a rough gem from the gutters of Charles Street will end quickly.


In this same way, I don’t think a work such as Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World would have much chance of being published today. The characters are too cold in the manner of much Twentieth Century ‘High-lit,’ as one of my regular customers calls it.

“I’m in the mood for some heavy drinking and deep depression,” he says. “Do you have any British High-lit for me. I like to imagine the accents. I’ll be drinking scotch.”

“You want a Scottish author, then. How about some Compton McKenzie?”

“No, No, No. He’s too warm. You get to like his folks too much. I want Higher Lit. Something cold. Very British. Huxley, maybe?”

“Crome Yellow?”

“That’s a satire, isn’t it. I think I tried reading it once. A bunch of upper class psuedo intellectual hogs. I get enough of that every day at work. No. Something else.”

“We have a mass market paperback of Antic Hay?”

“No. Not that. That one is supposed to be funny, isn’t it? I was never sure. But it’s not.”

“Brave New World.”

“No. We have all that going on now, Ford forgive us. I want to escape. Remember, I’ll be drinking.”

“You don’t want Huxley then. Have you read Stella Gibbons?”


“They made a terrible movie out of Cold Comfort Farm a few years ago and we have a paperback with a picture from that on the cover but you can ignore the cover. It’s a very British comedy with—”

“No. No. Seriously. Something serious.”

“How about D. H. Lawrence, then. Terribly serious. I’ve always thought he was unreadable unless I was drinking.”

“Sounds just the ticket.”

My customer’s comment about Brave New World got me to thinking, however. We do have all that going on now.

Huxley, a member of a well established family of intellectuals, was a pacifist in the way of British pacifists after World War One. With the rise and success of the great socialist world order seemingly inevitable, he concentrated his considerable intellectual powers on the dehumanizing of industrial society, seemingly unaware of that this aspect was in the very nature of the socialism he advocated. His onetime student, Eric Blair caught on to that fault after a time, but Huxley feared industrialization and the assembly line more than authoritarian planning. Eventually, the socialist graying of life in Britain got too thin for him and he escaped to the relative color and safety United States just before World War Two. Like so many of his kind, authors so terribly concerned with social conditions and the degradation of the workers, Huxley went to Hollywood and reveled in the thousand dollar a week paychecks when the average American factory laborer was taking home less than half a hundred. Nevertheless, he was born smart, and he noted, in Brave New World Revisited, that the “democracies will change their nature; the quaint old forms—elections, parliaments, Supreme Courts and all the rest—will remain. The underlying substance will be a new kind of non-violent totalitarianism. All the traditional names, all the hallowed slogans will remain exactly what they were in the good old days. Democracy and freedom will be the theme of every broadcast and editorial—but democracy and freedom in a strictly Pickwickian sense. Meanwhile the ruling oligarchy and its highly trained elite of soldiers, policemen, thought-manufacturers and mind-manipulators will quietly run the show as they see fit.”

How he thought to deal with this flaw must have been an oversight on his part. Like the prodigious H. G. Wells and the great Orwell too, attention must be paid to their recognition of the disease of socialism. We should forgive them for a lack of remedies.

Nevertheless, that is not a vision that Nancy Claire would want to promote, I suspect; nor might she have a ready audience for it. She had to earn a living, after all. But it was exactly the sort of thing I was envisioning, so why would she want that?


When I opened the shop in 1975, and first ordered the current bestsellers of that day in a feeble effort to be financially viable, I discovered in Nicholas Meyer’s Seven-per-cent Solution that my hero Sherlock Holmes was a drug addict, that the public was more fascinated with kinky sex and murder in Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter, that there was no end to credulity judging by the constant demand for tripe like Castaneda’s Tales of Power and Berlitz’s Bermuda Triangle, and that a mean streak governed the minds of the success wannabes in ‘self-help’ books like Michael Korda’s Power and Robert Ringer’s Winning through Intimidation. In addition, perhaps given our proximity to that infection of local political puissance at the top of Beacon Hill, as well as the anti-Nixon hysteria at the local colleges, we also had a constant demand for Watergate books—All the President’s Men by Bernstein and Woodward, Palace Guard, by Dan Rather, Breach of Faith, Theodore White, all sold very well.

Given the general perfidy of municipal power evident to me since I had given up on roller skates, and the seemingly sexless cardboard personalities in the Nixon administration, I was amazed that this particular ‘third-rate burglary’ could hold such attention. What about the greater corruption of government involving every aspect of our graft-drunk bureaucracy as cataloged by Senator Proxmire? What about the thousands of American boys who had died in Vietnam for nothing more than a Cold War chess game, never mind the destruction of that small country and the hundreds of thousands of people who were killed there when Jack Kennedy and the American State Department decided to assassinate the obdurate Diem for not willingly playing their pawn. What about . . . The list was rather extensive and might take me twenty minutes or more of heated verbal exploration, to the detriment of customers simply there to find something to read, before I realized I had scared them all away, again. But I did usually try to restrain myself.

A Republic of Books did not exist in a social vacuum. I have known that from day one. Through the years the issues of our age have raged about us. When we began, in 1975, that tragic war in South East Asia was ending and there seemed to be a psychological exhaustion of the public mind that was pervasive, innervating, and debilitating. Everything we as a nation had fought for, or against, in the previous twenty or thirty years was now called into question. This was, in fact, a good time to start a bookshop if it was all about exposing our meagre human knowledge to a good reading light.

Dalton Forest has long since moved on to a warmer climate, but he was often one of my sparing partners in those years. He was at Harvard, and proud enough of that to slip the factoid into most conversations as a point of proof for the strength of his position when arguing. We had the best selection of science fiction in town at the time and that was what brought him over the river on a regular basis. The arguments with me were a bonus, as if he were trying out a particular idea on a hostile audience before presenting it elsewhere. My guess is he is now a significant player in some civic government in Florida and practices the sort of law on local citizenry that costs a $1000 an hour. I will look him up on the internet sometime. Maybe I won’t. You really don’t want to know what evil men do after you once had known them as bright young faces ready to laugh at a small joke. I would rather remember the glib fellow who thought the writing of Philip K. Dick was great literature that the brass proto-template for political correctness that he was.

But Dalton said to me once, “Nixon should be in prison.”

It’s an easy thing to remember, especially coming out of the mouth of a law student.

I said, “You’re right, but probably for the wrong reason’s as usual.”

This was meant to provoke him.

“He covered up a crime!”

“Really? You think you could get a conviction in court on that?”

“Then why do you think?”

“The war in Vietnam was illegal! Never mind the nasty business with Kennedy and Diem before that, in 1964 Johnson asked Congress for permission with the Gulf of Tonkin Resolution to give military aid to the puppet government we’d set up there. There was no ‘declaration of war.’ That’s why it was illegal. And that’s on Johnson’s head. But Nixon promised to get us out of it. That was his campaign promise. He had the power to do that. Instead he listened to the entrenched politicos, and all that political maneuvering ruined a lot more lives and killed a lot more people. You may not be able to get a conviction for murder unless you put Johnson and Congress in jail too, but at least you could prove he continued the breaking of a Constitutional law. And I have about forty other reasons but I’ll start with that.”

Dalton likely said more then that I don’t remember. He liked to interrupt. But I can remember my own thoughts on the matter because I had repeated them often enough. It was a regular rant.

I believe he said again, “But what about Watergate!”

“I don’t understand how that matters. No one died. The people who did the act are in jail. More importantly, what about the millions of lives destroyed by Vietnam?”

Now, one definition of psychopathic behavior, as I understand it, is a lack of empathy. One problem of our media crazed society, benumbed by violent video games and the constant onslaught of murder and mayhem on television and in the movies, is an inability to actually empathize with other human beings while we often display outrage or sympathy in dramatic ways to meet accepted public motifs and memes or display our own virtue. A goldfish being swallowed on Youtube will get more attention than a recorded murder of another human being by a drunk driver. Cutting to the chase on this, given the lack of good parenting and worse schools and the emphasis on political correctness over genuine civility, one of the few places the digitally insensible citizen might get a sense of how other people actually live is through short stories and novels. But there is no Trollope writing in our time. What we have instead are the likes and dislikes of Stephen King.

For most of the shop’s existence I have had to weather a constant plague of Stephen King books. Our very first new book order contained Salem’s Lot. And this was not like the annual flu you could expect out of Danielle Steel or Jackie Collins, which had at least the one good sex scene to otherwise color a gray afternoon. This was more like an infection of herpes—persistently on the public lips. In some years, you might have to battle two strains of the virus at a time. Once, when his joint effort with Peter Straub, the Talisman, was already imagining the machinations of an evil business deal through the eyes of a schizophrenic child, and his Skeleton Crew was busy with tales of festering American nastiness, he blindsided us with Thinner, by using the nome de plume of Richard Bachmann. I could always avoid buying the newest nightmare, of course, but the books multiplied like cockroaches in every box of used books we bought. And despite my best efforts at keeping my hands washed, and avoiding bad women, Mr. King still managed to pay my rent many times over, simply by sheer perverse demand. It was sort of a reverse curse. I was told more than once, during an aloud complaint at having to suffer the indignity of buying a book that would actually sell (and this must be likened to a whore who must have the money for a new dress) that I should thank him, but I could not avoid the thought that there were dozens of very good writers who might not find a publisher because of him. The air was sucked out of that room. (That may be seen a self-serving, of course, but so be it.)

In the course of one of my many verbal tumbles with Dalton Forest, I mentioned King as an example of the sort of literature that seemed to trade on a lack of human empathy in favor of fright. Damned if Dalton didn’t go right over to a shelf and grab one of the King books for the first time. By the time he left Boston in favor of the aroma of banana blooms, he had caught up on them all.

But the arguments over Vietnam raged in the aisles long after Dalton was gone. It seemed that Republicans now wanted to justify that conflict for reasons I could not begin to comprehend given the history. Democrats wanted to forget it except in selective epithet. Few could discuss it rationally. And the reason for that, I think, was a lack of good novels, much less actual history or fair biography. There were a few that trickled out, of course. But even ten years later, there was little in print concerning that outrageous twenty year war by any comparison to the continuing flood of literature about the four short years of World War Two.

There was one book worth noting from those years that seemed to capture the drug-benumbed sense of philosophy that passed then for deep thinking. The title was enough of a draw for many, The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. This was a rather naked attempt to present the modern thinker with the idea that their world was new and thus they were free to do with it as they pleased. Written by a ‘psychologist’ of very questionable credentials (his doctorate was from Yale, after all), it was advertised with the announcement that ancient people were not conscious and thus, not really human. Forget about genetics. Forget about the hundreds of thousands of years of human struggle inherent in the trial and error of ancient cultures. Apparently, the world was made new when mankind stopped talking to God.

I was fascinated at first by the idea that the birth of writing was the key to this awakening. If you don’t think about it for very long, a date for the birth of writing can actually be imagined. (And lets not discuss the half of the peoples of the earth who are still illiterate today—we are talking the better half here, of course.) And please don’t get into Darwin.

I suspect that the author, Julian Jaynes, was tripping on a little lysergic acid diethylamide or some such when he came up with this brainstorm. However it was conceived, he clearly had daddy issues with his god—not an uncommon problem among psychologists I have known. Supposedly, when this imagined archetypal-modern human faced an uncommon circumstance such as a volcano eruption or an eclipse, crippled as he was by his ‘bicameral mind’ and as yet not sufficiently self-aware, Jaynes believed he turned to his God or his tribal Chief for answers. (No word yet on where this god or tribal chief got the questions). Finding himself naked in the Garden of Eden, self-awareness seems to have equaled shame. A very religious concept indeed!

But I wondered, was there then no need to show reverence for the past? Was it no longer necessary to argue over whether this or that principle was first promulgated by Socrates via Plato, or by Aristotle. Was the Hebrew Bible now to be dismissed from the conversation because those ideas are as dead as the civilizations that rendered them?

Not unexpectedly, the bicameral mind has persisted with the same delusions today as were common to those unenhanced ancestors.

However, I had discovered by then, long before the age of twitter, that protestors don’t read a lot, except for the occasional leaflet, pamphlet, or perhaps the short Alinskyite manual for incorrect behavior, and neither do true believers for they already know what they are about. The Vietnam war was disillusioning to both sides—to those who believed in American hubris, and those who did not. But very little of those protesting on either side took into account the devastation of the people who lived in the territory under dispute. Those benighted were equally dismissed as collateral damage—unless it was the My Lai massacre or a child damaged by a landmine who could be used for photographic or political pornography. Its true, a few thousand Hmong were deposited in Minnesota to great fanfare, but there was very little empathy for the horror that millions of Vietnamese people, north and south, had lived through. Nor did the people I met in the store, who so easily traded in political jibs at Nixon without ever mentioning his predecessors, bother to try understanding the mind or sentiment of the larger American public who believed yet whole heartedly in defending their own nation, believed the lies they had been told by their elected authorities, and were used and abused by politicians and militant dissidents alike to accomplish other ends. The soldiers who had done their duty hardly merited a mention except as ‘perpetrators’ and ‘murderers’ until the ravages of post-traumatic disorder made them a victim too and thus a viable political pawn. It was as if the war had been conducted by them and not the professors from Harvard and Yale at the state department.

Nixon was, of course, much hated by the left. Still is. They seem to have more than enough hate to go around, but he was one of the first to be faced with the onslaught of bile so easily disgorged by the Left against its enemies—and, in fairness, Nixon was indeed an enemy of that faith. I would like to give him credit at least for that, but like a spiritual descendent of the Fascista, he chose to fight that monster with another monster, larger government. Evil cannot be fought with evil. And the administrative state that is the bulwark of socialism in America was greatly enlarged under Richard M. Nixon—a foolishness for which he is forever responsible.

In the end, I give Nixon credit for essentially ending the draft and little else. Raising taxes and devaluing the currency didn’t help anyone but cronies. Establishing new government agencies was good for Republican patronage until it was even better for Democrat benefaction and certainly increased real estate prices around Washington DC. Opening China to American business made a lot of rich players richer while it destroyed a lot of American jobs. The Walmart-made ghost towns as well as the boughten and disposable society it helped create were a direct result of cheap Chinese goods. Let them pollute their own rivers making our goods for us, was the thought, I suppose, or lack of it. We had the Clean Water Act.

“He just did that to buy votes,” Dalton explained.

“And the Civil Rights Act?”

“That was Johnson.”

“I know. But was that only a matter of buying votes?”

“Sure! Yes!”

Now, the problem here was that Dalton himself was black—actually very brown but the concept of race has always been color impaired.

I informed him, “More than 80% of Republicans voted for that. A lot higher percentage than the Democrats. So why do you hate Republicans so much?”

“That was just politics.”

“You’re right about that, but what’s the difference when the Democrats do it?”

Dalton understood the difference. It was a matter of the sort of bicameral tribal thinking common to the stone age that still rules our legislatures. He became a lawyer in Florida, and worked for one or another Federal Agency until he had made the right connections. The system was made for him. It was just a rotten system. Right and wrong are irrelevant to such a two-minded beast.




Knox Books and Moby Dick

a play with words


So, about ten years ago, for lack of a more useful or rewarding project, I attempted to write a play set in a bookshop very much like my own, and make use of the little I had learned to entertain an audience with loud farce in the same way Buster Keaton once did in silence. That was my goal, in any case. It seemed to me that much of what I did was funny, or at least humorous and certainly laughable.

Because I have always found it so much easier to be critical than generous, and spend too much time on an average day disparaging some author or another to the detriment of my business, I had entitled my little comedy, Knox Books, assuming anyone would know or care that the great Henry Knox had once operated a bookshop in Boston—it was the play on the homonym of his name that I wanted this time. And there could be little confusion between that effort and my later use of the big man in my play about Phillis Wheatley because no one has read that one either.

The antagonist of this piece was Gerald o’Malley, (small ‘o’ capital ‘M’) a failed college professor who had turned to bookselling to escape the classroom but brought the classroom with him. His adversary is Euphemia Lawrence, a daughter of the thoroughbred Lawrences of Massachusetts, those breeders of horses for the Myopia Hunt Club. Euphemia is a beauty and a math whiz in her own right but with a bean counter’s soul who had married Gerald, in a fit of late adolescent rebellion more typical of that past moment in time, just to spite her parents. But she has suffered the consequence of this foolishness ever since—only finding out after the fact that her deceased father’s will forbade divorce.

Knox Books is very much a family affair—far more so than a my own enterprise has been—with the three o’Malley children working there and each scheming individually of a way to get their father to pay them their back wages so that they might escape (machinations which are often to the detriment of the other two). The scheming is key to the plot in that it serves to exaggerate the financial plight of the shop and in the end, unintentionally, to save the shop from Gerald’s worst instincts. The background motif is the poor quality of the literature Gerald must sell to keep his landlord from kicking them out. The distractions from the obvious and the constant means of avoiding the inevitable failure of the shop are the customers, every one of whom is more eccentric than the last.

The blatantly contrived plot is that Gerald has gotten a very rare book, a signed first edition of Moby Dick, worth perhaps half a million dollars, in an ‘open box’ church sale lot and he must now decide what he will do with it; keep it as the ultimate find of an otherwise wasted life, or sell it, to pay his bills—and consequently free his wife to divorce him at last. He loves her still. But Euphemia, who has had an unending string of jobs, from selling cosmetics to plastic kitchenware parties, always in an attempt to make her own fortune, has informed Gerald that in spite of her best efforts, they cannot afford to divorce or to live separately.

The situation is made worse by Gerald’s discovery that the copy in question had been hidden by the previous owner, Teddy Perkins in a collection of otherwise worthless books to keep his daughter from finding it. In my play, Teddy was a nursery owner from Milton, and a local small-time mobster, who met his end, quite literally, by getting himself rolled up at the center of a carpet of turf intended for Fenway Park. (The body was discovered as the turf was unfurled to repair the damage of a rock and roll concert at Fenway by the Grateful Dead.) Teddy’s daughter, who has found out about the book from her father’s braggadocio before his death, and after having eliminated all other possibilities, is positive that ‘what happened, happened,’ and is now plaguing Gerald, because she is certain that the book is now in the bookseller’s hands. She sets out to seduce Gerald to find out.

Meanwhile, Gerald’s children learn about the existence of the book and see a way out of their own predicament. Each of them, while expecting to inherit something when their grandfather dies, is contriving to get their father to sell the Melville quickly so they can start living well now.

The plot is thickened further when Gerald learns that the book in question was actually stolen by Teddy from the dying husband of a woman the bookseller knows, Anne Mitchell, who is now financially strapped as a consequence of her dead husband’s mania for this particular book. She has lately been coming in to Gerald’s shop with other used books to raise cash, but she was once married to the Moby Dick uber-fan, Mark Mitchell, former professor of American Literature at Boston University, who had died several years previously during a marathon reading of the work at the school where he had taken the volume to show it off. Unbeknownst to Mitchell’s wife, the professor had spent the entire family fortune (inherited from both parents) to buy the book at auction in New York, just to own it.

Gerald knows the wife because she was a frequent customer who used to come in to the shop with her husband to buy the very books she is now selling. Gerald had many an argument with the professor about one author or another but they both agreed about Melville and even Gerald had heard inklings of the husband’s foolish purchase—and applauded it at the time.

As it happened, the nursery man, Teddy Perkins, had been planting shrubbery outside the building where the Moby Dick reading marathon was taking place and had gone in to use the bathroom. He witnessed the heart attack in the bathroom where Mark Mitchell had sought some relief from his ‘indigestion,’ and Teddy had tried to help Mitchell at first, but had ended up walking away with the man’s briefcase instead, just as the professor was declared dead by the EMT.

Unfortunately, Teddy Perkins owed higher ups in the mob a lot of money. Proud of having possession of a volume that even he knew was great, he hide the book, which was already contained in a nondescript and quite worn cloth-covered clamshell box, in plain sight in his living room along with a bunch of other odd titles he told his wife to buy at a local church sale. His wife, cannot pay the mortgage and taxes on their house and with no other options after Teddy’s death but to move, she gives all the books back to the church sale along with much of the household furniture.

The mob comes by the Knox Books shortly after the visit by Teddy’s daughter. They have an idea of what is going on because the daughter has bragged about it to her ex-husband—in the way of her father. The ex-husband is also connected to the mob.


[Act one, scene one, opens in the shop where Teddy’s daughter, Marcia, is trying to find out if Gerald has the book. Gerald is on his knees before several boxes of used books, downstage. Several portraits of major authors, including Melville, hang high on the walls. Note: the expressions on their faces change subtly during the production. Marcia, a good looking young women in a skirt and blouse, is standing next to Gerald—uncomfortably close. The front desk and register of the shop are behind him stage right. Gerald’s daughter, Gemma is there taking care of occasional customers and looking over at the transaction with various appropriate expressions. The front door and shop window is at stage left. Bookshelves range away upstage. Customers come and go, some of them speaking to Gerald in passing.]


Marcia (speaking to Gerald as he sorts the contents into small stacks): Do you ever see anything special?

Gerald (raising his eyes over her well formed figure to see her face): Occasionally. Not often enough.

Marcia: What’s the rarest book you’ve ever found?

Gerald: I’m not sure. Most really rare books are relatively unknown. They didn’t sell in their own time. But I did buy a rather ratty copy of Ulysses once. Not the first but one of the later printing from Shakespeare and Company in Paris. Unfortunately it was beat to hell, somewhat water damaged, and mouse nibbled.

Marcia: How much was that worth?

Gerald: I sold it to a book restorer for about five hundred dollars. Actually he restored a dozen other books for me to pay for it.

Customer (an unkept but younger man, leaving with a book in hand): Get off your knees, Gerry. She’s not going to sell you what you want.

Marcia (ignoring the rude comment): Really! And that was the rarest of them all?

Gerald (standing—he is considerably taller than Marcia and she is now looking up at him): Most books are more like the ones you brought in today. Common. Worn out. Best sellers of yesteryear that few people want today. These look like they’ve been in an attic. You’ve got bats, I think. There’s bat poop on the box tops. And the book paper is very yellow from the heat.

Marcia: I though it was plaster or something. (She wipes her hands on her skirt) They’re my father’s—mother’s actually. From her attic. She wanted me to get rid of them before she sold her house. My dad used to read all the time. He used to drive people and he’d wait in the car and read.

Gerald: I thought you said he had a nursery.

Marcia: He did. But before that he was a driver. Mostly limos. He thought running a nursery would help him loose weight.

Customer (coming in): Hey, Gerry. Anything good?

Gerald (shaking his head and ignoring the customer): I’m sorry. There’s nothing here I can buy.

Marcia: Nothing! Those are classics! My father educated himself with those books.

Gerald: And they get reprinted every year. But these are all worn out. I think he probably bought them used in the first place.

Marcia (sighing): He was a cheapskate. He never had a dime to spare.

Gerald (stooping to put the books back in the boxes): I can help you carry them back out to your car.

Customer (coming in): Yo, Mr. o’Malley, small ‘o’. Bibliosalutations!”

Gerald: Hi, Donald.

Marcia: Can you throw them away for me?

Gerald: I can’t. It’s against what little religion I have in me to throw a book away. You should donate them to the St. Paul’s Book Sale.

Marcia (hefting the smallest box as Gerald stands with a larger one): My mother already did that with the rest. Do you ever go there?

Gerald: St. Pauls? I go to the auction ever year.

Marcia: Have you ever found anything special there?

Gerald: Now and again.

Marcia (speaking as Gerald opens the front door with his free hand to let her go out) “What was the best thing you ever found?

Customer (leaving through the opened door ahead of Marcia): Gerald! (holding up a bag in his hand) Keep an eye out for some more Sabatini, will ya? I just bought you out.”

Gerald: Yes sir. Always. (turning back to Marcia) probably the best was a copy of Moby Dick.

Marcia (turning around and setting the box down on the floor again): Tell me about that!

Gerald: (still holding his box) I can’t really. It’s a long story.

Marcia: I really want to hear about that. Moby Dick! That’s famous! Even I’ve heard about that.

Gerald: I really can’t.

Marcia: But I really want to hear. I’ll buy you lunch if you’ll tell me about it.

Gerald: I bring my lunch to work. But there’s nothing to tell. It was just in a box of old books.

