He looks a bit like Shakespeare, or so they say. I see it. He’s an intelligent man, doesn’t deserve his cyclical life. Drunk wife, dancing around in a kimono with an umbrella that time, pawns furniture, he buys it back. She sells it again Friday and he starts again Monday. Sisyphus without the rock. Would wear the heart out of a stone. It was just after we saw the tiny coffin, white, Martin tried to turn the talk away from. Poor little thing in that coffin. Well out of it as Dedalus said. In the midst of life we are in death. And we all understand what that means perfectly well. Don’t we? I mean, I always believe. At least for me. Take Rudy for example. Sweet little dwarf body weak as putty. They say a mistake of nature. Meant nothing, better luck next time. He doesn’t have to. Or at least he will never. Hell with this, what was I saying? Death in the midst of life. Yes. Nabokov said the cradle rocks above an abyss. You see? Life is a pinpoint of light surrounded by eternitites of darkness. Where we came from, where we are going: the same place. Oh they look on suicide badly enough, greatest disgrace to have in a family, cowardly, temporary insanity was Cunningham’s charitable view. But I don’t know. It is a route at least. It’s one way to get there. Poor Papa. He was in a room with hunting pictures on the walls. At his hotel. The bottle was there and they said they thought he was asleep at first. But then saw the yellow streaks on his face. I didn’t want to look and see him differ from. And the letter. For my son Leopold. No more pain. Rattle his bones. Over the stones. He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns. Nobody owns.