Oh weeping God, the things I married into. Drunken accountant and his brother. Stephen the artist visiting them, couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that? Nuncle Richie and Crissie, papa’s little bedpal, his lump of love. And how does that visit go? I’ll tell you, by Christ, same every time. Stephen rings the bell and that cross-eyed Walter with his sir yes sir no sir sir checks for bill collectors, repo depot, summons servers then lets Stephen in to sit in the only chair. Offer up the back ache pills, that’s all there is. And then what? Drunk in the morning Ritchie holding forth in his house of decay. And and and and how is Uncle Si? Stephen says his uncle is a Judge, his uncle is a general. You’re awfully holy Stephen, aren’t you. But you will never be a saint. You prayed to the Blessed Virgin to spare you from drink and to the Devil to spare women from clothes. You’d sell your soul for that, shouting Naked Women! Naked Women! from the top of a city bus. Cry it to the rain kid. And what about that. What about what? You’d read two pages each of seven books every night then bow to yourself in the mirror. Stars in your eyes. Applause! You think no one saw. House not that big kid. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! And where are those books you were going to write with letters for titles? Have your read his P? Yes but I prefer U! FW is wonderful but don’t read SU. You were going to write on everything that can be known and the critics would say when one reads the words of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once won. And once one has won the hearts of the one who reads the one that one has won, then one may write one more one like that one but not like the other one, you know the one. Jesus wept, and no wonder by Christ.