Marcia: Wow! How much is it worth?

Gerald: I don’t know yet.

Marcia: Can’t you just look it up or something?

Gerald: No. Not a lot of copies like that come up for sale.

Marcia: What’s special about?

Gerald (frowning):It’s in very nice condition. And it’s signed by the author. Why are you so interested?

Marcia (weaving a bit before she speaks) Because I think it belonged to my father. My mother gave his books to the St. Paul’s. And that one was special to him. Can I buy it back?

Gerald: No. I don’t think so. It’s a very expensive book.

Marcia (slinking her body to the side in an effort to make her words more meaningful) I could make you very happy if you did.

Gerald (laughs): Not that happy. Booksellers are odd ducks, ya know. I’m sorry. Besides, (he looks toward the counter) my daughter wouldn’t approve.

Gemma looks scornfully at them both.

Marcia (straightening): It’s important to me to have that book.

Gerald: I guess so.

Marcia: How much would you take for it?

Gerald: It’s not for sale.

Marcia (raising her hands up) : Fucking idiot!

Gerald: That’s been said before.

Marcia: I mean me! I did this all wrong. I’m sorry. I just wanted that book back.

Gerald: I’m sorry.

[Marcia leaves, abandoning her boxes]

Gemma (leaning forward over the counter to see the boxes) You could set them out on the street and let people take what they want.

Gerald: They’ll throw half empty coffee cups and candy wrappers on top of them before anyone takes one.

[the door opens and a couple of tough guys come in, one short, the other tall, both wearing thin black leather jackets]

Tall thug: Did Marcia leave something here?

Gerald (turning to kick one of the boxes): These.

Tall Thug: I mean something else. A book. Something about a ‘moby dick.’

Gerald: No. Just this stuff.

Short Thug: I think otherwise.

Gerald: Well, you’re wrong.

[The tall Thug and the Short Thug start to look around the shop.]

Donald (coming forward from the aisles): Ya know, I could never finish that book. I mean, it’s so long and you know how it ends. What’s the point?

Gerald (staring at the floor): You’re joking.

Donald: No. I mean, what does it have to do with me? Am I ever going to go whale hunting?

Gerald: You’re a contrary pain in the ass, Donald.

Donald: Yeah. Well. I had to read it in high school. One of the assignments was to find an image or verse in the Bible that Melville used. I handed in a report with the very first line. I actually got a passing grade. Why read the rest of it?

Gerald: Maybe because life is not about a passing grade.

Donald (putting two paperbacks up on the counter): You take all that stuff too seriously. It’s just entertainment. We’re all going to die anyway. We might as well have a laugh on the way.

Gemma (looking at the books with hands raised): Star Trek? You are reading books about a movie?

Donald: Two movies! They made a movie out of Moby Dick, didn’t they? It was boring.

Gerald: And you live in your parent’s basement in Brookline and call Moby Dick boring?

Donald: Damn! I knew this was going to be a bad day when there wasn’t any cereal left. If you’re just going to insult me for what I’m reading, I’ll buy my books someplace else.

[Donald leaves without buying the books. Gerald takes them off the counter and throws them into one of the boxes on the floor]

Gemma: Sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.

Gerald: I would have. You’re my daughter.

Tall thug (drifting back and leaning over the counter to speak with Gemma while looking things over) What is a moby dick anyway?

Gemma: A whale.

Tall Thug: Why is a book about a whale worth so much?

Gemma: There’s a copy of it in aisle two. I think it’s seven dollars and fifty cents.

Tall thug: But this one is different.

Gemma: I don’t know. I haven’t seen what you’re talking about.

Short Thug: I think otherwise.

Tall Thug: You know, if there was an electrical fire or something, I bet a place like this would go up pretty fast. (He whistles as his eyes scan.)

Gerald: I’ll take that as a threat. I don’t know what you’re after, but threatening people is a piss poor way to find it.

Tall Thug: You know what I’m looking for. I hope it’s not here when you get a short circuit. Whatever a fucking moby dick is, you’ll still owe us for it after.


In scene two, Euphemia shows up while Gerald is on the phone trying to hold a publisher’s account representative off with promises to pay his bill sooner if they will just ship his last order. While he negotiates, she answers his comments aloud in the store in her own way and customers answer back. When he has hung up, she asks him for grocery money which he tells her he doesn’t have, but when he is helping a customer she takes it from the till. In scene three, Gerald has gone to dinner, while his children, now aware of the situation, imagine all the things they could do with half a million dollars and then how much less if the money were divided between them. Importantly, they each reject the idea of going into bookselling themselves. The customers add their own insights to this reverie. At the last, it is clear that Gerald is standing in the dark just beyond the door and has heard all of it.

In act two, scene one, Marcia returns the next day to tell Gerald that her mother needs the money to save the house, and makes a new offer–her body plus half the proceeds from selling the book, or else she will tell the Mob that he has it. Informing her that they already think he does, Gerald turns her down. In scene two, Anne Mitchell shows up to sell some books and Gerald learns that the copy of Moby Dick was very likely her husband’s when she explains how it was lost. But she has no proof of ownership. Gerald is dumbstruck by the added problem. In scene three, the thugs show up to make their offer again. And Gerald, in a monologue to Herman Melville after locking the door for the night, admits what he has to do.

In act three, scene one, Gerald tells his family what he intends. They each argue their case against returning the book. Euphemia wonders out-loud if Gerald is seeing Anne. In scene two, the thugs have followed through on their threat and the store has had a devastating fire. Blackened shelves rise over heaps of scorched books. The sad author portraits peek above the rubble. Seemingly everything is lost. Euphemia, standing by Gerald, is dazed and overwhelmed and he tells her that she can have anything left from the insurance money but she might have to go home to Hamilton and stay with her mother for a while because they won’t be able to afford their apartment rent. The children speak of other things they might do. In scene three, Gerald is in a small cafe, and Anne shows up. They talk, and what they have in common is very clear. He gives her the copy of Moby Dick and cautions her about it while she realizes what has happened. But unlike Mr. Keaton’s better efforts, the hero of my play does not end up with the girl after all. When she asks if he will rebuild the store, he tells her the insurance company will likely give ten cents on the dollar for the used books and only the wholesale price for the new—so all of that has to go to pay his bills. He is broke.

I admit that I wanted to stage this last moment like the scene in John Ford’s, The Searchers, with Gerald standing in the door of his darkened shop and the sunlit street of the city beyond, even though I can’t imagine how that might work, much less what it has to do with bookselling. It was a matter of mood, I guess. I could even hear the music.

In the end, Gerald wanders off alone.




Amidst the vasty deep

late term aberrations


I have done many things wrong. Or wrongly. But none of these that I am aware of are related to business. Certainly there were mistakes aplenty there, but I am only speaking here about doing wrong. Still, I cringe at the memories of my mistakes, some of which come more easily to mind than others.

Maggie Jean was an odd duck in many way. Physically she was misshapen. Her face was slightly disfigured. I would have called it ‘lumpy’ if I was given to such comment. Her head appeared too large for her body. Her body was square; she was broad shouldered and broad hipped, with little definition between. She was strong and liked to prove this when she could. She did not look after herself physically and was often on display with stringy unwashed hair at shoulder length and clothes that did not add anything to her appearance. Her one ‘hobby’ was swimming and this at least meant that she was relatively clean.

I do not have a transcript of any sort for her now, twenty years later, and can’t tell you why I hired her other than the likelihood that I needed someone to do the work and she had, in fact, displayed a superior knowledge of books. She was then at Bunker Hill Community College and studying accounting, I believe, but reading had been her one true love to date and she loved the shop. She had been a regular customer before a hired her.

Let me tell you the end of the story with her so you might better understand the weight that was on my mind at the time.

I have always been opposed to abortion as the taking of a human life that is nonetheless human for being so completely dependent. The store was not yet open during the public debate over the Roe vs. Wade decision by the Supreme Court, but the subject persisted and became a heated argument in the shop on more than one occasion after we opened. Over the years, I lost several employees as a result of my comments and likely countless potential customers. The authoritarian suppression of free speech by labeling what offended some as ‘hate speech’ or ‘fascist,’ or ‘racist,’ had already begun but hadn’t reached the current frenzy.

And please note: it was at this time, forty years ago, that I first heard it argued that a man could not express an opinion on a subject because of his gender. Suddenly the human race was to be divided. Bifurcated. Sundered. Bicameral, if you will. We were no longer a single species but two. Such stupidity can as easily be expressed without thought, but some of those putting this idea forward had given it a great deal of consideration. I was reminded of the monks of medieval Europe and their arguments over the sex of angels.

Now, Maggie had a friend on the staff at the time, Debbie, who was a vocal feminist. She was taller, and fair, and very bright, Debbie was given to wearing jeans and flannel shirts while eschewing the use of deodorant. And it was Debbie who found it necessary to express her ideology aloud at any opportunity and often enough did it to balance some remark or another I had made. The idea that it was my shop and I should be free to express myself here did not wash with her. If I could say something, she was equally free in her own eyes to oppose me, private property be damned. And it was during one of these verbal altercations that Maggie had made an announcement.

Interrupting a verbal volley back and forth from the counter to an aisle, on the subject of a woman’s right to rid herself of an unborn child, Maggie stepped between and said, right there in the shop, with customers in close attendance, that she herself had been an abortion—albeit an unsuccessful one. She had subsequently been raised in a series of foster homes and never adopted. And as if this fact alone were not terrible enough to know, she had been raped at one of those foster homes and simply abused in several others.

All of this horror came out in a few sentences. In memory, the silence afterward was completely leaden with the weight of it. I said I was very sorry and not much else at the time, I think. Debbie was not shy but she was silent as well. Despite her friendship with Maggie, she had not known any of this.

I have argued since with women who have had abortions. True or not, the interjection of this event of ‘a little murder’ is a common and effective rhetorical device while discussing the issues involved, but this first time that it happened to me, I was disconcerted. I still cannot imagine someone willingly aborting their own child. One woman had told me, loudly, that she refused to use birth control pills because it was a bother and getting an abortion now and again was too simple. But Maggie’s point of view seemed to me to be unique at the time.

It is important to note, in retrospect, that Maggie was not arguing for or against abortion. She was simply placing the fact before us. Because her life was not my business, I avoided the topic thereafter. I should have inquired more, simply out of human concern, but I had been intimidated. Just one of many times through my life that I have lacked courage.

After a year or so, Maggie transferred to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst and I saw her only once or twice after that as she came by to say hello.

It was Debbie who later returned one day and told us the rest of the story. Assuming they were still friends, I had inquired about Maggie and how she was doing at U Mass.

“She killed herself. She jumped out of her dorm window on the twelfth floor. They said it was an accident, but it wasn’t. It was just a late term abortion, I guess.”

The statement was cold, and made I think as some sort of ironic rejoinder to the arguments we had once had, to shock me, but it was true enough in its own way.


Nine out of ten—the easy presumption is likely accurate enough—will not discuss a subject like abortion. It is too disturbing to their equanimity. But not discussing it is more disturbing to mine. How can such a belittling of human value be excused? How is having an abortion any different from walking away from your child in a parking lot? In both cases the child is dependent on you. In one case you are allowed—even applauded—for cutting the brain stem of another human being in order to express an assumed and prior right to your own body—the same body and mind that chose to have the sex that created the child in the first place. In the other case, abandoning your offspring, you are liable to child abuse and neglect for simply expressing that very same right. Let the State take care of the brat! (They want to anyway.) And if the old folks can’t take care of themselves, put them in a home! And certainly, don’t waste health care expense on keeping them alive. For the good of the many, lets have national triage! And those Downs syndrome kids. Why are they even here?

I have spent countless hundreds of hours attempting to understand the motivation and purpose of the modern ‘liberal,’ or ‘progressive,’ if you will. The irrational meanness of that thinking is appalling to me. But many of its thinkers, having shown themselves to be otherwise intelligent and well read enough to understand what they are saying, have indeed crossed over into the realm of evil. Evil is not only a religious designation—albeit one used quite loosely in that regard. I simply believe evil is the act of a human being who has a psychopathic disregard for the human life and suffering of others.

Being evil is not being wrong. That is the point I am making. Being purposely wrong would be evil.

Let me tell you about evil.

Chester Bowles, that once famous advertising executive, American First pacifist, wartime ration czar, production and price administrator, diplomat, and key promoter for the United Nations, had for a time considered himself smart enough to be Governor of Connecticut, and in that regard thought that the state should take charge of education and mental health, housing and workman’s compensation, at whatever the cost, while he seems to have had no qualms at the similarities between his ideal government and that of the then waxing German National Socialists—an attachment he supposedly later disavowed. Bowles is said to have said, “The chief characteristics of the [liberal] attitude are human sympathy, a receptivity to change, and a scientific willingness to follow reason rather than faith.” Sounds good if you don’t think about it. And this might explain his problem, even as smart as he was. Reason is a methodology, not a philosophy or even an ideology. A pretty big mistake. An attitude is not an action. Receptivity to change would require both reason and purpose to be useful. Science, like reason, is a process—a ‘scientific willingness’ might seem clear to some minds, but is, at root, an oxymoron. A fixed idea is not de rigueur a bad one and change not always for the better. Though we should strive to act on the best of our knowledge and philosophies, faith is a necessary aptitude in a universe which is so greatly unknown. Mr. Bowles apparently believed that being poor meant you could not be free. “There can be no real individual freedom in the presence of economic insecurity.” He also advocated governance above and beyond the representatives of the people. “Government is too big and important to be left to the politicians.” I share his distrust of politicians, but what on earth is the alternative other than dictatorship? He was a buddy of John Kenneth Galbraith, (and both even served as ambassadors to India). Perhaps that explains his half-baked concept of money. “Production is the only answer to inflation.”

It is no surprise then that Mr. Bowles was a great disciple of Woodrow Wilson and admirer Margret Sanger, the founder of planned parenthood and early proponent of abortion as a means of population management and control, especially for the purpose of eliminating inferior races. And it is no accident that Sanger’s concepts of racial purity were soon adopted by the Nazis in Germany.

And that fact begs another question. What exactly are these ‘Nazis’ that everyone refers too along with a knee-jerk reflex about them being evil? You’ve seen the movie—hundred of them. Here are some facts.

Amidst a series of demands based on the imagined existence of a ‘German’ race, the 25-point Program of the National Socialist German Workers Party (NSDAP), to be conveniently found on Wikipedia, insists “that the state be charged first with providing the opportunity for a livelihood and way of life for the citizens. . . . All citizens must have equal rights and obligations. . . . The first obligation of every citizen must be to productively work mentally or physically. . . . Consequently, we demand: Abolition of unearned (i. e., interest from work and labour) incomes. Breaking of debt-slavery (debt repayment). . . . We demand the nationalization of all associated industries (i.e., banks). . . . We demand a division of profits of all heavy industries (owners, investors and shareholders be damned). . . . We demand an expansion on a large scale of old age welfare (self explanatory). . . . We demand a land reform suitable to our needs, provision of a law for the free expropriation of land for the purposes of public utility, abolition of taxes on land and prevention of all speculation in land (again, self explanatory except perhaps for the pronoun ‘our’). . . . We demand struggle without consideration against those whose activity is injurious to the general interest. Common national criminals, usurers, profiteers and so forth are to be punished with death, without consideration of confession or race (harsh, but common parlance for the time among socialists). . . . The state is to be responsible for a fundamental reconstruction of our whole national education program, to enable every capable and industrious German to obtain higher education and subsequently introduction into leading positions (no private schools). . . . We demand the education at the expense of the State of outstanding intellectually gifted children of poor parents without consideration of position or profession (Huxley called them ‘alphas’). . . . The State is to care for elevating national health by protecting the mother and child (managing), by outlawing child-labor (they will be in government schools, after all), by the encouragement of physical fitness (the had ‘camps’ for that), by means of the legal establishment of a gymnastic and sport obligation, by the utmost support of all organizations concerned with the physical instruction of the young (no fatties, please). . . . We demand legal opposition to known lies and their promulgation through the press (you can’t call them out if you can’t speak). In order to enable the provision of a German press, we demand, that: a. All writers and employees of the newspapers appearing in the German language be members of the race; b. Non-German newspapers be required to have the express permission of the State to be published. They may not be printed in the German language; c. Non-Germans are forbidden by law any financial interest in German publications, or any influence on them, and as punishment for violations the closing of such a publication as well as the immediate expulsion from the Reich of the non-German concerned. Publications which are counter to the general good are to be forbidden. We demand legal prosecution of artistic and literary forms which exert a destructive influence on our national life, and the closure of organizations opposing the above made demands (self explanatory, again). . . . We demand freedom of religion for all religious denominations within the state so long as they do not endanger its existence or oppose the moral senses of the Germanic race (the only religion will be the Nazi religion). The Party as such advocates the standpoint of a positive Christianity without binding itself confessionally to any one denomination. It combats the Jewish-materialistic spirit within and around us, and is convinced that a lasting recovery of our nation can only succeed from within on the framework: The common good before the individual good (any good Marxist would understand). . . . For the execution of all of this we demand the formation of a strong central power in the Reich. Unlimited authority of the central parliament over the whole Reich and its organizations in general. The forming of state and profession chambers for the execution (they did not use this word as a metaphor) of the laws made by the Reich within the various states of the confederation. The leaders of the Party promise, if necessary by sacrificing their own lives, to support by the execution of the points set forth above without consideration.”

With minor grammatical changes and a very few noun substitutions, while skipping over the harsher penalties, pretty much all of this is in keeping with the agendas of both major political parties in the United States today. It makes you wonder who won the Second World War.

That’s not all of it, but enough of that for now.


And then there is this: “Feminism is just one more phony ism of our age, all of them meant to rend not only the fabric of thought but the mind itself from the very body of our human being, cutting it into easy bits for devouring. With this particular creed, the science of biology and the practical functioning of genders has been cancelled in favor of a more politically fashionable androgyny. Instead of extolling the benefits of an elementary legal equality, the simple beauty and mathematics of the tango have been hopelessly entangled, as feminists postulate a female singularity instead—one that is, by its very sexist nature, not a dance but a dead end, a sum zero, and an inevitable bed of self abuse.”

And it was essentially this particular thought, perhaps in a slightly less adamantine tone, that I had expressed in a recent blog post but then foolishly said aloud almost word for word while in the very midst of a lunch date the next day (one that was consequently never finished), while enveloped by all the small sounds and bustle at Vesuvius Pizza, with the moistly sour smell of raw dough being punched and pinched mixing with the bitter burn of crust from the oven, fielding the assorted comments thrown our way by Vito Paranesi as he cast the punched and now thinning disks of dough into the air and then sprinkled flour (quips not worth reporting here other than to say that he was obviously aware that there was something more going on between Deirdre and I), all of which might have sidetracked the thought but for the fact that I was on a tear at the time, trying to explain to her (‘impress upon’ might be the better words) why so many people were beyond reaching and now seemed incapable of simple good will much less wanting to comprehend straightforward reason or logic, aka, common sense.

Having discarded the tenets of established religious prohibitions—those time tested and handed down through the multi-hundred generations of hard-earned human experience—we have been, for the last hundred years or so, embarked upon a frail framework craft, covered in an oiled whole cloth—my metaphorical currach once again—a scheme of mere political fantasies, and, having lost our way, left now adrift on a roiling sea. I said exactly that: ‘Adrift on a roiling sea.’ And I mentioned the currach as well. As I say, I was on a tear. Deirdre lowered her head across the table from me and fixed herself for the worst of the rant yet to come. Inevitably, I struck the spike at the heart of a particular ideology.

“Since Margret Sanger, there are millions of women, many of them psychologically blinded now by self-serving guilt and self-righteous justifications, who’ve already aborted a child, and have become psychologically incapable of dealing with a simple fact: that biologically, an unborn baby is a human being and no less. A fetus is not a species, any more than an infant, or child, per se. They are deafened by petty reasoning to their own self-serving illogic, and using obtuse justifications that could just as well apply to anyone enfeebled by accident, or age, or disease as well as the despised unborn infant, and they deny their own humanity. And the next step, legal euthanasia, has already been taken. In a financially restricted economy, the elderly are a burden. If qualification for legal human life is reduced only to those who can survive on their own, fully half the population below the age of twenty-one can be considered merely enlarged fetal matter and equally disposable.

If a mother wants to escape her unwanted fetus, why shouldn’t she be able to kill her dependent children? Or should the term ‘slave’ be extended to also include such natural maternal servitude? If the mother’s justification for abortion is a supposed inviolate right to her own body, regardless of the facts of her humanity as a female of the species, or the rights of the unborn child, and much less her personal responsibility for having had the sex that created the child—and ignoring for now the obligations and duty of the maligned father who would otherwise be charged with child-support, thus denying his part in the equation entirely, except upon the whim of thewomen—then all human law is worthless! Good law is created first for the safety of all human beings—not just female human beings, or the male, or young, or old, or small or large, or black or white or yellow or brown.

These women, who’ve failed to bear responsibility for their own children, must now deny the reality that they have killed those children just as surely as any mad mother who drowns her babies in the bath water. But, given the rancid climate of our times, I don’t believe they will ever understand this again. This moral appendix has been snipped. A new religion has taken their souls. Feminism willfully bifurcates the species into untenable and asexual parts. With such foolishness, the purpose of all human philosophy is compromised. All our past has been rejected, and a better future made impossible.”

There was no real silence then. If anyone else had heard me, there was no indication of that in the chatter around us. Deirdre took a breath so deep I could feel it in my own toes. She was looking me in the eye, but there was no challenge to it. Resignation, perhaps.

“Michael. I had an abortion.”

I knew this.

I knew this because the subject of children had never really come up between us. I knew it instinctually because of the way she looked away from the babies as we passed mothers in the street. I have known women who could not care less; who would abort their own child just as soon as change the color of their hair. But I already knew that Deirdre was not that sort.

“I’m sorry.”

I was not sorry about my rant but I was sorry to actually hear this fact spoken. I was sorry for Deirdre’s sake. But she knew that at least, and told me so and more.

“It was when I was with Jason. He didn’t want the child. I felt suddenly abandoned. But it was my choice. All mine. I’d been spouting all that feminist crap since I was a teenager. And I was angry. I just did it. Just like that.” There was no snap to her finger, just the silent motion. Still, she had not looked away. As if she wanted me to understand she had faced this much at least. The blue of her eyes can be as hard as topaz. “I was living in Jamaica Plain then, and he was already in New York, and I just called-in sick to work one day and went right over to the Planned Parenthood office. And it was done. It was easy. And I was sorry that night and I’ve regretted it every night since. I’ll be sorry for the rest of my life. But it won’t change it. It was a girl and she’ll never get the chance at her own life or to be the woman she might have been.” There was no tear but an emptiness to her stare. “And I have often thought now that, this is my fate now. I’ll never get to be something more than I am.”

I had no more rant left in me. Vito must have seen our faces. He stopped tossing the dough and stared silently at us both as we left.


But this was followed in less than an hour by another moment worth recording. I was back at the shop, still feeling sore inside for Deirdre, and trying to lose myself in alphabetizing when Mr. Clifford came in. Likely it was just an effort on his part to make me uneasy and perhaps do or say something to upset my apple cart. The obvious thing was that they wanted me to make contact with someone else, carelessly, because they had my phone tapped or whatever else bugged for that possibility. But then I was already in a bad mood. More, I was angry, and I started in on him as soon as he came through the door.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? Why do you want to hurt me? What have I really done? I’ve disagreed with the government that sponsors you. Sure. But that’s all. I’ve done nothing to you. Why are you making a deal out of it? Why does it bother you so much, when there is all the other crap going on in the world? I’m just wondering, what kind of man would do your job? Does your mother, or your father, know that you’ve become a thug? Is that what they dreamed of for you. Does your wife know? Do your children know?”

By the look on his face, I could just as well have been talking about the weather.

“You broke the law. I don’t make the law. But you ought to mind your own business.”

“I am. I do. I make a habit of that. It’s you who’s trying to interfere with mine. Why don’t you just leave me alone?”

“You’ve broken the law.”

“You don’t know that! You’re just supposing it, as a pretext and excuse to do what you’re doing.”

There was still very little expression discernible on that face.

“I’m an officer of the law. I’m doing my duty.”

“Which law. Certainly not the fourth amendment to the Constitution.”

“We have a right to investigate any clear and present danger to the welfare of the public.”

“Not by breaking the law yourself.”

“There are other laws.”

“The first law is the Constitution. That was settled over two hundred years ago in Marbury versus Madison.”

“Mumbo jumbo.”

“What! Did you say the Constitution is mumbo jumbo? I ask again, who are you?”

There were people in the store who had stopped browsing to watch and he was aware of it.

“You know my name.”

This was meant, I suppose, as some sort of wit at point blank range.

“But I know more than that! I know your wife’s name is Elly. Same as one of my daughters. Your children are Chad and Everett. And my own guess about that is that you, or your wife, must ‘ve watched a whole lot of television when you were a kids.”

“Shut up! Where did you get that information?”

“It’s on the web. It’s all public information now. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’ve seized my own private records and you must realize that any law, even yours, has to be administered equally, even in a police state.”

There was not a real squint, but there was a tightening to the eyes.

“You’ll go to prison for that, buster!”

“Why? I didn’t do anything. I just Googled your name. It’s all out there.”

“Who put it there?”

“I have no idea.”

“Publishing private information about an officer of the law is a crime.”

“I imagine so, especially given the sorts of things you do. But I didn’t publish it. And whoever did, did the same for your associate Mr. Evans. Names. Addresses. Phone numbers. Job history. Schools. The works.”

“You’re under arrest!”

“For what! Reading something on the internet. Mr. Guinn is going to love that.”

“Impeding an officer of the law in the commission of his duties.”

“I haven’t done anything of the sort. I’ve given you the run of the place. Your incompetence is not my responsibility.”

A small gathering of customers stood near the desk then in appreciation of the theatre of this. Clifford turned and looked at them directly now before abruptly turning again and leaving the shop. This pattern was beginning to register. When confronted, Clifford often retreated.

A couple of the crowd in the shop were looking at me with a grave concern. Others smiled. One women clapped her hands, and then the others who had smiled did the same. I was embarrassed. Perhaps more so for those who wandered away with reaction.

“I’m sorry about the dramatics. I think it’s over for the time being. I’m outta gas.”

But I figured it was a very momentary success. Just a skirmish in a longer and larger conflict. Once Clifford got back to his office, and talked it over with Evans, they would be back. They would have another excuse this time. I called Mr. Guinn.

Mr. Guinn’s secretary asked me twice if it was an emergency. I asked her if she thought getting arrested and thrown in jail was an emergency. She put me on hold. Thankfully, it was not one of those ‘holds’ that makes you listen to crappy music. Especially because that always conflicts with whatever music I’m playing in the store and it gives me a headache. I already had a headache.

Mr. Guinn came on the line shortly after. I told him about my confrontation with Mr. Clifford and then about finding the personal info for Clifford and Evans on line when I went to look for the phone number for their office.

Mr. Guinn brooded over this for about one minute. About fifty bucks worth of his time at the special reduced rate, I figure. But I let him think. I could hear the background noise in his office so I knew he was still there.

Finally he says, “I can’t get over there right now. You’ll have to face this alone, I’m afraid. If they do arrest you today, I’ll have you out in a jiffy. But remember, I don’t advocate violence of any kind. And using certain information to harm another person, especially an officer of the law, can be considered an intent to commit an act of violence.”

“I understand.”

His voice changed in tone. “Use ridicule. There’s no law yet against ridicule.”

“I’ll gladly accept that advice.”

“And if you can, I think it’s time to conjure the vasty deep.”

“Which vasty deep is that?

“Shakespeare, Henry the Fourth, Part 1, Act 3, I believe. Glendower says to Hotspur: ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep,’ and Hotspur answers: ‘Why, so can I, or so can any man: but will they come when you do call them?’ ” Mr. Guinn quoted this as if telling me something I should know, and then he paused. I waited, unsure of what was intended by his words while being quite surprised that he knew Shakespeare so well, but then he picked it up again. “Glendower answers: ‘Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil.’ And Hotspur replies: ‘And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil—by telling the truth.’ Tell the truth and shame the devil.”

“You know your Shakespeare then.”

“No. Sadly. I memorized those lines in law school forty years ago to impress a girl. It stuck with me. I like to use it on clients now and again. Like yourself. Just to make a point of the fact, when you must answer, just tell the truth and we’ll get you through this. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.”

I had to ask, “What happened to the girl?”

There was another $50 pause. Then a laugh.

“She works in Washington now, right in the heart of that vasty deep . . . But now that you mention it, I think maybe I should give her a call.”

Nevertheless, at the end of the day, the question remained in mind, who had put the information on the internet about Mr. Clifford and Mr. Evans and why had they chosen those two particular FBI agents? I supposed it was George Reilly, but I wondered about his taunting of the authorities, as if he wanted to be caught. What was the strategy? Or was it merely a tactic?

This, at least, was a good diversion from those darker thoughts that ruled the day.








Let us again consider Cleisthenes

A fragment of marble from Mount Pentelicus




All day the phone had been ringing far more than usual. Ardis started hanging it up before answering.

We have a new screen on the line, attached to the device, that converts the calls so that I can continue to use my old phone. Jack bought that for us, probably to save Ardis from the consequences of my actions after of the rash of angry phone calls that followed Deirdre’s series of articles in the newspaper, and it is a fine improvement. We can see who’s calling, just the way I do on my cell phone, and it displays a record of recent calls at the push of a button. Now, since my most recent blog concerning abortion had appeared, the death-cultists at the National Abortion Rights Action League had begun an active campaign of harassment. How dare I challenge them! The kindest thing I had been called was ‘Neanderthal.’ The worse was illiterate vitriol. And the number of calls had doubled once again. However most of the phone numbers used were the same and thus easy to dismiss. It was usually the case that a few activists did most of the nasty work.

Nevertheless, at the end of some days, the weight of such matters does add up. Or perhaps I’m just getting too old for it. Finally alone, and at home, I found myself considering my situation in the larger context. It is too easy to see things subjectively. I was not at the center of this wheel, after all. I was simply at an edge and thus getting more contact with the pavement.

It was some comfort to me to remember that when Benjamin Franklin was my age, he became a revolutionary. Not overnight, mind you, but in one afternoon.

Certainly he had entertained thoughts of American independence, but not as the sort of government it would soon become. ‘Independence’ was more a relative thing at the time. The meaning of the word was ambiguous and used to mask many permutations of what was, at the bottom line, a subjugation to Crown and Parliament.

Franklin was then the Postmaster General for the colonies, a position which he had taken for the good of his fellow Americans but also out of personal frustration and practical self interest. He was a man who liked to write and his correspondence included many of the leading figures in the blossoming fields of Natural Science, Natural Philosophy, and the rest of beadledom, or whatever that petty bureaucracy of the moment was called. He was a businessman with business to conduct. And he was an agent, (think if you will, of an all-purpose sales rep for a multinational corporation), or soon to be one, for the colonies of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Georgia. But in 1854, when he was granted the position of Postmaster by the King’s council, he could not send a letter to any of his many friends in England, or they to him, without a significant chance that it would be lost. Worse, at the time, this postal service was not only conducted badly, but at a financial loss. No one else was interested in the headache or the probable damage it would likely cause to any reputation for competency.

Postal services had always been run at a deficit, as they are again today. But by 1774, the year that Benjamin Franklin became a revolutionary, his innovations in this service were adding three thousand pounds a year to the King’s coffers and, allowing for the weather and a safe crossing of the Atlantic, service was dependable. It was better still on the new ‘post roads’ Franklin developed that crucially connected all the colonies from Savannah to Portsmouth. But, as of that later year, and by his own admission, to achieve the many ends he had pursued as a true renaissance man, he had spent as much of his life in England as in America. Perhaps more. Rabble-rousers like Samuel Adams even saw Franklin as a pony for the British interest and not a trusted ally in those difficult times.

It was by that later year, when British troops had occupied Boston, and most recently, 600 pounds of East India tea had been cold brewed in Boston Harbor by James Swan and his friends in lieu of paying the tax, that the New York Assembly, the Virginia House of Burgesses, and the Massachusetts legislature had all been dissolved by Parliamentary edict. The quartering act, made necessary to shelter the very troops sent to New York and Boston to quell unrest, was being resisted. On January 11, 1774, with the news of the ‘Boston Tea Party’ still fresh in London ears, Franklin, the representative of several of the colonies, was summoned to appear before the Privy Council. According the great historian, Catherine Drinker Bowen, Franklin first assumed that this demand was addressed to him as the official agent and concerned a five month-old petition to Parliament from the Massachusetts legislature for the removal of Thomas Hutchison as Governor along with his henchman and lieutenant Governor, Andrew Oliver.

Instead, what Franklin faced in those council chambers (they were still colorfully referred to as the ‘Cock Pit,’ after the designation of a previous use of the land they stood upon) was a charge of treason. This indictment was for the probable cause of theft in the matter of ten letters sent by Governor Hutchinson to his own agent in London, which had gone missing and turned up instead in the hands of Samuel Adams back in Boston, and from there had been widely distributed and reprinted in both England and America. The letters described Hutchinson’s and Oliver’s complete disdain for the Massachusetts legislature as well as for the citizens of the colony, and called for the establishment of a new elite council of landowners to rule the affairs of state. For Franklin then, this assembly in the Cock Pit was not a hearing, but a star chamber.

Through an ordeal of many hours, the 68 year old Franklin, dressed in his brown corduroy suit—then cunningly called Manchester velvet and made of a collarless long-coat, vest, and trousers buckled below the knee—remained standing in the dock, one elbow on a rail with a hand to his forehead, unmoving. He kept his coat buttoned against the drafts. His gray hair fell long at his ears. His very passivity must have further inflamed his tormentors, all of them well acquainted with his critical nature and satirical jousts. And after he had heard himself repeatedly described in that august chamber as a despicable scoundrel, unworthy of trust, a traitor, a thief, and lacking in all virtue, he finally left his inquisitors, and then England too, and went to war.

That was my context, was it not? My pretext? My text entirely!

One might as well chose the most elevating example for one’s actions. But to what purpose? What exactly was to be my to be cause? I am not qualified to speak for anyone else but myself and often fail at that.

Josiah Ober has written a good book about how it was revolution itself that brought the Athenian people onto the main stage of history. This was a simple enough statement to make, but it stopped me by its emphasis—or at least the emphasis I took from it. The very act of revolution itself was the key.

And while we are at it then, let us consider Cleisthenes, the father of Athenian democracy and thus a father to us all, dead and white though he was. His moment was in 507 BC, you understand. Really, just a while back. About two thousand and five hundred years ago. A mere 84 generations. I emphasize this for those maven who want to think of their world as it is today as the only way it has ever been.

It was Harmodius and Aristogeiton who made the revolution possible by killing the Peisistratid tyrant Hipparchus, though they were both then put to death for their trouble. Whoever they were, whatever sorts of fellows they had been, is lost to us now. They are merely names—like any of the many who fell at Bunker Hill. But it was Cleisthenes who, recalled from exile and given the tyrant’s power in turn, fulfilled what promise there was in this dictatorship by first establishing a democracy in the Athenian state. Not for any ideal, you understand. For practical reasons. The ancient system they had was failing. For inspiration, he could have looked to the everyday practices of the landowning hoplite farmers who organized themselves willingly into a citizens army in time of war—not unlike the farmers of Acton and Sudbury and thirty other towns who gathered at Lexington and Concord. But for a time Cleisthenes must have been something of a tyrant himself, for he set about his task by deposing those four clans who had ruled Athens through family partisanship since pre-history and established rule instead by individual citizenship in the 139 ‘demes,’ those geographic areas that were much like counties dividing ancient peninsula of Attica. Instead of the age-old patronage, the new government positions under Cleisthenes were filled by a more random ‘sortition.’ The city council, the Boule, was increased in size, as were the courts of law, known as Dikasteria, and both were first required to have representation from each and every tribe. All of it, just a matter of history now, you see. Of no other importance than that it was to change everything that followed, and all the rest of history that we now know.

Cleisthenes disappears from history soon after his accomplishment, and what is known to us was written down by his enemies, but I have studied what little is said about the man by Aristotle, Herodotus, and Plutarch, with the thought that I might one day go to Greece and write something set in that place and time. For having altered history so dramatically, Cleisthenes deserves more attention. A novel, at least.

None of that matters to most of you, perhaps. To some it will be dismissed out of hand because the Greeks also kept slaves in thrall. To others it is unimportant because women did not share in this division of power. But as a fellow human being, I am much impressed that one individual was capable of such a change of heart. If this had not been done, and just then, the great Athenian victory at Marathon and the heroic stand of the Spartans at Thermopylae would not have occurred, or have mattered very little in the scheme of things, for the Persians would have ruled, and our Western culture would have ended there. Right then and there. Likely, Socrates would never have been born, much less become a philosopher, nor Plato, or Aristotle. More likely than not, women would still be treated here today as they are yet to this day in much of the Middle East, and there would be slavery in America, as there still is in the Muslim world, as well as China and India, very much as it was two thousand five hundred and twenty-three years ago.

Where do I stand in that tradition? What part do I play?


And this was exactly what Special Agent Mr. Evans asked me later.

“Let us say, for the sake of argument, that you know nothing about all of this.”

That’s what he said when he was about a minute in the door.

He did not say hello. I said that.

“Hello. Funny you should ask. I was thinking much the same thing.”

“You are not stupid. Naive, maybe. But I don’t think you are anywhere near as naive as you pretend. But then, that’s a commonly used pretense to avoid involvement in something you might be uncertain about. So, let’s take that as the given. However, you do know a great deal surrounding all this that you aren’t telling. And that’s the problem. Withholding information in a Federal investigation is a crime.”

“I’ve been advised that just about everything I do is a crime, somehow, someway, and it’s just a matter of whether the authorities want to use one pretext or another to arrest me. So, I’m not going to help you. The Fifth Amendment is still in force, however weakened it is by phony ponied up Grand Juries and very Special Prosecutors, and a political Internal Revenue Service. If you want any more out of me than I’ve already stupidly told you, you’ll just have to start with the thumbscrews. I do have a low threshold of pain. I’m likely to tell you almost anything while being tortured. Then you’ll just have to sort through it and figure out what’s true and what’s made up.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“No. That’s my accountant. He hold’s that degree.”

Evans stands in place a moment and stares.

“Agent Clifford tells me you say you had nothing to do with the information about us that’s posted on-line.”


“Who have you spoken to about that?”

Ambiguous question.

“About the posted information or about you two agents in general.”

“About the posted information?”

“After Clifford asked me about it, right here, which the first I heard about it, I told my lawyer what he said. Of course, there could have been others in the shop who overheard him, or me. I don’t know.”

Evens screwed up his face as if he had a bug in his mouth, and then sourly swallowed that with a deep dip of his Adam’s apple.

“I’m tired of all this.”

“That’s two of us.”

He stood there for another few minutes in silence as I helped a customer and then he left without saying goodbye.








Smelling guns and firing roses

a killing with kindness




‘There are more booby traps in the original Constitution of the United States than in a congress of naked women—not intentional, to my reading, but the by-product of the authors’ inexperience, never having done this sort of thing before in public and thus lacking the judgment to avoid such mistakes—including those greater matters such as slavery and women’s suffrage, and the more subtle ones such as the stultifying tenure of incumbency, the easy corruption of public office through ‘pay to play,’ the false front put up by supposed ‘checks and balances’ weighted like a thumb on a butcher’s scale in favor of the Presidency, and the so-called ‘electoral college’ meant to avoid the uneducated stupidity of the mob by preserving the idiocy of the powers that be, each of which have wrecked their own special havoc—but the one we have to fear the most once more, at this particular juncture of our history, when all the others have already played themselves out in the worst way again and again, is the power given to the Supreme Court by itself (at the behest of Chief Justice John Marshall) in 1803, in the case of Marbury vs. Madison. This was an unconstitutional act by every measure, and set the standard for all the extracurricular judicial hijinks to come.’

That was the key element in my blog of that morning. I figured the bit about boobies would raise the appropriate hackles among the humorless pseudo-feminists.

Nancy Claire appeared in front of me again as I finished correcting the rest of this for posting.

“You look very intent. Are you writing now?”

“Just the blog.”

“What are you on about this morning?”

“Freedom of speech.”

“You wrote about that yesterday.”

“I did. There’s a lot to say. The powers-that-be want to shut me down.”

She smiled, knowingly. How much did she actually know?

“I don’t think they really care about you. Not really. Maybe what you represent. Perhaps someone cares about the people you upset. But the ruling class doesn’t even know your name. I promise you. They don’t read. Not even what the New York Times or Washington Post tells them to read.”

“That’s a very incendiary remark from someone who earns her living from those same folks.”

“Well, it cuts to the chase, doesn’t it? I want you to know I’m seriously interested and I know what I’m about.”

Timed perfectly to this admission, as if scripted and choreographed, an egg hit the window and slid—oozed really—down the glass. Then another. And each of these was accompanied by the sort of disheartening sound you hear when a small bird hits your windshield on a drive.

What art was in this, as the yoke of an egg glows golden with sun and the edges are silvered in the light by the albumen (the clear dropping faster below as if in exclamation), with bits of shell littering this flowing landscape in reverse the way hardened lava darkens the fiery heart of a magma drool? Withal, there must be beauty to be had from the projectile egg! But a second strike made little more than modern art of it all. I turned to Nancy Claire and shrugged as dramatically as possible as I went for the door. I suppose I could have been more agitated had they thrown chickens instead. But she smiled oddly. I had no idea of what might actually be humorous to her in the moment as my temper rose.

This was not the act of a single perpetrator, but the group was small. Four or five. I stopped counting when passersby stopped among them to see the carnage and cars slowed the traffic in the street. They were all women.

“That’s a shame,” one of them said as I opened the door. “You better clean that off before it hardens. I hear it hardens very quickly in the sun.”

Now, I was finally inspired.

I pulled my cell phone out and took a picture of them all assembled and returning my stare and then another as they dispersed. I would post the pictures on the website later.

But this zeitgeist is not in the spirit of the country to which I was born. Yet it is not I who has moved. The borders have changed. And as I have mentioned before, you have time to think when you are cleaning egg from a window.

‘The Constitution is not a suicide pact.’ Who said that? Lincoln? Not exactly so. Nor Justice Robert Jackson. It is one of those phrases that has always been with us, with sentiments going back to The Federalist Papers. It is an understanding that the principle of liberty by itself does not always stand the challenge of real life, and life comes first, or else the test is moot and all chance at happiness lost. It does not beg for a pragmatic way of life, or giving up ideals altogether. Allowing for our greater ignorance, it supposes only that values are always based on judgment, whereas ideology of principle is usually in pursuit of purity; that ideologues live in eternal frustration and idealists are always destined to be cynics if they live long enough; that idols always have feet of clay and human beings generally do the best they can under the circumstances. That is to say, the Constitution is not a suicide pact. It is the law, nothing more. Not God’s truth, but man made, and thus imperfect, however great.

I was thinking tonight of those Russian booksellers who cannot sell anything that is not approved by Mr. Putin. Unlike the workings of the old Soviet Union, Mr. Putin uses the more modern techniques of repression—well, that and a little bit of the old way when necessary. An oligarch who gets out of hand is likely to have a timely accident or heart attack. A dissident who flees will be magically poisoned while strolling in Covent Garden. But a bookseller, stationary as he is, would more likely to meet with a sudden fire, or a trashing at the hands of thugs. Thus ‘modern’ would be defined as the sort of repression that has been practiced since the gulags. The bookseller has a choice, of course. In that more modern sense of the word, he is ‘free.’ If he rejects the proscribed book, he can continue to sell all the others. But if he sells the forbidden work, he will loose his shop to save his integrity. Does he give that up too? It might even be a book he dislikes himself. This is the question of the husband who still loves an unfaithful wife. Does he love books enough to stand by them even if they are unfaithful to his ideals? Love is just one of the several reasons why ideology has flaws. Love is a too human effort, and thus naturally flawed. Does he give his wife up because his definition of marriage is not the same as hers? Many would. Some would not. (Personality and looks might play a part.) But then, should marriage be absolute, or is it a real bond between mortals to whom any absolute is an abstraction?

I suppose I was always a better bookseller than husband, and the financial straights of my shop would indicate that I have never been the best even at that. But I have never been unfaithful, to either cause.

I think of the Russian bookseller. Is he old enough to have been at his trade when the Soviets ruled? When any title of merit was proscribed? Has he survived through all the chaos in-between, only now to be faced with the final prospect of failure at the hands of a thug with the face of an Eichmann and the manners of Henry the Eighth? (He will have to move to a smaller apartment, and he will miss his friends on the street as well as the customers who depended on him.) Should he carry the forbidden book to appease a damaged soul and suffer the consequences, or should he persevere? Too many questions, I say. Avoiding answers with questions is Jesuitical but not faintly saintly. Saints are idealists. I am no saint.

The first amendment to the Constitution places freedom of the press among the first of equals along with religion, and speech, assembly, and the right to petition. As a matter of fact, in its way, this is my petition, is it not? The first amendment does not guarantee that I will believe in a God, nor that I will have anything worth saying, or ever be of a mind to say it if I do; nor does it demand that I associate with others, no matter their interests or affiliations; and it certainly does not insist that I write anything at all. It is a law without teeth—honored in the breach, as it were, as most of life is. It falls behind the rest of the Constitution, like a caboose. It is there as an attachment. An amendment. An after-thought. Now, what am I to do with it? I have nothing to do with it! I was simply born beneath the shadow of that umbrella. (but all that is really the fault of my parents. Had they had the good sense to have born me in Ireland, I might have been a poet, or a cutter of turf—which is only peat by a better name. I would have been happier being a poet, or just cutting the turf in that Emerald Isle. Obscurity of meaning appeals to my sense of mystery. The bog is in me. Then again, I am much fonder of Robert Frost than T. S. Eliot. Obscurity has its drawbacks. Frost burns hotter to me. And Yeats hotter yet. Obscurity is a bother when you are trying to choose a path to take.)

The question is, should I go or should I stay? Something of the reverse of the old Clash song. I was never asked to be here in the first place. It was my choice from the first, so there is no one else to blame and thus no one else to ask. I have remained on my own accord and what I have reaped is my own reward. Now, the tuneless noise of the Clash is what I’ve got in my head. Not the Vespers of Rachmaninoff. Just what I deserve, no doubt. But this is what I did for love.

Years ago, amidst one of those countless arguments that so scratched our marriage record, Margaret accused me of having an Appetite for Destruction. The reference escaped me. I believe this happened shortly after she had gone alone to the Orpheum to see the rock band Guns and Roses. In that I had never bothered with drugs, the complaint seemed gratuitous. But she explained—loudly—that the books were my drug. My addiction was to the words. She was glad she had gone, after ten years of subdued motherhood. She wanted the break. She needed it. She only wished she had not gone alone. But my own appetite for a brawl would not be sated. (She would not have used the word ‘sated.’) The argument itself was incidental but it is one of the few I actually remember. I had objected to the banality of that bands song lyrics and repetitiveness of the music and I turned the volume up on the record player to make my point. One of the children started crying. Maybe all of them did. I only remember Elly, pulling at her mother’s leg and looking at me with hurt magnified by tears in her eyes. Not a good scene, as they say.

Margaret was a Rolling Stones fan when I first met her and soon after she made me go with her to see them in New York. I had no interest then and less later. And following a first attempt to like Rachmaninoff, she would not go with me to Jordan Hall to see the only classical concerts there that I could afford—because they were free.

Why does this matter?

Because, alike a preference in music, all of this is not just a matter of opinion. If so, I have already lost the battle. Yes? Classical music is the choice of less than one percent of the population, so I cannot argue for public support. Nor can my small shop compete with Barnes & Nobel even though they are now losing the larger war to the internet. The existence of my shop is incidental to the public mind concerning what is worth fighting for. A Guns and Roses concert could draw more paying customers in one night than I would bring to Charles Street in one year. There is no comparison to be made. And there is no question about which is more important to the average citizen.

Thus, it is time for me to go.

As I say, I don’t blame the Russian bookseller for his Hobson’s choice. And for the same reason, I do not blame the publishers in Russia who fail to criticize Putin and his henchmen. However, I do hold the author’s responsible. The samizdat of the Soviet era was more vibrant with ideas than the current Russian literary scene. It could be well argued that it was this underground literature that finally brought the old bosses down. Certainly the new bosses deserve the same. But then again, we mustn’t forget the key element to the other three: a public that cares enough to know what they have lost and what must be done.

I remember a short story from the Russian underground press in the 1970’s. I am not sure the author was even known. This piece concerned an old women who had been alive since the revolution and had always kept a secret shelf of books behind the stove in her apartment. For fifty years she had kept them safe, dusting the coal soot off of them every week. At last, a neighbor had committed some political crime or another, and the whole building was searched. The books were found.

A policeman interrogates her. She does not look like a trouble-maker to him.

“Why these books? What is your objective?”

She shrugs.

He pulls one volume off the shelf and tosses it on her kitchen table.

“Where did you get this?”

She shrugs and knits her fingers.

Babushka! You are making it hard on yourself. Tell us where you got it and we can go easy.

She says, “Independence Avenue.”

“What place?”

“The New Thought.”

“There is no shop by that name.”

“There was in 1921.”

He is gobsmacked. (Or whatever the Russian is for that.)

“You are telling me you bought this book in 1921!”

“Yes. All of them. On the day of the directive forbidding them. The bookman there picked them out for me especially.”

“But they are new!”

The policeman looks inside one book after the other and realizes the dates are old.

“You have kept these since 1921? They look unread!”

She shrugs. “I cannot read.”

The policeman sits, his mouth gaping again. She waits quietly, hands folded in her lap.

At last he asks, “Why did you keep them hidden away if you cannot read?”

She looks up at him sweetly. “Because they were written by someone, and published by someone else, and sold to me by the bookman, and I should have the right!”

Even in the Soviet Union.

When I read this story, it seemed like the sort of thing that Arthur Koestler might produce. Or perhaps, more appropriately, an alternate universe by the brothers Strugatsky. Something from far away. A nightmare land where the normal and abnormal lived side by side. Where little old ladies might have conversations with monsters. But this was now the place that was my own.








Who killed Phidias

When simple murder is not enough




I once wrote a novel about Phidias. Yet another Greek. There is almost nothing to know about the man but what you’ll find indirectly in Plutarch’s Lives, written centuries after. He was a sculptor, painter, teacher, warrior. But before him, art was of the stylized sort you will see on urns at the museum with two-dimensional cartoon figures chasing each other on the circumference. After him Aphrodite might step from the pedestal in front of your very eyes and plant a kiss upon your lips. At least, that’s the sort of thing I thought she might do while spending my hours at the Museum of Fine arts as a kid. And a few times afterward as well. Phidias simply changed the world that we might know—all that we could know.

One key mistake Mr. Phidias made was to work primarily in bronze. Marble has a longer half-life in our utilitarian world. Even before he was dead some tyrant or other was melting down the great works of Phidias to make sword hilts or bracelets. But I have always been grateful to the man for giving me my first idealized glimpses of the opposite sex. The great Laurence Alma-Tadema painted a splendid representation of Phidias with the artist showing off his frieze work at the Parthenon to his friends while posed on the scaffolding. It’s that Phidias that I see in my head now.

Now, as anyone reading this is aware, I am not a Classical scholar, nor have I ever attempted to master Greek or Latin. So, writing a novel about a great figure of classical Greece was a trick. At least, I saw it that way. I could not even presume to understand how that man thought, or spoke, or the reasoning that drove his life, even if some of that were known to the historical record, which it is not. My trick then was to do this by sleight of hand. I wrote about someone who was writing about Phidias, instead. I created Mary Stemitz, a classicist of the old school who is more interested in rediscovering the historical Aspasia—she who might have been the first great female in the Western tradition of independently minded women.

I thought I did a fair job of it. Mary was no slouch. My plot was good. A painting on clay has been found in the Greek ruins near Olympia, close by the place known to be the workshop of Phidias and dated to around 440 BC. There is no other painting by Phidias that has survived, but based upon the many copies of the Phidias statue of Athena, the image is almost certainly that of Aspasia, the mistress of Pericles.

I still find those characters fascinating. But I could not find an agent, much less a publisher. After a few dozen queries, I gave it up as an onerous task—like the endless washing of dishes after a great meal—something that would spoil the great fun I had in writing it. I put the manuscript away then with the several others I had already accumulated. Now, however, in retrospect, I have come to think about that story again.

This is the thing though. At the time, one particular agent wrote me to reject my submission—a woman I had chosen especially for her apparent fondness for both mysteries and historical fiction—however, unlike all but one of the others, she did not send me the usual form letter. She wrote a criticism of the work. I was astounded. Several of her points were good and I took them to heart, rewriting a portion of the novel as a consequence. But her primary cavil was with my assumptions about the classical world and that they would think, as I had, about murder, and death, much less life and art.

The agent, I will call her Judith, represented herself as knowing something about the subject. I was curious. My research at the Boston Public Library shortly afterward established the fact that Judith had gotten a Ph.D. in Classical philology at Cornell University, and her dissertation was entitled ‘Pericles and the Tyrannical Roots of Napoleonic Conquest and Administration.’ I had an immediate crush. I was also struck by the fact that she was almost exactly my own age.

This was some years before Margaret and I divorced, but it may say something about my state of mind that I was immediately smitten with Judith even then. It must have helped that she had a very pretty picture in one of the Cornell magazines of 1989. I mention the year because Judith’s interests in the facts of history and philology would not have been permitted in the years following that. In those later times, as my marriage became more and more unhappy and I retreated into self-created fantasies for solace, I conjectured that Judith may in fact have become a literary agent, instead of a professor at some college, for exactly this reason—she cared about the facts of what was known about history and in uncovering more of that, had been ostracized by the rising politics in her field of study and for her care for truth, and thus she was uninterested in speculating what some (then 20th Century) twit might imagine it was like (that would be me). And I came to understand that specific reality a little more as the political onslaught against Classical historians became better known to those of us outside the specialties of philology and ancient history during those years of the 1990’s.

Actually, I was first made aware of that schism in my own shop, when I was excoriated out-loud by a Boston University professor who lived just a few blocks away up Beacon Hill, for not carrying a particular book, Black Athena, which I had dismissed as the racist garbage that it was even though it had won several awards. I believe, when pressed for why I refused to carry it, I had compared it to the Von Daniken books purporting the influence on human culture by Gods from outer space. I do remember that the BU professor’s face changed color and she raged for at least five minutes before informing me that she would tell all her friends about my stupidity and ignorance and beg them to join her in never darkening the door of my establishment again. I think I thanked her for the effort to improve my clientele. I know that Margaret was there in the shop at that decisive moment and told me I had been rude, but took several hundred words doing so. It was a bad day.

Perhaps that’s the joke in all of it. My Mary Stemitz was made to be the exact opposite of the harpy from Boston University, and my encounter with the nasty professor may have in fact sparked the whole affair. (And it was an affair of mind, you understand. I likely imagined making love to my Mary/Aspasia more often than Pericles ever did.) And the joke was better still, because I had fashioned Mary to be so much like Margaret.

Back to Judith. I should say here that I never corresponded with her, though I wrote her several letters. At least I had an idea that it was best not to actually make contact, but I could not help myself from having half the conversation.

I explained to her about my awareness of my own ignorance concerning the classical world. I tried to gain her forgiveness for abusing what little knowledge had fallen to me as an excuse to exercise the fun of a delightful plot and fraternizing with characters of my own choosing. I then argued my case as best I could. The historian-philologist in my novel, Ronald Davy, has been accused of murdering his colleague, Mary Stemitz, who had supposedly refused his romantic advances in favor of remaining faithful her husband, also a professor at the fictional Portsmouth University. Davy and Stemitz had jointly worked on a field study of Periclean Athens and investigated the death of Phidias shortly after the sculptor completed his statue of Zeus for the people of Eleia. But for me, the murder was really only a McGuffin for playing with the larger aesthetic ideas surrounding the death of Phidias.

In her criticism, Judith had pointed out that Plutarch’s more accepted account of the artist’s death was that Phidias had died in prison as a scapegoat for animosities toward his friend Pericles. However, this was not established. Plutarch had lived four centuries later, and there were several divergent contemporary accounts, including one that attributed his murder to the authorities at Elia in order to avoid paying for the statue of Zeus which they had commissioned. But in fact, it was my thought that killing Phidias was an excellent metaphor for the death of art in a post-modern world. I especially liked playing with the imagery of the Golden Ratio, associated with Phidias, in contrast to the chaos our modern art had become.

I suggested to Judith that a little ignorance can go a long way. That the extrapolation that would seem unthinkable to a good historian like herself might be the very heart of inspiration to the author of fiction. Fiction, reasonably imagined, could offer context to disparate fact; and moreover, that facts without context should otherwise always be held aside.

I thought to appeal to her feminism by pointing to my acquittal of the great beauty Aspasia, Pericles’s lover, and her influence over that statesman, and of Phidias, as well as their friend Socrates. Because I had dismissed the idea that Aspasia was a hetaera and brothel keeper, Judith had chastised me in her rejection for ‘presuming to know more than historians who had spent years studying the small details of the time.’ I argued that the character of Pericles stood against this interpretation, that the family honor of the Alcmaeonids would not have allowed it, and as was too often the case, that the contemporary history of Aspasia and Pericles was written by their enemies and rivals—even in the coincident plays of Aristophanes—making my own revision of historical fiction very much in context. I also pointed out that, because of the subsequent dominance of Macedonia and then of Rome, there was little chance of our knowing more than to speculate based on the character of those individuals themselves, as we in fact know them through their actions, and the key to this was Pericles, who was and is, a hero of mine. I topped that argument off with the speculation that Phidias had also used Aspasia as the model for his great statue of Athena and would not have committed such a sacrilege if she were only a high-class prostitute.

The murder of Phidias itself, as I imagined it, turns on the theft of gold intended for the statue of Athena. It seemed most appropriate to me that this hinge of history should be a petty theft.

What I had missed in my novel, not having lived through this circumstance myself—not yet—was that the killing of Phidias, whether by imprisonment or by a more immediate execution, was not only a good metaphor for an end to the triumph of art over craft, just as the death of Socrates was a poisoning of free inquiry and the untimely death of Pericles from sickness was symbolic of the plagues within society and its inability to accept the responsibilities of the nascent democracy he had furthered.

Phidias especially appeals to me, for brave Pericles understood the risks of battle and engaged his enemies willingly. Certainly Socrates understood his fate. But I suspect that Phidias had no idea of the demons he released by giving art a third and fourth dimension. Unlike the modern artist who foolishly insists on playing with Euclid’s cubes to simulate an optical trick, Phidias understood that the fourth dimension of art was truly in its ability to engage the mind of the viewer—and not in a single sense—so that it might come alive in the way Shaw’s Eliza Doolittle transformed Galatea or Henry Higgins’ Pygmalion, or even, as in my own juvenile awakening with Athena. Shaw, always brilliant, understood that engaging an audience in his fantasy would require more than togas. He set his play in the present—the present of 1912—and told it with metaphor complete. I think Shaw was aware of what Phidias had done. He had all the sad and glorious history of the centuries between them to see. But I imagine poor Phidias must have been disheartened beyond endurance by the destruction of his art. He could not know then the change he had wrought from the same metal that was used for murder.

For my part, I had failed with my own effort to capture all this by missing the obvious—what had actually happened to me as a boy standing in front of the Grecian marbles at the museum. Perhaps Judith would have appreciated my effort more if I had engaged that aspect. Likely so. . . . I imagine so.

In keeping with the way history so often exceeds the mere conjuring of fiction, I had ended my fictional account with an actual event, when the benighted knights of the 4th Crusade, greedy for fame and fortune and wholly ignorant of the Western culture they were supposed to be saving, apparently destroyed the Phidias Athena in January of 1204.

Another editor—ripe minded with ideas of what might sell as opposed to what was right—asked me once, if would I shorten it. Was it necessary to include that bit about the crusades? We know so little of Aspasia. Perhaps she did actually sleep with Socrates? Could she have modeled for Phidias without sleeping with him? You say she outlived both Phidias and Pericles. What did she do after? The editor told me to get back to him if I made some changes. But I never did. The compromise seemed traitorous.


For another instance, they say that a happy marriage is a compromise. It is the idea that two people, neither of whom get what they want, will amount to a happy couple. It’s nonsensical. Most of my marriage with Margaret was one or the other of us capitulating. It wasn’t compromise. It was intermittent defeat. And when those defeats became unbearable for us both, it was over. I gave up writing for twenty years because I wanted to support my family the best way I could. Now, I suppose, to follow the logic, I should have given up bookselling too. I might have done a better job as husband and father if I had been completely miserable. Or, perhaps, I should have just sold titles from the New York Times bestseller lists in the shop and not the sort of writing I thought was worth spending a piece of my life for. But remember what Thoreau said, “The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.” That old fool Thoreau is my man.

The thing of it is, I am too old to benefit from compromising now. They want me to change my book to suit a larger audience. I don’t give a damn about a larger audience. I am speaking to the happy few. I wouldn’t know what to say to anyone who reads Stephen King or James Patterson. As I have said before, I am the ultimate snob. Or more exactly, if not precisely, penultimate, because the ultimate snob is an audience of one and it is true that I want to be read. At least by some one. Instead I suppose I have become a villain.

I am a purveyor of intellectual smut.

I am a debtor to society.

And now I refuse to have my words homogenized and pasteurized to be inoffensive.


In his excellent and revolutionary book, Up from Liberalism, William F. Buckley also said, “I will not cede more power to the state. I will not willingly cede more power to anyone, not to the state, not to General Motors, not to the CIO. I will hoard my power like a miser, resisting every effort to drain it away from me. I will then use my power, as I see fit. I mean to live my life an obedient man, but obedient to God, subservient to the wisdom of my ancestors; never to the authority of political truths arrived at yesterday at the voting booth. That is a program of sorts, is it not? It is certainly program enough to keep conservatives busy, and liberals at bay. And the nation free.”

I imagine Mr. Buckley thought his family money would make some difference. I certainly would have, in his position. But a few tens of millions set against the trillions that are invested in the State and protected by millions of government workers dependent on their paychecks and protected by an army willing to sacrifice its own to preserve the politicians who govern is no more than a two dollar bet at the Kentucky Derby. Perhaps he knew that. Perhaps intellectual posing he did was part of a ruse to magnify his position. And he did that. At least. He made of himself a giant.







to a little cave in Abington

where the grapes of wrath are stored



Abraham Lincoln, whom I love as if he had been an actual character in my life and a member of my family, is one of the great villains of our history. How did a man as introspective and wise as he was make so great a fundamental error as to go to war as a means to control the political disaster he faced in 1861? This is a mystery only more clouded by the thousand biographies written since. Unfortunately, what is commonly known of Lincoln is hagiography. He has been made a saint of the secular state, yet, he was a deeply religious man and what he did was very much tied to his beliefs. What is made clear by those thousand biographies is that we still do not understand the most important aspects of his thinking, and the questions that remain still beg for more illumination. Too much has not been explained.

It is easily argued that war was inevitable after the many political failures of the proceeding eighty years, and that the seeds of destruction that blossomed then were not his fault, nor can they be blamed on any of the quarter million men who died in the mortal conflict Lincoln initiated. For the soldiers, both Blue and Gray, their thought was for country, and family, and glory as they understood it. War may only be politics by other means, as von Clausewitz suggested. But because of the loss and ruin of lives that cannot be reclaimed, war must be the last resort, and I think it can easily be argued that there were alternatives. Many alternatives. It is the sadder and truer history that Lincoln, the great man, was not up to the task of managing that Deep State of his time. The team of rivals he set in place tore his legacy to shreds.

The politics of three generations had by then entrenched many evils, of which slavery was the greatest, but this was only made possible by other practices that were far more tractable. His task as President would have been to work at those wrongs that might have set the ship of state aright. For instance, the Supreme Court had already assumed powers not granted by the Constitution, and it was through those that slavery as an institution antithetical to the ideals of the American founding were furthered. And closer still, the power of the presidency itself had been abused by many—Adams, Jefferson, Jackson, and Polk among them. Lincoln might have used his pulpit to bully the Congress into taking care of its responsibilities at last. As President, he might have made direct overtures to those Southern politicians who had made it clear that they were willing to risk their own lives, fortunes, and sacred honor to uphold states rights. Instead, Lincoln the man, assumed greater power unto himself and turned to making war and the great repeated tragedy of human history was set loose once more. We still live with those false prerogatives a hundred and fifty years later, entrenched by twice again as much time as Lincoln had faced.

In spite of what is taught in public schools to this day, the issue upon which the Civil War was fought was the right of any State to succeed from the Union. There can be no doubt that the right existed or that this was then the cause spoken of from the floor of Congress and written about in hundreds of books. It is a foundation stone of the Constitution that brought the states together to begin with. The issue of slavery was the flashpoint. The much vaunted Emancipation Proclamation only freed slaves in the rebellious states and was done for avowed strategic reasons. That the average man today believes the war was fought over slavery is only an excellent example of the power of miseducation and political propaganda. In fact, only a handful of Senators and Congressman—-maybe a quarter of Congress to be generous—then saw that slavery was the greater wrong. Lincoln was not among them. He was not even their man at the Republican Convention prior to the election that was to put him into the seat of power with only 40% of the popular vote, William H. Seward was. But in the end, Lincoln managed a majority of the electoral votes.

To say that the righteousness of the Presidency itself sobered Lincoln to the reality of the greater wrong of slavery would be to ignore his own writings and speeches. He certainly did not like slavery, but had long been among those who accepted the institution as a necessary evil of the time. And that was his failed political record as well. But it was his good nature as a political man that made him a wily fighter in the brawl of the moment.

Why do I love him? Because he was a man in full, as Tom Wolfe has so well described in fiction—all virtues and faults engaged—not a Hamlet of doubts and ambiguities. And, Lincoln’s life itself is the stuff of novels. A poet. (There is poetry in everything he wrote.) A philosopher. A politician. A farmer. A soldier. A lawyer. A father and a husband. But living in full is the greater matter, and often unappreciated. The pale hued Hollow Men are always more numerous and ready to disparage the technicolor of such characters. But I think first, I love him for his writing. I am partial to that. And because I don’t believe he intentionally did wrong. He simply failed to do right. Something I have personal sympathies for. Given the context of his time, it can be understood that his practice of politics up to the moment of his Presidency was canny. Even genius. And if you look as closely at his opponents, you can also appreciate that he might have believed himself to be the better man. And he was. As a Westerner, he offered a new understanding for the Nation. But unfortunately, by succeeding, he failed.

I think all of his many flaws can be brought into focus in one single act. At the Republican Convention of 1864, Lincoln agreed to taking Andrew Johnson as his running mate. Read the arguments you can and you are left with the fact of it. To secure the power of the Presidency he bargained the future away. In order to satisfy the power brokers, he compromised. Had Hannibal Hamlin, his previous running mate, been vice president when Lincoln was shot, a decent man would have succeeded Lincoln and the good that Lincoln wanted to secure would have been done—or at least attempted. Instead we have the aftermath—an entrenching of the tragedy of war, the inevitable corruption of a government managed reconstruction, the wholesale magnification of Federal power, and all the judicial management of our lives without representation that followed, as well as the modern assumption and acceptance of Presidential hubris in the hands of lesser men—all of it begun with that one compromise.

Compromise is a political act, just as war can be. Yet Lincoln might have saved the Union had he made better compromises four years earlier. But that’s history. He gave us war. And what have we now?

But compromise is a political act—between to individuals as much as nations.

In the 1760s and 1770 we had the Sons of Liberty. Wealthy men like John Hancock paid few of the bills. The British Empire was at the other side. My argument now is what it always was. Compromise, though it might be necessary at some moment of extreme circumstance, is not by itself a good. And its impossible for me to imagine what would have been if I had been willing to compromise with Margaret. My guess is that our marriage would have been shortened by many years and possibly by several children. Certainly the bookshop would be long closed, if ever opened at all. (She had wanted to go to Europe, remember, and asked me to go with her. Instead, when I refused, she had stayed home to help me get things going. It was she who compromised and was never happy for it. And for my part, had I gone along with her and our natural difference rubbed to a shine by the adventure, could the relationship have lasted? The writing would have been made secondary to some other job in the end, and in my misery I would have made Margaret more miserable than she was to be. Given the choice, I would not give the children up, nor would she, I believe, but the subject has often dawdled in my brain.

From the personal and particular back again to the spectacular, it is interesting to imagine—conjecture really—what would have happened if James Wilson had not fashioned his three-fifths compromise. There would have been no United States. More likely there would have been three nations, at least two of them above the Mason Dixon line, and all at odds and teeming with the vigor of youth. Such a novel of alternative history still needs to be written.

But then it was still more intriguing for me to think, what if Benjamin Lay, a man seemingly incapable of compromise, had not lived. James Wilson’s fellow delegate to the Constitutional Convention from Pennsylvania was Benjamin Franklin. And Franklin too had once been accepting of slavery.

Years ago I wrote a play about that man, Benjamin Lay. He is much forgotten now but his thoughts are still with us. That is the power of ideas. Lay was one of the first abolitionists and fought for the end of slavery when that idea was dangerous and long before there was any gain of apparent virtue to be had out of it. Importantly, he was a Quaker when the Friends had not yet forbidden the ownership of other human beings as wrong, much less evil. His dramatical harangues at Friend’s meetings were once widely accepted as instrumental to that change of heart.

Lay was born in the textile region of Essex, England in 1682, into the comfortable circumstances of a Quaker farm family, but received little formal education. For a time he worked as a shepherd and came to see his own part of following Jesus in ‘The Lamb’s War’ of his faith to build the New Jerusalem on Earth. When he was apprenticed to a glove maker and made to work with the skin of dead animals, a ‘stinking trade’ for the odors of tanning and curing the hides, he came to abhor all such use. At 21, with brothers aplenty and opportunity scarce, he went to sea instead, shipping from London. A sailor’s life was hard and exactly the sort of stringent duty, as a budding ascetic, that he wanted for himself, while allowing him to mingle among and learn to respect all manner of men. It was there that he faced the absolute authority of the ship, and the near slavery of the seaman, and his own character was further formed.

In 1718, at the age of 36 he married his beloved Sarah and settled again in Colchester, Essex, having inherited his mother’s property there. Throughout this time he had already become a thorn of contention at Quaker meetings, often protesting hypocrisy and hierarchy. His wife Sarah was no better, being an evangelist in the new faith, as Quaker women were wont to do. As a sailor Benjamin had visited the Holy Land, drunk from Jacob’s Well, and first witnessed actual slavery as well as despotism toward women. But his disputes with his neighbors seemed to plague him and the couple decided to leave, first emigrating to the Barbados, where they saw the full cruelty of human enslavement used to harvest the sugar cane that was in turn made into the rum for trade to make the money that bought more slaves. They moved on. By the time he and Sarah had reached Philadelphia in 1730, he had become a radical on the subject of slavery, as well as a vegetarian, refusing to eat meat or wear any product of forced labor.

The olden Friends had a practice of prayer at their meetings where there is no designated preacher but each member of the congregation might speak if the holy spirit moved them. Benjamin was often moved and had much to say—more of it in admonition of others sitting in the pews with him who were slave owners. He was expelled as a trouble maker. He came back, again and again, once famously with a bladder containing red berry juice that he had hidden in a hollowed book, as well as a sword, concealed in his coat, for the Friends had already sworn themselves to nonviolence. Dramatically, and in a faithful theatric tradition of early Quakers, he once again spoke against slavery and to those apostates who presumed to own other human beings, as he revealed the sword and speared the book so that the juice spatter anointed anyone close with the blood red. The event was retold for years after.

It is important to know that throughout his life, Benjamin Lay was a reader, and self-taught in subjects ranging from farming and husbandry to politics and religion, in time amassing a considerable library. And important also that, in Philadelphia, Lay became a friend to a printer, Benjamin Franklin. It was Franklin who printed Lay’s first book, All Slave-keepers that keep the Innocent in Bondage, Apostates, in 1737, and likely many of his pamphlets as well. This was not a careless act. There were penalties for printing such tracts. Franklin, the Quaker, who assiduously cultivated many connections, and who himself had owned at least two slaves, had much to lose. He refrained from putting his imprint on the book, but it is certain his own opinions had been altered. I first thought to write a novel about the man who changed them, and with them much that would follow.

But consider, the thing that most people would notice first about Benjamin Lay was not the uncut beard that made him look all the more fierce as he entered into a full throated harangue, or the plainness of the clothes, which he fashioned himself from flax on a spinning wheel in order to avoid using lamb’s wool, but the more obvious fact that he was a dwarf, little more than four feet tall, hunch-backed, with a chest that protruded like the bow of a boat and spindly legs that moved—danced people said—beneath him. And Sarah, his proselytizing mate was also a dwarf. What a match they must have made!

I have often been shamed by my lack of courage. This can happened more easily when I am actively writing because I’m trying to understand the mind of my subject and I usually write about better people than myself. The discrepancies gape from the dark recesses of my mind. It was just this feeling of personal failure that hovered over and nearly enveloped me in the years immediately before my divorce, but most especially as I was trying to write the novel then about that great little man, Benjamin Lay. For all he wrote, not very much is known about the abolitionist and so I had spent some time reading his own words looking for clues. Perhaps it was the aftermath of September 11th, 2001 that was still in me when the idea came the following December. But what I still remember now, most clearly, was a realization of my own failings and moral cowardice, when compared to his.

What had further inspired me in that dark time was a movie, the first of several fine efforts taken from the work of J. R. R. Tolkien by the director Peter Jackson. His depiction of the Hobbits and Dwarves was excellent and achieved a sense of fully realized human lives that is usually lacking in movies where those characters are chosen only from the limited number of good actors of such dramatically smaller stature. But it was Bilbo Baggins’ home in the Shire that completed the impact.

That famously small man, Benjamin Lay, had built a sort of underground abode for himself and Sarah, and for his accumulating books as well, at Abington, on the York Road just north of Philadelphia. Talk about underground politics! There is a now famous painting of the man, which had once been owned by Benjamin Franklin, with Lay standing in front of this dwelling and the very idea of the fellow living underground had so many points of reference for me, and so much resonance, that the image had stuck in my head, and when I first saw the Jackson movie I felt as if the story was already begun. But the quest I saw for ‘Little Benjamin’ as he called himself, was in his abolitionist zeal. Franklin had printed several of Lay’s many pamphlets and they had apparently been friends. What struck me out of that relationship was that Franklin had also owned slaves, and Lay had already shown himself to be both vociferous and obnoxious toward his fellow Quakers who engaged in this wrong. I could only imagine the arguments! And it was these arguments, conducted in my own head, that turned the prose of my novel into a play.

My story worked outside the famously narrow scope of Franklin’s ‘Autobiography’ and his letters, which were nearly always circumspect, in that he understood, as Postmaster, that there was no privacy in such correspondence, so I leapt happily to the conclusion that it was his friendship with Lay that turned Franklin’s thinking on the subject of slavery long before the American Revolution. And that by extension, without Franklin, that great cause would have failed.

Benjamin Lay’s features were sometimes described as grotesque—or what could be seen of them as they projected through his uncut and graying beard. And the core of my tale was his relationship with his wife, which I could only believe was extraordinary. And naturally, I was brought to wonder at my own failure in that regard as well. Margaret, by any standard, was beautiful. But her beauty had not been enough for me, nor her intelligence and ever critical wit.

Lay’s campaign against slave owners was by all accounts as Biblical as the Good Book which had been his primary source of eduction. He quoted scripture often and his writing clearly shows the influence of William Tyndale and Edmund Spencer and of the King James Bible. But to him, slavery was “the poison of dragons,” and this was simply too Tolkienesque to be ignored.

That this novel was never finished remains a sore in me now. Plays are the more difficult matter as they involve others—actors, directors, and all the rest. It is yet another failure of my courage to have seen the novel through and published it myself, as old Ben Lay would have done. Had I finished the novel, it would have require me to seek the reasons for my own lack of faith—in myself, as well as in Margaret, though I’ve heard it said, you can mend a broken cup for appearance sake, but it will never hold the hot liquid quite the same again.


My play about Benjamin Lay begins with a monologue, as he picks the grapes at the arbor just outside his door—well, not exactly. It is a dialogue, but between Benjamin and his wife, Sarah, who has been dead now for nearly sixteen years. The silent answers are clear only in his responses. The face of his home in the cave beneath a low bluff is visible at stage right. There is a short, extended, wood shingled roof from the upper ledge and this is clearly mossy; above and behind is the rise of a bluff, sylvan with small trees and broken in part by sunlight and wild flowers. The rough hewn wall behind is boarded with vertical planking trimmed at top and bottom and gray with weather, and this is divided by a wide door, as well as several windows. Glazed pots are arranged beneath the eaves along with potted flowers.

At first Ben is alone at the stage front, and the conversation is about the small matters of daily living mixed with news of the French and Indian War, which has continued. The previous October there had been a massacre at Penn’s Creek, and he has only recently learned that a friend died there with the others, but more immediately there is word still fresh of General Braddock’s defeat at the Monongahela River while attempting to capture the French Fort Duquesne. Lay despairs over the loss of life, as well as his difficulties at handling household chores by himself, interspersing his complaints with a chiding of Sarah over her unhelpfulness in not being there. He recalls that she had loved to pick the grapes herself, often eating more than she brought to the table, and he breathes deeply of the ripening odors for her.

At a point in this conversation, a figure comes into view at the back of the stage. It is recognizably the still vigorous Ben Franklin of the 1750’s. Franklin stops when he hears Lay’s voice and watches for time, long enough to hear the poignant exchange between Lay and his wife about the grapes before coming forward to interrupt the clearly private banter. Lay does not act at all embarrassed. Franklin’s arrival is accepted, as if expected.

Franklin: How are you old friend?

Lay: Better than I deserve.

Franklin: Do I interrupt. Is there someone else?

Lay: Only Sarah and myself.

Franklin: But Sarah has been dead these many years. I stood at her grave.

Lay: I am made aware of it each dawn! But that was only her body, sir. Her soul is still with me.

Franklin: Yes—Of course. My apology.

Lay: (looking back in the direction of the road) And where is your animal? We must see to his thirst and provender.

Franklin: I walked sir. In your honor. At least ten mile.

Lay: Then, it is you I must provide for. Have a grape!

Franklin: Many thanks. You have always had the best. I even made wine of the lot you gave me last year in trade for printing the pamphlet. Excellent wine.

Lay: I’m sure that even in heaven my Sarah regrets not having her grapes. I try to enjoy them for her. I still keep her wine pots there by the roof to catch the rain. They are as musical as glass. But you know I’ve never ceased to talk with her. And she has become a far better listener since she has gone, and not so ready to correct me!


In the second act they are inside at the table, eating fresh fruits and talking about slavery and war. Behind them is a wall of books. There is an iron stove and hearth at stage right. The entrance door is at the front left. Light from the windows enters from down stage front. The two men are seated facing the audience and obviously in the midst of their meal, with various vegetables and fruits on the table before them.


Lay: But what of your own slaves, sir? Did you sell them?

Franklin: Yes—you mean the fellow and his wife that I bought for Deborah to help with her tasks. I told you once before and you have already damned me for that. And now Debby wishes me to do so again to Peter. She fears that we will die in a state of mortal sin. Your preaching has always reached her—even those many years ago when I published your book. But, Peter, is indispensable. He says that he is content in his place, and I rely upon him.

Lay: He is afraid that you will sell him too. I suppose he believes you to be a good master. It is always the fear of the slave that his next master will be worse. But now, give him manumission! Free your own soul at last and ask forgiveness of the Lord!

Franklin: I pay him wages.

Lay: The wages of your own sin. I cringe at the thought of what you did before with that couple. My preaching was proved half-worthy when you sold them after all!

Franklin: I did not profit from that, though I feel the regret. They were good people. But they needed a place where they would be welcomed together. I couldn’t cast them into the storm.

Lay: Your excuse rings false!

Franklin: It does. True. But Deborah did not want them in the house while I was away to England at the time. Better, I suppose, that they be cast off to the shambles by the quay and die there of the ague.

Lay: How can I argue when you make such tinplate argument. You make my task impossible! Listen! The Lord says to you ‘Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not unto me.’

Franklin: I feel the truth of that. My excuse does have the ring of tin.

Lay: And your Gazette continues to run advertisements for human flesh and bulletins for runaways. ‘To be sold, a likely lusty Negro man,’ was said. I’ll never forget! Aren’t you still ashamed?

Franklin: You know that I’ve long since given the business chores of the press over to Mr. Hall, so that I can pursue other matters. He is bound to take such advertisements for common trade, lest we loose the business to another paper.

Lay: The truth is your neglect! Is that your excuse then? Shame! [shaking his head in exasperation] You know I had an Irish lad here for a week in hiding who had your paper in his coat with a notice of his own escape from a High Street master. His skin was whiter than yours yet he was indentured as thoroughly as any black man.

Franklin: It is the state of our world. It will better, in time, I think. I hope. And though it’s true that I tend to live with the present as it is, I have endeavored to improve the prospects before me. It’s your own courage, perhaps, that I lack to face it headlong, and likely the very reason I’m here today. Business is simple by the numbers. Science is a joy, for the seeking. But your answers require more than wit or humor. I know. You are my Monk—my priest and confessor [Franklin rises and turns to the wall of books] I set out this morning only wanting to escape my thoughts—Ah! I see you have a copy of Mr. Richardson’s Pamela here. Does a God-fearing man such as yourself not worry to be seen with such lewdness?

Lay: It was discarded on a rubbish heap. Likely by one of your enraged subscribers. I wanted to know why anyone would throw away a book. Now, I want to know why anyone would print it!

Franklin: I am as proud of that as anything I have published. Licentiousness and hypocrisy are skewered! Did you enjoy it?

Lay: It pretends that virtue is rewarded. Is marriage a just reward for lust, then?

Franklin: In my own experience, that is often the case. (He puts the book back on the shelf and turns to his host.) But that is not exactly the matter at hand. Deborah will not travel over the sea. She has refused before and now I’ve been asked to go to England once more to represent the Assembly and citizens of Pennsylvania against the Proprietors, and this likely for a longer time. Even though I’ll take my grandson with me for the education, she will not go.

Lay: I have met your wife many times in these years. She is a better woman than you deserve. Yet you have abandoned her before.

Franklin: Far better. And though I deserve nothing but want more.

Lay: You have said that wealth does not interest you. What is it you seek then?

Franklin: Appreciation perhaps. I get little enough of that here. Deborah won’t stay awake in the night to talk with me about light and heat, or cold, much less the weather. She rather goes to bed. Without me. She won’t even play chess with me, though I have taught her the rules and begged her for the company!

Lay: It is the praise, then. You want the praise. Your pride precedes you. I’ve seen the notices of your tricks in the English papers at your Library Company. They flatter you like Market Street whores. Go then. Play there with your kites. Revel in the discovery of some other of God’s wonders as if it were new and not our gift. Go! Abandon your wife again! God will have the longer list of offenses to consider.

Franklin: What I do is serious. God gave us our brains to use. To question the universe is His gift—while she is content to knit a shawl.

Lay: Like the one she gave me on my last visit? A fine flaxen shawl. That was a holy gift. My Sarah used to knit, you know, but not so fine as your wife. Do you knit?

Franklin: No. But I made a better loom for her. She doesn’t use it.

Lay: You devise. I suppose that’s the way you rose yourself from printer’s devil to devil incarnate, and a rich man in the bargain. What wrong can you do to England that is worse than you do here. Either way you pay me no heed and I am a poorer monk for that. In return you bring me only self-pity, of which I have plenty.

Franklin: I have always been a free man in my skull! It’s there I play against that world of material things where I am beholden, obligated and suborned, contracted, agreed upon, sworn to and oathed. Perhaps that’s why I have too little pity. I feel as if I have been indentured again as surely as I was to my brother when I was a youth. I escaped then and I must now again. Wealth can be a curse! Yet it is my contention that being poor is no blessing and being ignorant is not so much a shame as being unwilling to learn.

Lay: You can leave your aphorisms there in the garden to fertilize the carrots. You have no humility! So long as you enslave you will be a slave to your wrong!

Franklin: I know it.

Lay: There is no eye in a needle large enough to take a man with human spoils.

Franklin: I have lately been flattered with the praise that I am a man of many parts. Perhaps the Lord will see fit to have me drawn and quartered that I might traverse the eye of His needle by smaller portions.

Lay: Ah! Vanity! Conceit! Pretension! You have no limit to your pride.

Franklin: The Lord made me as I am. Would a merciful God hold a man to account for failings that He himself had fashioned?

Lay: Would a virile God not test us to our limbs. He fashioned the babe, not the man. The man is self-made. Your sins are your own to overcome.

Franklin: My pride is my folly, be certain. But I have felt it from the first inkling. Surely God made my pride as well as my heart and limbs and as surely as he made you, as you are, in order that you might see truth more clearly.

Lay: [dramatically waving off the statement] I have no gift for the truth. I may have some better glimpse of the wrong because I have been wronged. In my moments of despair, Hell has been a familiar to me. But God makes no provision for salvation merely for seeing the truth. Even Moses was not to enter the Promised Land.

Franklin: Then I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I would as soon return to England as stay here in sin.

Lay: Will you escape unfettered by your slave?

Franklin: I will take Peter with me. I need his service. But as Polly Baker said of her own habit of laying down with men, ‘ ’tis the Duty of the first and great Command of Nature, and of Nature’s God, to Increase and multiply.’ I am set on my course, by God, I think. There is some destiny to it. But I cannot be all things, though I might do more than most men.

Lay: Hah! Incorrigible! Now I must admit to another fault of my own when contending with you. I am jealous. I have never known such pride in a man. What is like—to think you know what you do not know and not be stunned like an ox by the mystery of it? Is it a paroxysm? Does it feel at all like love? Does it consume you in that way love does from your outer flesh to your inner soul. Or is it only a nut in the throat?

Franklin: Love is not so careless as pride. That foolishness burns hotter and is the more difficult to loose even when you see that you are wrong. When pride fails, it leaves you spiritless.

Lay: At least I have known love.

Franklin: Then you have known the better.


The third act ends outside again, after Lay has verbally whipped Franklin for his faults once more and Franklin leaves, seemingly happier and thankful for the scourging. At the last moment Lay turns again to his wife (and the audience) and says, ‘He will charm God, if God has a fault. Now, Sarah, what was it you were saying before that lunatic printer interrupted us?’







What is to be done?

Well you should ask.




What are the chthonic joys of living underground, beneath the heel of the walking dead? The term ‘underground’ is metaphor today, much used and abused, mostly by those who would like to see themselves as some sort of ‘resistance,’ but don’t know what to resist without being told and haven’t the guts for their convictions without being paid, much less the intelligence to understand the consequences of their resentments. This was about the same as it was in the 1960’s. Many of the slogans are even the same, but with history no longer taught, the latest generation of youth wouldn’t know. What has passed for such opposition lately—good for making the six o’clock broadcast by playing on the left-wing sympathies of the ill-educated ‘journalists’ in TV newsrooms as well as for name calling in lecture halls, is bought and paid for by such nuevo-marxist establishment types as Tom Steyer and George Soros, the current generation of Frankfurt School graduates looking to maintain their control ‘of the conversation,’ further their own agendas, or upset some part of the establishment standing in their way, while on the right you have the ‘above ground’ operators on the internet and in ‘intellectual’ journals, directed by ideologues who get regular paychecks from ‘non-profits’ that are heavily funded by the likes of the Koch brothers or Phil Anschutz, preaching their own path to salvation through immigration and globalism and the corporation. They are only arguing over who gets to control the spoils. The ‘deep theory’ behind this thinking, whether it is Soros on the ‘left’ or Koch on the ‘right,’ is that they can buy whatever politician is triumphant. They can even buy the triumph, by creating votes. This sort of thing has often been the case. Meanwhile, true rebellion, that is of the individual against authority, is always rare.

In the America of the 1960s and 1970s, ‘underground’ was a synonym for Marxist, and essentially the leading edge of left wing assault on middle class America. Much of that was conducted in public and in the pages of poorly printed and hardly edited tabloids. A little of it was underground, like the erstwhile Weathermen, and that part was almost wholly incompetent and brutish. They often blew themselves up. But like the Muslim radicals today, bombs were a favorite weapon—impersonal and nasty. No aiming necessary. Politics ruled the day then too.

This is the matter, then and now.

And now, there are a lot of very bright people who cannot make anything of their lives but trouble because they have taken up politics as their trade.

If asked, as I have asked, what their objective might be other than destruction. They haven’t a clue. Equality? In nature, what, exactly, is equal to anything else? Fairness? Who is to determine that? The Mob? A judge? Appointed by whom and with what agenda? Reparation? To whom and from whom? If it’s the color of your skin that matters, then you have a few more questions to ask, and answer, before you set up your society, because there are a few people of paler persuasions who might object. Justice? Tell me what that is and why. In the movies, the good guy wears a white hat, or the color of choice, but the closest they will come to an answer there is to kill the ‘bad’ guy. Have you studied the alternatives?

This then brings us to something like Marxist critical theory, where the modus operandi is to destroy the existing structure and replace it with something ‘fair.’ It is most appropriate that this ‘theory’ (theories, actually, because of its incoherence has spawned) arose in Frankfort, Germany during the 1920s and 30s. It was a time and place for such things. Marxism was about seventy-five years old at that point and need some explaining to do beyond the ‘oppression of the working class.’ The world they envisioned—as if floating on a nebulous cloud with no underpinnings—is a sort of Metropolis. Ignore the old movie for a moment (where there were no people of color, and other such ambiguities) and focus on the objective: a more perfect world where everything functions in harmony. Yes? And tell us again, where exactly in nature does that exist?


Now, ‘reel’ life may be directed to a sharp technical edge in the age of CGI, but what real life we are allowed by the authorities (who know better), or allotted by chance, may be pretty dull by comparison. Weren’t we also told in the 1960s and 70s that art is life? And by some, that life is art? But I ask this today, if it was created by a computer, is it art? Exactly what art is that?

Must I now be careful of what I say and how I say it? So it would seem. In my own bookshop? Certainly. Will my ideas be proscribed, and not just the words? Reducing language to political memes is a regression akin to doing away with the thousand year old content of our dictionaries and grammars and returning to the pictograph. Of course, the schools began this process with sight reading in the 1920’s in order to enhance their sundry rote, all of which was designed from the beginning not for the pupil but for the convenience of the teacher and the administration of the schools which are now mass indoctrination centers, rather than for the actual enlightenment of the student. And the process is fairly complete after barely a hundred years. The loose ends and deckled edges are easily trimmed in the digital age.

The teachers themselves often take such criticism personally, as if a judgment on the architecture of a building was an attack on the carpenters and electricians. Most teachers are a careful and intelligent lot, albeit too willing to follow orders, and their intentions are for the ostensible good of their charges, but few question what they do any more than the carpenter might question the architect. As an extension of the political structure, even those with tenure understand that to object to the fundamentals of the process they are engaged in is to end or limit their careers. Their role is thus very much like the policeman who follows procedure rather than doing the right thing. Their intention may be to keep the public safe, but the effect of the laws they enforce are too often detrimental to the welfare of the individuals they are supposed to protect.

Yes, I’ve said it! The teachers are at fault. And the cops.

In any case, the administration of our educational process is no less than Stalinist. The progressive children of John Dewey and his American ilk, born into a society with much to much freedom, however flawed, understand the stakes. For them it is a matter of life and death. Free thought is dangerous. Call it by another name—antisocial, bigoted, arbitrary. Better yet, following Orwell, reverse the very meaning. And the schools are at the foundation of this utopian state the authorities have envisioned for us. Even the alternative chance to avoid teaching the same prescribed agenda in private schools has been eliminated in just the last generation by the necessity of all institutions to comply with federal standards in order to maintain an attachment to the federal teat. Out of the many hundreds of colleges in the United States, only one—one that I know of, anyway—refuses federal money and is thus able to freely pursue the teaching of knowledge and remain dedicated to the development of curious and questioning minds.

In that context (the ‘establishing shot,’ to use another term of film), I despair now of making my own case from this small shop of ideas. Right or wrong, how do I put forward the truth that I see—that the common law civilization upon which we stand was built by ungloved hands, grown from the soil of Arthur’s Britain, by way of Kings and Queens, Lord Protectors and Parliaments; from Norman Conquests and medieval subjugation, to slave trade, convict transportation and indenture; from gunpowder plots and revolution to glorious emancipation, manumission, and suffrage; from plow and stars and cottage industry, coal dark shafts and mill work drudgery to Newtonian physics and technical wizardry, and thus it has blossomed with Chaucer and Shakespeare and Austen and Dickens and Poe and Melville and Twain and Eliot and Kipling and Yeats and Conrad and Orwell. . . . No chance! No chance at all, if history is not taught. The amber prism of those authors and all the best of all the rest is unintelligible. Without history the world the student might know is only the world that is, and now suppose it always was, and in fact, without history, the world that will always be—but worse. Without context, all desire for betterment is lost on the digital battlefields of a computer game. Two thousand years of human struggle is redacted and the masses will be appeased again by bread and circuses.

No? Maybe not. Alchemy might work. Phlogiston might illuminate. Magic might be. In truth, this began years ago, and I have played my own part in it by avoiding the use of certain language and doubtful ideas in public. ‘Don’t drive the public away,’ as Margaret always said. But I don’t blame her. It was not her doing. I did it willingly! I vent and rant in the pages of my books but seldom speak out in the shop in the same way, much less on the street. I am at fault, as much as any undermining teacher or crooked cop. I am responsible for this state of affairs.

Just another fine mess I have gotten myself into.


Charlie Flaherty says to me, attempting some sympathy, “People are politically ignorant. If the average person knew just how evil retail politics is, they wouldn’t vote. If they saw what I see everyday, they’d form lynch mobs and string all the politicians up by the neck. But the voter is just a child when it comes to politics. Promise them anything, no matter how outrageous and they’ll believe, so long as there’s a piece of candy in it for them. I used to think this was just greed, so they were only getting what they deserved. But I don’t think it’s that simple anymore. I’m thinking now it’s the opposite. They want to believe because they want something to believe in. Same as going to church on Sunday. The boy is on drugs; the girl is pregnant; the husband is dying of cancer, and the wife is in church praying to her God. Figure that out. She got married in that church. She was a good wife and a good mother. She’s gone to that church every Sunday of her life. Is she getting what she deserves?”

“It’s your question. You answer it.”

“No. She’s not. She’s earned better out of life than that.”

“Earned it from who? How’s that? Are you saying there should be someone out there dispensing gifts to people who go to church on Sunday? I don’t understand. Did’t you just criticize people for being children and voting for politicians who promise candy. So it’s not the politician you have a problem with but their choice of who to give the candy to.”

“You are cold, Michael. People should not have to suffer.”

“Why? How is that possible? Who has that kind of power?”

“Something should be done.”

“Again, by whom? Other than God, who has the power to do that?

“The government! A good government should do it.”

“Really. Good for whom? The government has a cure for cancer now? I realize they have a cure for pregnancy, but I’m not too happy about that myself. And we both know the drug problem is manufactured for the benefit of the bootleggers and the politicians they bribe. But how does the government keep this woman from praying to a God that clearly doesn’t give a damn about her?”

“Better government! It’s the only way.”

“Charlie, you are as ignorant as that women or anyone else. When has the government ever done anything right? You tell me the politicians are all corrupt and then you want to give them the power to run your life for you. Do the same thing wrong over and over again hoping for a different result. That is a pretty good definition of stupid!”

“So, your solution is better. Just let everyone suffer?”

“I, for one, don’t do a lot of suffering. Especially of fools. God or no, I live my life as best I can and take the consequences. I expect everyone to do the same. If that’s cold, then I guess I’m cold. But I certainly don’t want to promote a solution that’s been tried over and again and has always failed—especially one that’s sure to fail because it doesn’t deal with reality.”


That same afternoon there is a very brown man, hair trimmed to a gleaming scalp to hide his balding and dressed in a very neat looking gray business suit. I wish I had a suit that fit me as well. He comes in the shop and wonders a bit at first. Ardis is at the counter and I’m in the fiction aisle helping a customer.

He wanders until I finish.

“Are you Michael McGeraughty?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You spoke to Miss Evelyn Jenkins this morning?”


He handed me an unsealed envelope, with his legal firm’s name at one corner and my name and the shop address at the center.

“She has filed a complaint against you for harassment, hate speech, and racial profiling.”

            In my half-bedroom that night I notice how the body of shadow moves against the bright as if it is a substance and the cause of the darkness itself. This is an easy thing to confuse. Mine enemy is not the stupidity of others but my own inability to deal with the existential reality—the stupidity is not lessened by my argument. The mountain remained and Mohammed moved. It’s always easier to curse the darkness of your own shadow than to move. But move you must.


Every social group has their myths. ‘Meme’ is the au courant word some use for this and any other cultural convention now, as a kind of shorthand in our increasingly foreshortened society. Myths take too much time. They require story. And where myths arise from a need of explanation and understanding, given a universe which is for the most part still unknown, memes are convenient translations of the ‘known.’ These are accepted truths, settled science, so to speak, like climate change—don’t ask too many questions because we don’t have the time, and you’re going to die anyway, so just give us the power now and we’ll tell you how to live. It’s just the sort of rule by butcher’s thumb that a Richard Dawkins might invent to dismiss those matters, like God, or happiness, that he is too busy with other memes to think about.

One of these memes you’ll often hear repeated in book reviews, instead of an application of actual thought, is this: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” This is an observation, out of context, made by Leo Tolstoy in opening the great novel, Anna Karenina. Of course, few who use the meme have read or will read that book. The story there is far deeper and heady with larger myths. It asks too many questions. It’s too long, don’t you know. You might miss something on TV. But a reviewer can appear to be of an intellectual bent, and a member of the club, just by using Mr. Tolstoy’s famous reduction.

Having just encountered the quote once again in my reading, I was thinking about its overuse and probable popularity due to the lack of purpose many people seem to feel and with that the absence of happiness that comes with having false aspirations, and I found myself considering the sweet and sour of my own small family. Mr. Tolstoy’s observation just did not stick. And besides, why that observation and not something like, say, ‘Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, and in your way of thinking.’ Marcus Aurelius said that. He was a very wise fellow, and very powerful as well. He could afford to say anything. Importantly, his statement does not give itself to any absolute principle. Merely a direction to think.

And I was seeking an answer to that point when I noticed on Wikipedia that a popular twit, Jared Diamond, has further derived a vacuous hypothesis from the insightful Mr. Tolstoy, inappropriately called ‘the Anna Karenina principle.’ I suppose this association was meant to give Diamond’s artificial jewel some semblance of value or substance. As a tick on the back of a doggerel theory, this parasite of thought apparently suggests that a successful endeavor is one where all deficiencies are avoided. Right. And this actually passes for wisdom with some in our time? Sounds like Mr. Diamond didn’t read the great novel either. Given that such assumed omniscience in knowing our deficiencies before we have tested ourselves is still well beyond our grasp, the idea that we might know all the deficiencies of a particular enterprise before we set out, or more, that the reason for a success after the fact was an absence of deficiencies, is too obviously fatuous. Thus, Mr. Diamond’s mal mot really boils down to knowing more than we know, or perhaps simply knowing what you are about before you set out, but always being certain of uncertain outcomes. What exactly is he aspiring to?

And how this relates to happy families is certainly an odd twist of a deficient imagination—an attempt to drag literary allusion into pseudoscience. Even Anna was not fated by such a narrow mind. Her choices were many. A novel’s worth. Her failure was a construct of her own moral ambivalence. There were many ways she might have chosen to better her life, but she ignored them in favor of a single obsession (it was certainly not love). For myself, the more complex and interesting character in the book, if only for his faithful pursuit of happiness, is her cousin, Kostya Levin. He most fully realizes his own ignorance while Anna appears to serve as an exemplar to many in the cult of modern womanhood, those unwilling to accept the responsibility of their own actions while blaming others (usually men), and pleased to accept participation trophies in place of learning from their own failures (at least until driven mad by the contradictions). Perhaps this is the appeal of the book for some of those who fancy themselves as intellectuals now. I’m really not smart enough to even guess.

But back to Mr. Tolstoy, the better mind. His struggle at the end of that work, as was Levin’s, is unfinished. He knows at last what he wanted to know, and was willing to learn in order to achieve that much. But he does not pretend to know more than this. I have already taken him as a mentor in this, and what happiness finds me on the way, I will continue to relish.


It has come to pass, after too many years—more than a century now, yoked to a common plow of philosophical ambiguities—that we live in an age of equivocation and prevarication, deceit and deception, speciousness and sophistry. Idealism has been relabeled. Truth is now a committee effort. Evil no longer lurks. It parades. The perpetrators of this chicanery need not gather in cabals because their objectives are no longer clandestine. There is little need for conspiracy when the ruling class are all agreed. Now, it is the idealist who must hide—derided as fantasist, romanticist, purist, escapist, and unsocial, hostile, argumentative, and combative. You see? I am being circumspect even now. Even after the window is broken, both physically and metaphorically. But I have been called far worse. (Eccentric is the only of these opprobriums that I answer to.)

Nevertheless, the great loss here is to the young. That is the time in life when true idealism must bloom, but if crushed then to egalitarian uniformity, or disfigured by abuse and denigration, it seldom recovers. Our topiary youth, shaped by the public schools and now too by the social media to serve the common good, age poorly. Their parents and grandparents, the baby boomers, already show that sag of old age that is too often betrayed by audible complaint and bitterness for dreams unfulfilled. True idealism, a search for the best and the means to the best that begins by nature in the young, too often ends right there today, beneath the weight of social criticism, parental demand, and academic requirements. The exceptional is rarer still. Yet, little more than a hundred years ago it was the grail of our American soul. From Frank Merriwell, to Horatio Alger, to Tom Swift. See! It doesn’t take long for such change to occur. For the better or the worse. A mere lifetime.

We live now in a society of permission; not the grants and escheatage of olden times, or the feudal allotment, or even the penny indulgence, but of countless permissions made by endless laws for limitless occasions of sin.

Before this, I have cited the great change at the time of the Enlightenment. One generation of heretofore obedient Scottish farmers, herdsmen, and merchants (at least relatively so) was transformed into the next by the simple expedient of having been told in their kirks that they must learn to read in order to understand the word of God for themselves and follow that according. The consequent free-thinking, previously squelched by tradition and absolute religious authority, released an energy of thought that changed everything. By the time the authorities realized their mistake, it was too late to stop, and the New World lay just ahead.

At present it has been several generations since the teaching of Karl Marx and John Dewey, Herbert Marcuse and Howard Zinn permeated the schools in my own time. The effect of that has been no less dramatic than that of the teachings of Francis Hutcheson, David Hume, Thomas Reid and Thomas Brown when our Forefathers lived. And this began well over a hundred years ago when a Princeton University professor by the name of Woodrow Wilson preached that the masses must be lead to what is good, and that the leaders necessary to the task must by raised by the Universities. Suddenly, the Ivy Leagues had found a cause they could rally to even more than football and secret societies. William F. Buckley’s sacrilegious comment only two generations later (a Yale Man after all) that he “would rather be governed by the first two thousand people in the Boston telephone directory than by the two thousand people on the faculty of Harvard University,” was just one of his many piquant realizations in this regard. Oligarchy only works if the masses are willing to listen. But once, in spreading the seed of dissatisfaction and destruction of the old order in their reach for power, they released the kraken.

Withal, the level of perfection in parents that is wanted by their juvenile offspring has usually been beyond achievability, but apparently it is the easy trade of their professors—those who today so facilely disrespect the strivings of the middle class, disdain the need to work for a living, and despise the rich as much as Royalty (and too, anyone who dare disagree with their politics of resentment), while striving for their own share of the pie. It has always been odd to me, in particular, that children should more readily believe their teachers—hirelings who have never spent a colic night at their bedside or risked insolvency to see them fed and clothed and schooled—but who clearly have an agenda. I have always had the opposite response: prove it! My teachers always loved me for that! Yet the utopian purity sought by the political mavens is continually set beyond the grasp of any one of us, and teachers most obviously.

It is not that imperfection should be tolerated, or accepted, or excepted from any better rule. It is a matter of recognition that we are imperfect from the start and bettering ourselves is always the task at hand. That we must be free to achieve those ends and not bound by the faults of our parents—or our teachers. And that great things can happen with such efforts, in the same way that democracy was born by tyrants in a slave-hold society and our common law was fashioned in a monarchy. To erase our beginnings, to hide from our faults, is to deny our chance to make good on our potential.

Let us consider Cleisthenes again. It would appear he was a practical man. He would have had no intention of starting something so unfinished as a new means of government, after more than 2500 years of Greek tyrannies. He was not a philosopher, I think. Little is known of him but that his family were likely merchants. We know from Herodotus, reporting only a generation later, that the clan were banished repeatedly by the competing powers of Athens, and yet they found the resource to survive and persevere. Given the opportunity, Cleisthenes was elected tyrant by his peers and chose to use that power to try something different. The old ways had failed. Greece was already in the shadow of larger empires. The city-states that made-up that country were ununited and commonly at odds if not at war among themselves. The traditional rule of clans must have been clearly at fault to him. It is my conjecture that his invention of democracy was not an idealism, but rational, pragmatic, and businesslike—an application of the commonly understood principles of fair trade, then and now. That is why, having gained the support of the citizenry, he was allowed to try his experiment. And he did not stop with one change in a broken system of family rule. He went beyond that to something newer still. But perhaps more important than ‘democracy’ was another invention that might have been his as well: ‘Isonomia,’ equality under the law.

“The rule of the people has the fairest name of all, equality (isonomia), and does none of the things that a monarch does. The lot determines offices, power is held accountable, and deliberation is conducted in public.”

Consider that! Unknown in history until that moment. Equality under the law! And not as some ideal, but as a working solution to the problem of a well made social order.

The question has been posed by others a hundred times. A thousand times. Why did all that we know of that golden age of Greece happen then, and not before, or ever after. This is a question akin to why so many wise men happened to gather in this western quarter-hemisphere around 1776.

In the case of the Hellenic rise, this might well then be the progeny of a single brain applied to a difficult task. I am inclined to think that. It didn’t happen in Egypt, or China, or India, or Germany, or Russia. It happened in a rocky little land laid out like a hand and fingers upon a wine dark sea, peopled by independent farmers, merchant traders, fishermen and artisans, but all of them citizen warriors. Hoplites!

Having set these gears in motion, Cleisthenes disappears. After a few short years at Athens, accounted for in brief by Herodotus, he is gone from the histories and only after mentioned by Plato and Aristotle in passing. Because he did not write on his own, not that we know, his story is told by others who were not as impressed by his accomplishment as later ages would be. We do not know what joys or sorrows blessed or plagued this man, Cleisthenes. We do not know if he had sons or daughters or a loving wife. His life is a mystery and perfect fodder for the likes of me to speculate. Given time, I think I’ll write a novel about him as well. We’ll see.

As a consequence of Cleisthenes, a mere generation later, Plato was free to imagine his ideal republic and to fascinate the intellectuals forever after with visions of sugarplum utopias—though that philosopher created nothing himself. Still, the Golden age of Greece lay just ahead. And that glory was built on the industry of those hoplite farmers and craftsmen, at Marathon with the force of their arms. Emboldened by a new found belief in their own power over themselves—and I think too, an appreciation for the taste of their own blood.

What we do know is this, in a political moment not unlike our own, when every interest appears to serve itself, Cleisthenes devised a democracy that enlarged the assembly and the courts, and this despite the fact that it would not immediately help his own family, and perhaps even knowing that it might hurt them in the shorter term. He could not have guessed what would occur over two millennia later as a result of his plan, but he would certainly have predicted immediate cause and effect. There is a story there to be told there too, I think.

And what elemental movement of proton and electron was careening about when Washington took command at Cambridge? I would like to ask old Ben Franklin that!

But I’m at a loss here as to how to judge my own time. What age is this, anyway? In what epoch are we? No longer modern, certainly, if we are turning yet again to ancient communism, oligarchy, and tyranny. Are we amid a period of warming, or cooling? Perhaps mere stasis—stagnation, balanced by fear of all that surrounds us. Fear appears to be our theme. But calling it the ‘Age of Permission’ seems too petty even for us.

The great ages of art, Baroque and Romanticism, are far behind us. Can time be reversed for the sake our aesthetic taste? Have we yet fallen far enough in artistic arrears to look forward again to such a golden age? Will we ever, as a species, witness the great questions of a Caravaggio once more? Is there a Vermeer capturing the moment among us even now? To think, Rembrandt would have been able to pay all his bills today if he had the recent auction income from a single sketch. Clearly there are those who appreciate beauty. But does that outrageous auction value only occur in the vacuum of a time otherwise empty of such excellence? Could a Velazquez live again without the need of patronage?

Remember too, that the age of Rembrandt was a time of slaughter and plague as well. Can we drain the puss from the carbuncle now and still find a gem? Is our very own Jan Brueghel hidden here by the banks of the Charles?

Consider, if you will, that deaf and stinking monster of a man who was Beethoven. By reason alone, we cannot imagine that such greatness might have sprung from an age of powdered wigs and Lutheran conformity? How does this happen, that a single mind gave birth to a hundred years of the greatest music mankind has ever made? And don’t talk Bach to me. Will we ever see his like again? Or are we now condemned—for tasting the apple of that too-brief fling with such aural beauty and such a profligacy of melody—to eternal damnation and punishment in an age of arrhythmic noise. True, even yet we have the symphony orchestras ready for a potential renaissance still in place, shirts white and tuxedos pressed (paid for by taxes rendered from a benumbed public that would rather listen to ‘Rock’ or ‘Hip-hop’ than ‘modern’ music) But are those fine musicians, trained in the classic tradition, now just as satisfied to play to emptied halls amidst the repetitive echoes of a Philip Glass, and only content to pay homage to the war horse compositions of a better past in order to fill subscriptions? The Romantic era of music is now over by more than a century. The last composers of that glory passed with the likes of Rachmaninoff. Are there no new composers of merit?

I suppose that movie scores are the best we can do in a digital age. Gads!

We do have artists. A few. Odd Nerdrum has even written a manifesto for them. Has it been read by more than a few? I don’t know.

Just as architecture too appears to have reached a wrong turn after Frank Lloyd Wright. Height is now the goal there, (in the tradition of mine is bigger than yours) and ‘post-modernism’ has devolved to the nightmares of Mr. Geary built on a foundation of Soviet brutalism. And what exactly do we call these boxes of tender that disfigure our suburban landscapes? Houses perhaps but not homes.

Too many questions without proper answers?

Shakespeare died about 400 years ago, whether by Julian or Gregorian measure. For a time, all the world was a stage and well set for the drama we have since known. Since his time, they’ve burst the stage apart and set it in a circle, shunted it back and forth, and turned it round and round, yet, like it or not, it is still the greater story that we have lost. With few exceptions, the drama or comedy that once played upon the boards to shadows in guttering lamplight—that theatre we have lost. All of it unionized! Whether or not I am correct, and de Vere was responsible for all of that original dramatic pause, I cannot help but wonder why?

Now too, the feature film, the celluloid step-child of the stage, has been made for one hundred years. Yet even the best of those were made in less than half of that span of time. Argue now, if you must, for The Godfather, or some other more recent movie if you like. However (with a few exceptions, as there always are), in another generation the conceits of that film and any dozen you choose will have aged as poorly as the self-proclaimed geniuses who made them. Yet, I am just as confident that the author of Shakespeare, whomever he was, went home at night with fewer expectations of having committed ‘art.’

Is that the key then? The exception is no exception. If there is a better, there must be a best and worse. We can’t be having that! If art is anything we want it to be, then what principle of living do we follow? Is it that the very idea of ‘modern’ art is itself the villain? Or does the rot begin when you raise fine craftsmanship up to call it art, and lose its unique purpose in the bargain? It’s a thought.

Which, at last, brings me back around again to my beginnings. What purpose does my little shop of politically incorrect horrors serve today? I see none that might not be fulfilled elsewise. So it’s time for me to go.







Mr. Popper’s Paradox

killing ourselves to death




‘I remember ye olde bookshoppe.’ This will undoubtedly be the subject of countless internet articles in the coming years as the last of us disappear—no, not the internet that we know today. By Moore’s Law, that will be thrice gone, but the names for the bookish parts will still be used, just the way they now abuse so many book terms to identify the ephemeral elements of digital word processing. But what will be recalled in that waxing of nostalgia, will in fact have never been. Just another joke in the dustbin of history.

The bookshop that will be so fondly remembered, like the Momma of our common childhood, will be sans all the angst, and anger, and boredom, and heartache. And the dust. The bill-paying will be the first thing overlooked, just as the bills themselves once were. (I’m sure I sent a check. I’ll speak to the bookkeeper about it tomorrow.) The worry about ordering will be recalled vaguely. (How did we end up with twelve copies of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and no Milton?) The boredom of stocking will be made little of. (Should Federico Garcia Lorca go under ‘G’ or ‘L.’) The cleaning and sweeping and straightening will be assumed. (There’s another dead mouse under the bottom shelf in the cooking section. What did they eat that killed them?) Catastrophic electrical and plumbing problems will be ignored. (Like the time a customer clogged the toilet and continued to flush it so many times it overflowed, shorting out the electricity as well.) Rude customers will be remade into picaresque caricature. (Do I look like someone who would read Danielle Steele?) Anxious authors will be forgiven their demands. (‘I don’t drink bottle water. I drink Perrier.’ ) The failure to recognize a title, or an author, or a subject, on demand will be glossed over by the reminiscence of how the perfect book had been so often suggested by the canny bookseller. (I just loved it! How did you know?) Yet, all that will be beside the point.

In fact the great age of bookselling was almost over by the time I began in the trade. Just as I was told by my boss at the Boylston Street bookshop where I worked in the early nineteen-seventies. His reasoning was never proffered, not that I would have listened. But he said more than once, “They’re like boxes of cornflakes now. Move those Rice Krispies over here. Stack those boxes of Wheaties there. Order some more Cocoa Puffs—we’re almost out.” Another time he compared the books to boxes of detergent. But the point was made. We dealt in objects, not souls. We were moving rectangular pieces of reprocessed wood pulp and rag that had been soiled by ink. You could read the review in the Times—you didn’t have to waste your time reading the book.

My boss, already then in his own seventies, born at the very end of the previous century, had done this all his adult life except for a brief respite during which he got himself gassed by his own military command due to a change of wind at the Second Somme. An entire life, pissed away—breathed with a wheeze. But proudly. He was a ‘bookseller’ after all. An ancient profession. And he told us repeatedly that he was the last of the breed. And he might well have been. My own efforts seem feeble by comparison.

The problem was not my boss’s fault. He would gladly have carried on in the old fashion. But already the back-lists were being emptied for tax purposes. Publisher’s advertising was being concentrated on fewer titles. Publisher’s themselves were being amalgamated. The corporate practices of the cereal food manufactures had overtaken the the quaint publishing ‘houses’ of poetry, essays, epics and epistolaries.

In the first volume of his great two volume philosophical work The Open Society and Its Enemies, Karl popper wrote,

“. . . the paradox of tolerance: Unlimited tolerance must lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we extend unlimited tolerance even to those who are intolerant, if we are not prepared to defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the intolerant, then the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them. — In this formulation, I do not imply, for instance, that we should always suppress the utterance of intolerant philosophies; as long as we can counter them by rational argument and keep them in check by public opinion, suppression would certainly be unwise. But we should claim the right to suppress them if necessary even by force; for it may easily turn out that they are not prepared to meet us on the level of rational argument, but begin by denouncing all argument; they may forbid their followers to listen to rational argument, because it is deceptive, and teach them to answer arguments by the use of their fists or pistols. We should therefore claim, in the name of tolerance, the right not to tolerate the intolerant.” His prescience in this, as in much else, has long made him a non-person in the college classroom. But in my youth, his voice was as loud as it was singular.

And that is the ‘bookseller’s paradox’ as well—but much exacerbated by the need to pay the rent. Should I carry Danielle Steele in the shop, on the same shelf as Stendhal? Do I make room for another recent Marxist diatribe in place of an obscure libertarian author? I carried works by Lysander Spooner, Albert Jay Nock, Benjamin Tucker and Max Stirner that sat on the shelf gathering dust for over thirty years while Jean-Paul Sartre, Herbert Marcuse, Jacques Derrida, and Michel Foucault had to be re-ordered over and again. But Stirner and Tucker, Spooner and Nock would have been fine with my little Republic of Books, while Derrida and Foucault, Sartre and Marcuse would want to burn me down. In the case of Popper, I made the more constant effort to interest browsers in his work and succeeded to some small degree. Maybe two copies against six of Marcuse, while ignoring the loss of battles with an eye toward the larger war. But Popper was right, as he so often proved to be. Feeding my enemies did not make them appreciate my efforts, but made them stronger.

The olden bookshop of memory was an open society of books written for the pleasure of writing and reading as much or more even than to educate. And that is the key which has been lost. To educate was to enlighten, not restrict. It was a cluttered and ill-lit place because there was always more to read, to do, and to understand, and what was shiny was suspect for being unused. Most often, these days, a young bookseller working in a clean and well lighted place will say, ‘I love books’ and they will mean ‘I love certain books. The ones I like.’ It is another form of tautology. And the ones they like are the ones they have been taught to like. And they spend their time on the neat and dust free internet visiting those particular sites that tell them that they are right. And besides, they are allergic to dust.


Peter Duggin was behind the bar. Doreen was on a break. It was a quiet Wednesday night.

“What’s the latest screw, Michael?”

“My income taxes.”

“I didn’t think you had much of that to deal with.”

“No. But I haven’t kept the proper records, it seems. I keep everything. Every receipt goes in a box. But so much of it’s electronic now. Hard to remember what something was that I paid two dollars and fifty-eight cents for three years ago. A bottle of Windex or packet of condoms.”

“No problem there. We know you didn’t buy any condoms.”


“How about yourself?”

Showing a little respect, he let me quaff the top two inches of ale in my glass in silence before he answered.

“I’ve got to be going back to Wicklow. My father’s in a bad way.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“He wants to die at home, but the house is falling down around him and it’s likely to fall down first.”

“How old is he now?”


“Your mother has passed?”

“Yeah. No. She’s passed along to Dublin to live with her sister. She wants him to sell the house to a developer and use the money to come to America and so she can give Doreen a little hell. Better I go back to Wicklow and try to reason with my father. It may be my last chance. I’ve never been able to reason with him before.”

“A man’s home is his castle.”

“I grew up there. It’s no castle. The sills were rotted so bad that when I was a boy I had a fight with my brother and—mind, the two of us didn’t weight more than a hundred pounds together—we took a section of a wall outside with us.”

“Why does he want to keep it? No place else to go?”

“That would be the elder care facility for him. He would rather go up to the top of Mullach Cliabhain and drown himself in the water there.”

“What do you think you’ll do, then, bring him here?”

“Nah. I’ll hire a fellow to fix the roof and work on the sills. Dad won’t budge until he’s cold. He told my mother he’d move if she would go up and swim naked with him in the Glenmacnass like they did sixty years ago. But she told him no good came of that then and she wouldn’t do it again.”

“Sounds like something worth doing again—at least once before you die.”

“I tried it myself once. The water is cold. You’d need another body to get you warm again.”

“And she won’t live in the house?”

“She hasn’t in ten or twelve years.”

“Because of the roof?”

“No. Because she didn’t want him poking her in the night anymore.”

That deserved another inch of ale and a little understanding.

“Your house is pretty small. Doreen’s mother, Estelle, has already got the guest room. Where would your mother live if she came here?”

“Her knees are no good. I’d have to get rid of all that crap in the garage and finish that out so she could be on the ground.”

“Sounds like a project.”

“A lighter one if you’d come and take all of the books away that you talked us into buying through the years.”

“I don’t have the money for it Peter. I’d have to pay you later.”

“That’ll be fine. If you can.”

“I’ll send Jack over to box it up. When’s best?”


“I tell him. He’s laying low right now.”

“How’se that?”

“He’s afraid the feds will tag him.”

“Is he illegal?”

“No. Just off the grid, a little.”

“I know that feeling. I lived that way for ten years before Doreen finally married me.”

“I think you told me that you were doing roofing back then. So why don’t you do your dad’s?”

“He’d just tell me I did it wrong.”



What passed for intellectual perception in our time was a self-coruscating (drawing attention as opposed to illuminating) whine about false pretenses and the lies of our fathers. They were to blame for the corruption of our virtues. We hadn’t made this world! None of it was our fault. Why opt for religion when there are opiates to be had? What need was there for a civilization so flawed when nirvana was so near? But it must have occurred to a few to ask, what made us any better than them, anyway?

Though it was purportedly inspired by the cold war thriller Red Alert, the movie Dr. Strangelove did not require a book. The dark absurdity of the farce it portrayed was manifest in the age, like a liquor distilled from the air we breathed, and then sold to us in Nik-L-Nips—those miniature wax bottles that we bought at the five & dime and drank, as if it was an elixir and not the pure crap that it was, before we chewed the wax of the container itself for every last bit of the brightly colored sugar water—good training for future druggies and alcoholics.

The ‘Big Phony,’ as my uncle Ted called it, was all around us. It was an age of cheap irony without the tempering of wit. The big finned, chrome grilled, eight-cylindered, plastic seat-covered, dream-boat cars were rusting out right before our eyes. What more proof for the corruption of our fathers did we need?

I remember the candy cigarettes sold in packs that looked a lot like the real thing, including an illustrated camel device for verisimilitude. You could roll them up on the sleeve of your T-shirt the way the big kids did it and pretend you were a smoker too. And I think I remember that Mr. Getz, the owner of the dime store where we got them, later died of lung cancer—or maybe I made that up in a story later on. There is just too much irony in that to be true.

The ‘Big Phony’ was unsubtly displayed all around and about our young lives in the late 1950s and early 1960s, not just in the shine of the cheesy plastic goods, the chrome-plated six-shooter cap-guns teasing us with glare, and the gleam and taunting of the faux rocketry of tail-fins on automobiles that could go a hundred and twenty miles an hour (according to the wide display of the speedometers that filled your eyes with expectation as the needle arced) on roads with speed limits of half as much or less. It was an age vexing us with the three minute aural gratification of the 45 rpm record, which was about all the juice the average teenager had in him.

TV was our national past time by then. Baseball we played to please our fathers. We watched westerns about men killing other men, cop shows and mysteries about men and women killing other men and women, sit-coms about men and women being total asses, and Dick Clarke’s American Band Stand, which was ostensibly about music.

But our nostalgia is mostly a selective memory of the false.

It is no wonder perhaps that the angst we felt was finally played out against a war in the distant rice paddies of South East Asia. Vietnam was simply a spasmodic release of tension by then—a sort of juvenile blood-rite of masturbatory violence that just happened to kill a few hundred thousand human beings and ruined an ancient country of little consequence to us. Of course, the dissipation ruined us as well, as it always will.

Later we were asked—no, we were begged repeatedly by the journalistas to ask—who had won the war? Our movies and our literature and our music questioned our motives. Meanwhile, the disintegration of our families in dalliance and divorce questioned our very human purpose. Ignoring history, teachers gleefully explained the darker subtext of fairytales in our classrooms, as if this enlightenment might somehow inspire us. Bigotry suddenly became our original sin, as if this had never been seen or heard of before, or elsewhere. Our scarlet letter ‘A’ was now ‘white.’ The homilies of our priests turned from the practical to the abstract in order to avoid confrontation with the more obvious hypocrisies. And in this head-up-the-ass darkness, we blamed not ourselves for the stink, but our forefathers. Denying their own humanity, we ignored the history that showed how they had confronted the same demons that we must face. As if they had not overcome the very weaknesses in making the nation to which we so readily succumb. Blame them for our failings. Toke and party on.

Our children have learned our lessons well. American exceptionalism is only a sham. No need for military service. No need for borders. No need for law. Order is a false choice. Good and bad are relative, but no relation to them. The Morse Code is forgotten but virtue signaling has been raised to a near art form. And history? History is a lie—just don’t say that in front of Grandpa!

Insert finger in throat here, and gag. An involuntary reflex is appropriate. Having given up our right to choose a future for ourselves, we now have one chosen for us. Don’t slip on the vomit. Strap the C-4 explosive to our bodies and run from our lives. We are not worthy of more or better. Only worse. In many ways, what my own generation opted for instead of the picket fence and the trimmed lawn is a Pieter Bruegel landscape, the Triumph of Death. What other excuse can be made for choosing to play with pot and pretend it does not impair our judgment; to play with sex and then deny the consequence of disease or abortion; or to play with ideologies that deny right and wrong. Is it all just a nasty game?

Pieter Bruegel would blanch!


Peter Duggin was working the other end of the bar, but Doreen came back just before I left.

“What is all this shit then? They’ve nothing better to do?”

She has a way with words. It’s why Peter married her, I think.

“No. I don’t think so. I’m just the existential threat. The books are the problem. The authorities have to find a way to get rid of the books. The educational system doesn’t teach the citizen to read anyway. Just scan. And not to think. Certainly not to reason. But still, that’s only a start. As things break down, some of the abused might see that the answers are right there in the old volumes. They’ll have to rid themselves of the troublesome books. I’m just the superfluous man now.”

Peter caught the odd word from afar.

“That’s the memoir of your Mr. Nock, isn’t it. You got me to read that twenty years ago.”

“Take it out of the garage and read it again. It’ll help you with your father and your mother too.”

“But it’s just a little book.”

“You have a mother and father to look after. It’s just a little problem.”


Deidre asks me, “So, what are we going to do? How do we save the shop?”

“Well, here’s the problem. The good guys won’t fight dirty because that would only make them bad guys. The bad guys will always fight dirty because that’s who they are. Result—all else being equal—the bad guys will often win the battle.”

“Are you are saying that the good guys have to fight dirty?”

“No. I’m saying that most of the time, the good guys should not fight at all.”

“This is the real would, Michael. If the good guys don’t fight, they’ll be annihilated. Liquidated. Destroyed.”


“You like your history. Well, Gandhi only won because he was going against a British Empire that actually believed in good and evil. They may have been wrong, but they thought they were doing the right thing. If he’d been fighting Germans, he would have been shot. End of story.”
“Okay, then explain this—how come the good guys won the Revolution, Civil War, and World War Two?

“Did they? I sometimes wonder about some of that.”


“Okay. Then tell me how is it things have gotten better than they were. Things are a lot better now than they were a hundred years ago.”

“You’re right. They are. But not by any plan. By good intention. And technology . . . Look, the reason the bad guys lose is because they’re incompetent. The movies always get that part wrong. That’s Conan Doyle’s fault. He started all that nonsense. Before Sherlock Holmes, the bad guys lost because they were stupid. Then along comes Doyle looking for a worthy villain to match his hero. But Moriarty is not a genius. If he was smart he’d be living a better life. He’s a fool! If he spent half as much effort trying to create something himself rather than take things from others he would be a far wealthier and a much happier man. The reason the good guys have managed to make things better over time is because they are more often doing the most efficient and productive thing, by treating their fellow man the same way they’d like to be treated themselves. ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ works! Being kind, works. Being respectful, works. Being truthful works, Being clean, works. Learning to do something well will make you happy. Sharing that happiness will make you even happier. Bad guys are losers. ‘Boxed paranoids’ my dad called them. In their world, no one can be trusted. But in a pitched battle, they can win. They can put together a coalition of all the other bad guys and win. The thing is, you don’t want to put yourself in that position. You could get killed! Then your story is done. Let the incompetent assholes kill themselves!”

“Be kind? That’s you’re answer?”

“Yes. Over time. In good time. We’re only here for a while, as you’ve likely noticed. The whole weight of human history is not on my neck. Just a little tiny bit of it.”

“So what’s your plan? Are you saying you’re not going to fight?”

“I think I’m going to fight by not fighting.”

“You’ll lose the shop.”

“That’s the battle, not the war.”

“I didn’t know you looked at it that way.”

“What way?”

“That A Republic of Books was just one battle in a larger war.”

“I don’t. The shop itself is, of course. In the larger scheme, it’s ephemeral. But not the idea. The idea is what the war is all about.”


“You mentioned technology. You’ve made the point before that a lot of the good things we have now are the result of technology, not politics.”

“Politics indirectly. Even the bad guys want to be able to open a can of beans a little easier. Technology is not exclusive to liberty. But the more people who have liberty the more minds are brought to bear on the problems we face and the technology improves.”

“Okay, but isn’t the problem now that technology has given more power to those who control it. Google can tell you what to think by limiting your access to other answers.”

“Yes. That’s right. Even Dwight Eisenhower understood the dangers of the military industrial complex, when technology was really just this side of the wheel. But things are changing very fast now.”

“Don’t we need government to control that?”

“What? Really. Give the bully the power to rule you. You’re just joking with me.”

“Then how do you stop some techno-giant like Apple or Google from doing whatever they want?”

“You don’t support them.”

“You write your blogs on an Apple computer!”

“I didn’t say you cut off your own nose. I use the best computer I can afford to do what I need to do. That gives me access to a lot more that some crappy writing software. And I’ve already noticed they’re making that more and more of a labyrinth anyway. You need one of their minion wizards to do things you used to be able to figure out by yourself. I’m about ready to go back to my old typewriters.”

“But doesn’t using that stuff just give them more power?”

“And I wear clothes made by slave children in Bangladesh because that’s what I can afford and that’s what’s available. It’s not good. I don’t like that. But that’s the real world I live in. And lot of the libertarians and conservatives say that’s okay. At least the slave children have a place to sleep and food to eat. BUT THEY WOULDN’T HAVE EVEN BEEN BORN IF IT WEREN’T FOR CHEAP FOOD AND CHEAP MEDICINE!”

“Don’t yell.”

“And now all those children want to come to America or Britain or Germany and see what actually happened to all those shirts they made. So the problem is, there is a problem with everything we do. You dam the river for electricity, you stop the salmon from coming home. You build windmills for electricity, you kill the golden eagles. You mine coal for electricity, you pollute the air we breathe. You drill for oil and you make it easier to operate cars and trucks and buses and factories, and all the rest, and you live with a thousand consequences including Bangledeshi children making shirts for cheap booksellers in Boston. One of my hero’s, Benjamin Lay got himself down to living in a cave and spinning his own clothes from the flax he grew in order to avoid all forms of slavery. Is that really the only alternative? And remember, I grew up in a generation that appreciated a lot of the problem way back in the sixties. The best of them were called Hippies. What happened to all that idealism? It floundered. It died. Suffocated in its own righteousness and body odor. Turned out that it was more all about easy sex, and cheap drugs as much as a fear of authority or a love of nature. When the true authority of mother nature came home to them with sexually transmitted diseases and a few other of the usual medical issues, they all wanted a good modern doctor. But then they didn’t want to pay for it. They wanted that for free too. So they could protest the use of lab rats while taking their insulin, and their antibiotics. Many of them ended up on the dole, living off the tax money raised from fellow citizens they despised who worked nine to five and drove trucks and drank beer. The ones who couldn’t deal with the facts got ugly and started blowing other people up. But most of those evil maroons ended up in University jobs, living off the public dole, one step removed.”

“So, what’s the deal then. What are we going to do?”

“I like the ‘we,’ in that. But I can’t tell you what you should do. And I’m still just figuring out the next step for me. I’m too old to start all over again. That juice isn’t in me anymore. But I like modern medicine and big trucks and an efficient heating system in the winter and all that. And I’m not going to move to a warmer climate and stop wearing shirts.”

“And what do you think about the ‘we’?”

“I think we ought to give that some serious thought. But I’m not sure yet about that, either. I want to keep writing. I still love books. I figure I have to pare things down. I can’t live within my means because I have none to speak of. I’ll have to keep taking my social security check, at least for now.”

“Why not. That’s your money. I’ve even heard you say that.”

“Yeah. But I never expected to have to use it. I always assumed it was just another part of my income confiscated by the government to take care of those who could take care of themselves. Now that I need it, I need it. But the point is, it’s going to be a pretty modest life for me.”

“Maybe you’ll be able to sell some books.”

“Other people, perhaps. A few. But not my own. People don’t want to read the stuff I write about. That’s pretty clear. And I don’t want to write anything else. So there I am. You better think twice about hooking up with a character like me. It’s a lot of short term prospects. You’re young enough to do better.”

“I’m to old to do worse.”

“Think about it first. I mean that.”

“Where are you going to live?”

“Maybe my truck. Have you ever wanted to live in a truck? Maybe I’ll have enough dough to buy one of those little campers. They’re cold in the winter but that’s why God invented the sleeping bag. I can wander around the country like the old guy in Parnassus on Wheels.”

“I remember that Morley wasn’t very happy about that fellow’s treatment of his sister.”

“You read that?”

“You suggested that. Actually you suggested The Haunted Bookshop and then said that Parnassus was better.”

“It is. There are no German spies. But you’re not my sister. I wouldn’t go anywhere with my sister. Or, actually, she wouldn’t go anywhere with me. Same difference.”

“And you’ll be a gypsy? That could be romantic.”

“No ear rings. No tattoos. Just books. And a laptop. Or maybe just a typewriter.”

“The world’s smallest traveling bookshop.”

“I saw a picture once of an Indian fellow with a bookshop perched on the back of a three wheeled bike. So it wouldn’t be the smallest. Just very small.”

“I’ll think abut it.”







And what fine madness is this?

Magellan at the ends of the Earth



Margaret was in the shop when I arrived the next morning. The lights were off. The day was gray to start and promised to get worse with rain. She was sitting behind the counter on the stool and presented nothing more than a shadow amidst the shadows.

“Who are you?” I asked.

I had thought it might be Jack, and the voice surprised me.

“I don’t know.”

“Then I’ll just pretend you’re Margaret and ignore you.”

“You’re expert at that.”

I dumped the sack of paperwork I had beneath my arm unto the counter.

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk.”

“Well, you’re the expert at that.”

“Ha! When I can get a word in edgewise .”

“That rap won’t stick. I seldom interrupt anyone without a reason, especially you. And you know it. But you’re here for a reason.”

“I know that you’ve ignored me for the last twenty years.”

She was already on the attack.

“That’s another bad rap. But if that’s what you think of whatever attention I gave you before the divorce, maybe it reflects on me anyway.”

I could hear her breathing. She’ll take a louder breath before she speaks, even if it’s just a single word like ‘yes’ or ‘no.’

“I want you to leave. I want you to close the shop and leave. As long as you’re here I can’t get on with my own life.”

The directness wasn’t a shock. She had actually said as much before. And I could guess the reason now. We had a fellow in just days before who had a tape measure in his hand and wore a suit that fit him too well to be a city inspector.

“You have someone who wants the space and is willing to pay a lot more.”

“You read people like you read books.”

“I think the opposite is true. But no matter. How much are they offering?”

“Double. Twice as much.”

That was beyond reason.

“Then, . . . I’ll go. I’m tired. I don’t know what I’m fighting for anymore.”

Her foot had been on a rung of the stool and it hit the floor.

“Just like that?”

“You’ll have to give me a few months. A couple at least.”

“They want to rehab the place and have it open by Thanksgiving.”

“The end of September, then?”

“They asked for that. Exactly.”

“Who is they?”

“Loco-motion. They make ‘Steam’ jeans.”

“At a hundred bucks a pop.”


“Amazing. For empty headed clothes dummies.”

“Smart enough to make the money to pay for them.”

“Making money is not all there is to the equation. I’ve been telling you that for forty years. But when it comes down to it, you’ve never listened to me. You’ve always believed making money could buy anything, even ethics.”

She was still just a shadow and it was much like a conversation imagined when I was home alone, late at night. What I said was that simplistic. But she didn’t take the bait.

“Thirty-nine. I walked through that door almost exactly thirty-nine years ago. I was just thinking about it. I don’t think ethics has anything to do with it.”

“Fine. So, its done.”

“It’s done, then,” was all I could think of to say. Without the familiar expressions of her face, I had to listen for what she wasn’t saying in the inflection of her voice. But her words were always more easily overcome by her face. It was her voice that was easier to read.

“That’s funny. You know, I was thinking those exact words too. That it’s done. And I was thinking about how much you actually were, once, back then, like the sort of man I always wanted. . . . Not, exactly, of course. You are who you are. You’ve always been—”

I interrupted.

“I don’t know how you screwed that up. I’ve never been a John Galt on my worst day. But we all have our fantasies, I guess. I thought you were the most beautiful girl in the world. You’re still pretty close, come to mention it. I was head over heels in love with you. You say I ignored you. I seem to remember I adored you. And I still love you, but I’m just standing still now that I’m back on my own two feet.”

“I know you did. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just thinking how you could disappear right in front of me. You could escape from everything in a second. A split second. I could look at you and see that you were gone—someplace in your head. And I was still here.”

I didn’t know what I was supposed to apologize for.

“So, we’re here now. At the ends of the Earth. And there’s no place to go but back to. . . .You know, I was thinking once—maybe one of those times that I escaped right in front of your eyes—that Magellan must have been an unhappy man when he realized he’d just be returning. He’d circled the frickin’ Globe and found out there was no more to it, no end to the circle, and that must have been a great disappointment.”

“You’re escaping me now. What are you talking about? What odd Michael McGeraughty metaphor is that?”

“Just that I’m escaping you, for real, now, I suppose. I guess that’s good enough. For both of us.”

“You’re nuts, you know. Actually crazy. Mad. Bonkers. Loony Tunes.”

“I think so too. Let’s stop there. We can agree on that, at least.”

The breath was long and loud.

“Do you remember that play you wrote about the dwarf?”

“Benjamin Lay? Sure.”

“I told you I didn’t like it because he was not a hero except to himself. And that was madness.”

“I suppose. I can’t prove otherwise. But that wasn’t the point of the play.”

“Exactly! But that’s why it would never be accepted. You lost your audience—you lost me—when he told Franklin that he didn’t care what other’s thought of him. And that was you. But you don’t live in a cave. You live with other people. You have a family. You have a shop and you deal with the public! You have to care about what they think.”

“I suppose. But I think, technically, that just makes me a schizophrenic. Mad, like you said. The reality is often less interesting to me than the imagined.”

That admission was enough, by itself. Margaret would never miss a chance to rub it in.

“That’s why the kids left, you know.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Sure you do. You may be crazy but you’re not stupid. They weren’t part of your perfect bookstore. They didn’t want to be part of it. And they did want to end up as characters in some novel you were writing. They wanted to make up their own lives.”

That much I already understood.


What is madness, anyway?

As a young man, I was most amazed, in a negative way, by what passes for the religion of ‘psychology’ as a purported science, and worse, some branch of medicine, or even just as field of study. Like everyone in my generation, as we had escaped from the shadow of a failed religious past, I was bombarded by Freudian and then Jungian balderdash as an excuse for bad behavior or human stupidity. But always it was proffered as an excuse. One did not seek psychological help for building a house, or starting a business, only for burning the house down or stealing from the pension fund. But as a medicine, the practice of psychology ruined more lives than can ever be accounted for, simply by allowing or even causing, the troubled and the sick to suffer as prisoners in institutions, or the criminal to go free. In sum, the field of ‘psychology’ has proved itself far worse than, say, bloodletting, which at least had an imaginative basis in ‘bad and good humours’ for cause and effect, or the more savage lobotomy, with its assumption of a physical basis for the psychosomatic, and mutilation and impairment as a desired result. While most psychological advice is at the level of a Smith and Dale vaudeville routine: “Doctor, it hurts when I do this!” “Don’t do that!” too much of it pretends cures from false reasoning.

With Jung we were given the added layer of philosophy to compound the injury of malpractice and we could even accept a form of necromancy as enlightenment, with past lives being relived within us. In the Twentieth Century and now persisting into the Twenty-first, we are given a poor equivalent to four thousand year old Greek mythology as a guide to understanding the human mind, Oedipus amuck, now with the ‘Great Mother,’ replacing the temperamental Zeus, and regular visits to the couch as a replacements for the confessional and the priest. However, the priest was better. Two Hail Marys and four Our Fathers and we were good to go, ready to face the world anew. All our sins forgiven if not forgotten. With psychology there was no end to it. Our soul was in hock at an hourly rate, without a cure in sight.

What excuse do we have for this witchdoctoring? That’s the question that most bothers me. Within our known history, we have pursued many foolish and dangerous answers to what troubles us. Especially political ones. From tyrants to ceasars, kings to presidents. But at least there was usually a positive reason behind our poor choices. We wanted something better than what we had. We wanted an improvement. But with most of what we speak of as psychology we have gone out of our way to accept pure idiocy in the place of knowledge, malevolence in the place of evil, and given ourselves over to someone who believes in the wizard of id.

If you have any interest in history you may have noticed the number of churches in every small town. In New England, the white steeple peeking up through the trees is a key geographic guide. This landmark is a symbol of many things but importantly it was a beacon for a given community, its center, and its social identity. Note: there are so many well built priory houses across Britain, left over from the days when the Anglican Church was doing its job, that they have become real estate gold now that the religious order has faltered. Forgotten is the fact that a priest once lived in those houses close by the church itself and their primary function day to day was to minister to the congregation, offering spiritual advice, and consolation. They brought an ancient wisdom found in the Book of Common Prayer, the Old and New Testaments and a mutual cultural aesthetic and applied it to the daily troubles of the parishioner’s life. Blessings were given as well as condolences. Good council was crucial. A parish priest who could not relate to his flock was soon preaching to empty pews and, at least in America, a new church would have opened for business a block away. Given that fatherly advice will always be needed, replacing the priest with the psychiatrist was a bad deal only made worse by a monetary cost that placed the services beyond the needs of anyone who was not well heeled.

What purpose is there to psychology? Why should it even be? I can understand the need for religion. The great gulf of ignorance that surrounds us begs for answers. A God can fill that need. But psychology? Is it a project to understand the mind? The brain is a physical matter and the province of science and medicine. Is the need in the very understanding of why we do what we do? Wouldn’t that be something to ask ourselves? A sociologist might help. A historian. A wise aunt. But a psychologist? Someone preaching a belief in ids and mythical archetypes rather than simply identifying healthy behavior and the opposite?

I suppose we might at least agree that there is insanity to be found in someone who did the same failed thing over and over again expecting a different result. But that would be me.

Year upon year I pursued the building of my ideal bookshop, ignoring the ever greater lack of interest on the part of the public I must appeal to. That would be ‘a fine madness,’ would it not? Can it be, the way of madness lies in truth?

Year upon year I wrote my novels, refusing to take notice of the rejection slips returned from publishers and agents. ‘O, that way madness lies’ for sure, don’t you think? In truth? Or was Lear wrong? But now the public has put an end to half the question. They thinks they be better off with hundred dollar jeans, and the store will be no more. But I do continue to write until the brain sags with the rest of me. I may be no Samson Shillitoe, but alike him, my madness goes uncured.







All My Children are Apples

but if the tree is on a hill, an apple can roll pretty far




“Parents are not to be put to death for their children, nor children put to death for their parents; each will die for their own sin.” Deuteronomy 24:16


Of all the many failures for which I hold myself responsible, my children are the most discouraging. They have each taken up one or more of my many faults and grafted them onto their own stem. My complaint might sound similar to that of any parent who has wished the best for his family and then, his best advice discarded, watched helplessly as they sallied forth to their own destinies, but I think my unhappiness is at least somewhat deepened by the degree of separation, even when they are in the same room. We love each other, well enough. I have never had any inkling that they do not love me, or their mother, and my own affections have never flagged. But it is a fact that I cannot easily speak with them about any topic closer to our personal lives than the sports results, the places have gone or we would go if we could, eating establishments we have discovered or recollections of all the more mundane things we have done. The present indicative in our own lives is pretty much verboten. Politics is off limits. The news—beyond the reportage of an ongoing catastrophe—is taboo. Philosophy is prohibited. Personal problems (other than medical) are wholly proscribed. And talk of my own work, because it so often transgresses one or more of the above categories, is banned in Boston.

Naturally I transgress in all the above categories fairly regularly and will again if I have the chance. Rationalize as I might that they are adults, free spirits, individuals, and as entitled to their own mistakes as they are to their own success, I cannot give up the idea that they are my children and thus I am responsible at least for their faults—especially those they have not yet admitted to.

In my own defense I might remind myself that children do not listen. Per se. They absorb, by example—which becomes its own sort of reproach in time. This may be genetic; something in us all that lingers from our primordial past, when cave painting served the need and before language had developed sufficiently to explain the need to wash your hands, make your bed, pick up your clothes, look both ways when you cross the street, and never bet on a sure thing.

It is likely my own example which has driven my children away as much as their own ambitions. This must have always been so. It is difficult to illustrate those qualities you would want most for your children to understand—honesty, integrity, kindness. Before Shakespeare and the OED, this must have been an unspeakable chore. Practices such as honesty and forthrightness do not translate easily to the blood smears on the walls of the cave. But the blood is shed nonetheless at their feet, in the sort of Pollackian splatters that are difficult to read. Reading the entrails of the toad must be easier. My own attempts have more often been interpreted as criticism than truthfulness. And if you lie to save hurt feelings, you have done the exact opposite of what you intended. You have added to the some total of lies that will guide them in directions you cannot fathom.

Elly calls me every week, usually on Sundays. Ben is pretty good about calling but more erratic. Georgy is likely to call at anytime. She thinks this is her role as the eldest and the go-to go-between for her mother and myself. According to another parent that I know, I should think this level of communication is extraordinary, in that he only hears from his kids when money is short. I told my friend that my kids typically have more money than I do. He suggested that I call them more often.


Charlie Flaherty from the Journal Transcript calls me to check up on how things are going and I tell him they are going, so he is in the door bright and early. This was about five minuets after I printed out the first announcement concerning the closing of the shop.

Charlie looks at the handout and starts shaking his head before he’s halfway through the page.

“It’s hard to get excited about another bookstore closing. It’s a standing head. You wanna give me something else I can use.”

Charlie has his priorities.

“Why do you care?”

Charlie looks both ways as if he is telling me a secret.

“I don’t. It’s my boss does. He thinks there’s a fire because he sees Deirdre’s smoke. I told him it was just some old dick playing with matches and mirrors. He won’t believe me. Fact is, he’s tried to hire her away from the Post more than once, which is good for me because I’d be part time or out of a job if she ever took him up on it. The light at the newspapers are going out as fast as the bookshops. You know? I mean, we’re both making buggy whips, aren’t we? Anyway, so I told him, nobody gives a damn about books anymore. That’s yesterday’s news. The old ladies in Cambridge and Brookline and Newton who read hardcover books don’t buy the Transcript anyway. And the rest of us were all raised on television. My kids were raised on computers. Their kids will have it all in the palm of their hands. Full circle! You know? We’re all back playing with ourselves within a generation, but all the fun’s gone out of even that now. People jerk each other off in public. That’s all the human race is good for—diddling with themselves are someone else. That and maybe an occasional plate of fried clams. But you can’t even get a good plate of fried clams in town these days.”

“You probably got that about right.”

The agreement puts him in a contemplative frame of mind. He walks around the counter looking at the shelves in store and then back.

“So what’s with your kids. Why aren’t they here trying to help the old man?”

“They work for a living.”

“But this is the old man we’re talking about, going down the toilet without a boat.”

“I don’t understand that metaphor.”

“It’s at the other end of being up the creek without a paddle.”

I wrote that down on some mental 3 x 5 and gave him an answer.

“They’ll be around.”

“Can I talk to them? Get a little human interest schtick going. The old ladies in Charlestown and Dorchester love the human interest stuff. They don’t read much but they still watch Oprah. They like the stuff about kids. It reminds them that they haven’t seen their own kids lately.”

Now, I need the publicity to sell some books. I have to face facts. If I’m going to clean this place out by October, I need Charlie Flaherty. Deirdre won’t be able to carry that load by herself.

“Eleanor will be here this week. She’s taking some time off.”

“She the oldest?”

“No. In the middle.”

“What does she do when she not trying to save daddy from the alligators?”

“She’s an actress—when she can get a part. She writes plays and works as a model for the ad agencies when she can’t.”

“I’ll bring a photographer along if she’s that good looking. What day will she be here?”

“Saturday. But that’ll be too busy. Come by Monday, and I’ll tell her what to say to you.”

“Thanks a lot.”


Marc Bloch, the Marxist historian, once wrote, in the particular case of farmers and agricultural workers, “It is chiefly the grandparents who more often than not see to the upbringing of children on peasant families. Their work in the fields . . . means that neither the father nor mother has enough leisure to supervise them properly. That is one of the causes, I believe, for the remarkable persistence of tradition in such communities.”

Mr. Bloch appears not to have accounted for the extended family of grandparents, aunts and uncles, and maiden sisters that ruled most clans. But because tradition was always the enemy of the state, the Marxists, and their theorists, had to deal with that early on, which meant that they had to get the children out of the clutches of the family. The ‘public school’ was the answer. And in recent times, with taxes being evermore onerous and thus the need for both parents to work in order to make ends meet obligatory, by design, parents are engaged with more important things than mere life and death and caring—matters of ‘consequence’ as the businessman said to the Little Prince—and with the parents themselves thereby estranged, families are dispersed by divorce, while the grandparents are relegated to nursing homes to avoid any bother, and aunts and uncles are scattered from Cleveland to Ponca City, thus the children are indeed raised by the public schools, and television, which is much the same thing. Any chance to carry on the traditions of our past are lost to a general absence of caring.

But our time is really made up of what we want in life. A time machine is unnecessary. We are all creatures of memory, not history. The future is not about us. The past is.

Margaret began working full time again when Benjamin, the youngest, reached first grade. But they were all still children, so I brought them to the bookshop when I picked them up after school. To that extent, they grew up here. And I suppose that familiarity with the place might have bred some level of contempt. But for the most part, my children were raised in the same bourgeoise culture that Margret and I both knew as kids. And this was done on purpose too. We both have at least that much in common—that is, an abiding belief in the older middle class values. Dinner at seven. No television on school nights. That sort of thing. They all wash their hands before they eat.

But being in the shop so much exposed them to human kind and not so kind, at its worst or best, but often at its most and in the altogether, the mean and niggardly as well as the generous and great, the lying but yet sincere, the thoughtful and the hasty, the honestly deceitful, the sweet and the sour, and there is no predicting what truth they found in that gallimaufry, that human stew. Where I find this humorous for the most part, it may have hurt the children in subtle ways I did not comprehend. Cynicism comes easily to them. Trust is a hard sell. And mostly this was the fault of where we were on the map, I think. In a small town where people depend on each other more, there is less of the worst displayed I think. In villages people are liable for how they are known. In the city, reputation is fungible. But it is true, our average customer was above average. That is, at least they had more money if not the intelligence to use it wisely, and those with more intelligence, were often either born to wealth and thus incompetent to appreciate the value of what they had, or a product of the ‘money’ school of value that teaches cretinism as a means to all ends. There were exceptions. Many. But the kids could not help being scarred by the nastiness in all that. ‘Rude’ was the word I used most often. ‘Where did that come from,’ they would say after a particularly obnoxious person had made an exit while loudly bellowing something unreportable. And I couldn’t tell them.

Part of my own loss of faith in my fellow citizens is caught up in the way they have treated their own children: carelessly. The pains our grandparents suffered to make sure we were well educated and capable of taking care of ourselves has been sabotaged by an intentional Progressive social suicide. I say, intentional because, as I have noted before, Marxist authors identified the need for such disintegration many years ago, as a means of undermining the middle class values that made things work. Roughly speaking—and it is indeed very rough on them—a larger number of young males are out of work while being incapable of performing basic tasks—often because of drug abuse. Period. Is this something you can argue with? Facts are mean that way. Opioid use is rampant. Do you not know this? Beyond the ‘safe’ neighborhoods like Beacon Hill and Back Bay, where drug use is sanctioned by prescription, violence is common, death not uncommon, and the hurt deeper than the bruises tell. With the exponential increase in laws comes an equal increase in crime. Which crime is important? So we separate them by color. Blue collar and white collar. True felony, like villainy, has lost its distinction. I’m thinking that Deirdre has taught me this.


Margaret already knows we need help, and when Margaret brings out the troops, she doesn’t take half measures. Like General Grant. First she tried our eldest—Georgia, the practical idealist. She is most like her mother. She doesn’t think it’s worthwhile to fight authority. But she’ll subvert it, if given the chance. Georgy girl is in the middle of a project for her law firm. It’s going to be a few weeks before she can get free.

Next it was Eleanor. She was once my comrade in arms. She has now escaped to New York with dreams of being an actress—no. She’s already an actress of considerable talent. She simply can’t find jobs as often as she would like and so she’s fallen to the more disreputable and even less remunerative activity of writing plays. That’s my girl! The modeling gigs pay her share of the rent, and she’s still trying to believe in her father in the face of overwhelming social pressure to the contrary. The theatre world in New York has been on the left hand of the devil for a long time—it’s all union, all of the time—and she tries to avoid any references to me, lest they discover her roots. She was working this week but she can come up on the weekend and she’ll stay as long as she can.

Finally Margaret resorted to her last face card. Benjamin. Benny is always busy. I have no idea what he’s doing, but he seems to be well occupied doing it. I got a post card from him a couple of months ago. He was planning to be home for Christmas but now he’ll try to get here sooner. Now they all would.

I am thus reminded of all the sad women who think the fruit of their womb is no more than an appendix, to be removed whenever it gets a little swollen. Instead of being happy for my own children I will be unhappy for the one who never had the chance. That’s me. Whatever happens, don’t let the gods know you’re happy. Gods are a jealous lot and they’ll zap you.


Elly showed up at the shop just before one. She knows my habits. She browsed a little and then chatted with me while straightening the cards in the racks.

“What can I do?”

“Have lunch with me.”

“I planned on that. But what can I do here? Now? Later? Tomorrow? This week? As long as you need me?”

“You have the artistic touch. Make some signs. To do that, you’ll have to go out and buy some supplies.” I opened the register. “Here’s twenty bucks.”

She has always busied herself with much direction, and I was happy to see her.

“Drop me off on the way back from lunch. I’m hungry now.”


I sat with her at The Vesuvius to find out how things were going and why she was not working, and all the rest.

“Is it just more politics? Theatre politics? What is it?”

“No. Politics, a little. Mostly its just sex.”

‘Sex? You mean because you’re a woman?”

“No. Just sex. Man or woman. If you sleep with the right people you can get along pretty well.”


“Yeah. For instance, you remember your idea about writing scripts as short stories to sell products. I went to a producer with one example I made with my friend, Jackie. The one you met with purple hair, only it’s orange now.”

It was late for lunch and early for dinner so it was just the two of us sitting there talking about little things while Vito cleaned the counters and served us.

“We set up a couple of go-pros in a little cafe not much bigger than this and filmed the sequence twice from different angles. We spent a week preparing for the shoot at her apartment and then two hours in the coffee shop for sixty seconds worth of material when we had it patched together. We used the same place I took you to when you visited last winter. You know? Same guy you argued with. Remember?”

“The vegetarian who doesn’t like bacon?”

“He’s not a vegetarian. He just likes pigs. Anyway, He’s a nice guy and he let us use his place. It was great.”

“What was the problem? He wanted you to pay him in some alternative currency.”

“No. We paid him a hundred bucks for the time, which was a deal. He probably lost four times that much in business while we screwed around. I told you. He’s the nice guy. But then Jackie and I went to a producer she knows. He’s the real pig. We make the appointment at his office and he looks at the video and he’s all excited and thinks its great and then he asks us to come over to his place to discuss it with his associate producer. Jackie gives me this look. I know what it is, right away. The pig has been making insinuations from the moment I shook his hand. I tell him I can’t do that. Jackie gives me a real stare. Like, what am I doing? . . . After we left the office she says to me, how do I expect to get this to work? We don’t have any money. We can’t buy our way in. We have to use the resource we have. . . . So now I’ve lost a friend too.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. That’s the business I’m in. There are a hundred girls who’ll lay down to get a break, for every one that will stand up.”

“A hundred? Geez. No wonder most of the stuff they make, sucks.”

It’s not all of them, just most. Really. More often than not. I had a producer tell me—and it’s not all the producers, you understand; it’s directors, production assistants, you name it. Anyone that can open a door. But I had this one producer tell me—actually explain it to me. In advance. That was his pitch. By explaining the rules to me, he thought he would get me down that much faster. He says he went to business school up here at Babson College and he discovered he had a talent for making money. He was a ‘natural.’ His word, not mine. But after awhile, it was boring. There was nothing to it. And then a buddy of his told him about what he was doing in New York. And about the girls. A lot of the guys in the theatre in New York are gay. So there were more girls than he knew what to do with. Plenty to go around. Come on down! It changed his life. He said that. ‘It changed his life.’ And then he says, if I want the part in the play, that he could change mine too. . . .Straight out. Just like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I told mom about it and she wasn’t surprised. She’s had to deal with it too. But she had the property and the developers had to come to her.” I think Elly saw the look on my face because she quickly amended that picture. “She told me she never had to sleep with anyone to get what she wanted. Except you.”

“Geez. Your mother . . . So what are you going to do?”

“I have some letters out. I’m sending copies out. I’m still hoping we’ll come up with something. In the mean time, I have the modeling. Thing is, not me—what are you going to do?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I have some ideas. But I’m too old to start any grand projects.”

“What about your girl friend?”

“You mean Deirdre. What did your mother tell you?”

“I can’t tell you that. It was in confidence.”

“Well, confidentially, she’s not my girlfriend. And I don’t know what she wants to do. She’s been fired for trying to help me.”

“Mom says it wasn’t for that. It was just the Post cutting back again.”

“Maybe both. But she’s still young enough to do something else.”

“So are you.”

“I don’t feel that way. I’m feeling old.”

“Write more.”

“I write as much as I can now. There’s a limit. You’ve got to think about things before you write them down and then you have to think about them again. I’m not a fast writer.”

“I have an idea.”


“I can set up my go-pro cameras in the shop. During the sale. We’ll live stream the whole thing. Put it on Youtube. Let the whole world see what closing a bookshop is all about.”

“You think there are more than four or five bibliophile nuts in the world who would watch that?”

“At least four or five! There are people out there who watch street traffic.”

“Yeah, but they don’t read. What do I care about people that don’t read?”

“It’ll help. And it’ll be my own production. Let me do it!”



My bathroom is so small I keep the door open when I use it, not only for elbow room, but lest I suffocate there in a vulnerable moment, and too, when drying off after a shower, the ends of the towel would otherwise want to lick the toilet bowl clean. (I keep the toilet clean in any case, but the very idea of that is unappealing). It was for this reason that, while doing my morning absolutions, I could see a face, hands cupped to either cheek, at the window above my kitchen sink. I didn’t have my glasses on so there was no recognizing who it was. But with the lights off inside and the sun glaring, whoever was there couldn’t be seeing much of what little there was to see of me.

Of course, it could be anyone. The oil man. A meter reader. But instincts told me I was the object of their inquiry, so I took my time getting dressed, thinking anyone important who needed me urgently had my phone number.

But when I finally got to the window, I found that it was Benny sitting there on my salvaged patio furniture, one leg propped on the second chair, smoking a cigarette and enjoying the air.

He anticipated my first question as I came out the door.

“You changed your phone number.”

That was true. I’d sent the new one out to those concerned by email, but Ben can be hard to reach.

“I was being harassed.”

He got up and gave me a hug before shaking my hand.

“Make some coffee for me, will ya. I’m desperate. I had to catch a 4:30 bus out of Port Authority because they’ve gone and raised the price of tickets on the train again.”

I made an appropriate remark about government monopolies and went in to make a pot. Inside, Ben stood by and watched a moment before taking himself on a minute tour of the place.

“This is pitiful, Dad.”

I knew he was surveying my quarter.

“Yeah. I know. But it’s the cheapest pit-stop on the Hill, I think.”

“I thought New York was bad, but I’ve got a spare bedroom in Brooklyn that’s bigger than this. After you close the shop, maybe you could come down and bunk with me awhile until you get things sorted out.”

“Thanks. But no thanks. And what makes you think I’m closing the shop?”

“Mom called and told me.”

“How about your own job?”

“Ah! No problem. I quit. They wouldn’t give me the time off to come up, so I told them to fuck themselves. It’ll cost them a year’s wages to find and train someone else. But now, that’s their problem. I don’t like working for other people anyway. I think I’m going to go into business for myself.”

“Doing what?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“So you thought it was a good idea to quit before you had that figured out?”

“Yeah. I’ve been there three years. Something about the security of it all clouds the mind. I was starting to feel drugged. I want to travel. I’m thinking maybe that I’ll just roll into someplace someday and I’ll know right away that’s the thing.”

“Which means you broke up again with Denise.”

He did a basketball move on that.

“Whoosh! Yeah.”

“That’s the thing.”

“Right. Well, that’s what I’m going to do anyway. Just go. Make things happen.”

“Are you writing?”

“Yeah. Mostly for the same websites. But none of them are paying yet. So what about you. What are you going to do?”

“Funny you should ask. I usually think about that stuff when I’m in the shower in the morning. But until a couple of minutes ago, I didn’t know for sure. Now I do.”


“I’m going to do what you’re doing. I’ve got my truck. And the sleeping bag you gave me for Christmas. I think I’ll head west.”

“You want to go together?”

“That would be nice for me, but not for you. You need to be able to stretch out your own way. No. By myself. It’ll be good for me.”

“How about your girlfriend.”

That required a pause for breath. Suddenly things were moving along very quickly.

“Geez. Your mother even told you about Deirdre?”

“She was on the phone with me for two hours. I got everything.”

“I don’t know about Deirdre. I’m 68 years old. She’s fifty something.”

“Mom says she’s 56.”

“Yeah. Well. Whatever. What does Deidre need with an old guy on Social Security?”

“You won’t have to worry about that for much longer. They’re busy giving all your money away down in Washington.”

“Right. Well. I’ll work as I go along. I’ll find something.”

“It’s you that should be writing.”

“I do. I will. Every morning. I promise.”

Ben’s plan was to help me close up shop. Now this was the best plan I had.

Ben is as pale and skinny as I was once and has the full head of brown-dark hair I used to have, but thankfully he got his mother’s good looks.

He gets a kid’s look of mischief on his face sometimes, and I can only guess what he’s been up to.


Later, Ben was pulling boxing off the back shelves and laying them out in an aisle, one after the other, with the tops folded back.

“What’s all this then? It’s not books. It’s paper. Advertisements. It looks like stuff that was torn out of magazines.” He filtered one side of the contents with his fingers. “Brochures. Gas station maps. Post cards. Why do you have this stuff if you can’t sell it?”

I knew pretty well what it was, without looking.

“That booklet on the top there is a Baltimore Catechism. That’s what they used to give us when I was a kid in Catholic school.”

“It looks pretty grubby.”

“It is. Probably handled by another dozen snotty nosed kids who were only wishing the bell would ring so they could escape to the outdoors.”

“Why did you keep it then?”

“Look inside. You’ll see some eight year-old has written his own answers to the questions—between the lines. In the margins. Look at the penmanship! Can you imagine an eight year old writing as neatly as that today? They used to teach penmanship back then too. They used to think it was important that people could clearly communicate to one another.”

“You kept it for the penmanship?”

“I kept it for the answers . . . It reminds me.”

“Of what?”

“Of what religion is. If you wonder why so many people have kept their faith in socialism after all the misery it made of the Twentieth Century, you’ll have to look back even further for historical context, and ask yourself, why did so many hold on to their Catholic faith after most of Christianity was turned into a feudal con-game by Rome. All by itself, that was more than a thousand years of human degradation by way of fire and sword as they built their cathedrals and amassed their gold and took bribes for indulgences—purging dissidents, killing every man, woman and child in a village infected by some apostate priest, burning heretics at the stake, pulling their living bodies apart was they prayed—all that before the Reformation and then for more than another century after that, in the bloody struggle of protestants to break the Papal grip. Or why do Muslims hold fast to a philosophy that reduces half their population to chattel and the other half to an ignorant mob, treats non-believers like animals while promoting beheadings and suicide bombs in the marketplace, excuses rape and pillage, and all that after more than a twelve hundred years of such mayhem. By any historical calculus, with the formal religion of socialism still less than two hundred years old, we’ll be looking at another eight centuries of darkness before a dawn comes up on that. Maybe. Just maybe. Then again, I do think the cycle may be a little shorter this time around. Technology has made slaughter so much easier and quicker. And all the more complete. No secret valley deep enough to hide in. No island apart. There’s no vitamin D in caves and there’ll be no power and no Virgil to light the way to hades. The entire planet will be engulfed by the next conflagration. What remnant survives will likely have to start all over again. And then they’ll probably go ahead and make the same mistakes all over again.”

Ben, ever the optimist, stood in the aisle and listened to my rant before he scoffed at me. “We have spaceships. There’s a whole solar system out there!”

“Perhaps. Maybe. For a few. The lucky ones—or the cursed, depending on the way you look at it. Some may survive. But to have lost so much here on earth after a million years of evolution and suffering the misery of our past mistakes without learning enough to keep safe her at home seems a pity. And more especially tragic to lose the ephemera! God, I mourn the loss of ephemera, even if no one else will! Some days, it’s the ephemera that makes it all worth the effort. The match-books and post cards. The old typewriters. I already miss my old Hermes 2000. Hell, you can’t understand the 1950s without a ride in a ’52 Chevy pickup, or likely ever again smell the perfume leaded gasoline at the pump. They won’t be taking that to Mars. Nor the sour-metal smell of busted firecrackers splayed in smoky bits on an old asphalt road. And I’m pretty sure the barbeque and beer won’t be as good either. You’ll want to get all that now before they pass a law against it as an unwarranted pleasure. And you can never know what innocence really was until you’ve read a copy of Mad magazine, or pored over a Playboy center-fold from back in the day. There won’t be room for any of that in your spaceships! You think you can raise your own kids without all that, but you’d be wrong. It’s the true phlogiston that is in the soil of our lives and the perfumes the air we breath. The processed gas that will pass for the air that your children may know will never smell as sweet. That is, if they’re among the lucky ones. The others will just have to be content to serve as fertilizer here for some other smarter creature to evolve upon.”

Ben was exasperated. His jaw drops when he gets that way.

“Doom and gloom. Doom and fucking gloom. My whole fucking life I’ve been a dumping ground for your doom and gloom! It’s not going to happen! I won’t let it happen!”

I could not even offer him cold comfort. But I could take a measure of solace in his rebellion.

“I was hoping that you would. Maybe, if there are enough of you out there. Perhaps. But for myself, I’ve given up all hope for that. I’m sorry. I just want to see you and your sisters safe in my lifetime. That’s all I can try to accomplish now. If I’ve given you fair warning, you might be able to stand aside on higher ground when the deluge comes. But find the high ground, now. Please. And in the mean time, maybe you’ll know enough to enjoy what you have—what’s left of the good—and hold it a little more dear.”

He held the catechism open and was looking at the names written inside the cover. Students had to enter their names there on the lines at the start of each year’s class.

“The last name is yours! This was yours?”

“Yeah. I never turned it in because I’d written in it. I told them it was lost and we had to pay a dollar or something like that so they could buy a replacement.”

“These were your answers?”

I had to shrug that off. “Pretty feeble stuff. But I was only eight years old. It’s hard to remember what you were thinking when you were eight. But that’s a piece of ephemera that serves as a sort of a key for me. All of that stuff is only saved for that. Any one scrap of it can put me back in a frame of mind if I want it. A history book won’t come close. But I understand it’s all just trash to you. So when I’m gone, you can toss it. But for now, it stays with me. It goes to the warehouse along with the Ark of the Covenant.”

He shook his head, mostly at the cheap movie reference I think, and sealed the box with tape and slapped a blue sticker on to sides.


[to be continued]