Friday evening after downtown

“What of your writing,” the publisher asked, a friend, not at all judgemental.  No money in the product yet. Questioning a passage shared over coffee. The horrible ‘would you read this bit?” Only done for a friend. They both wore tweed jackets and had been to universities where the women were still remembered.  Marriages and divorces had followed. They were older but there was still light in their eyes.

‘I don’t like it.’ Too self indulgence. Plagued by old resentments. War lost or won. But ancient none the less. I want to focus on the girl and the therapy but the therapist is loud like and elephant or giraffe on the set of Shakespeare. 

“Have you edited yourself?” He asked.  He’d ordered latte.  Said it reminded him of Paris. I was drinking americano with cream.  When I thought of Paris, I thought of her, the sky light and the moon.  We both remembered places by the women.  He talked of drinking cafe au lait’s on the West Bank discussing art of the ‘ordesay’ He’d once told me of that time.  His voice had been husky.  I guess my own changed timbre when I thought of her and moon and ginger tea.

“I write a draft. Everything is a draft. I spent years writing with the idea that there’d be an editor like D H Lawrence or Hemingway’s editor. I imagined the editor as the translator. They’d translate the Hunter S. Thomson gonzo journalism into something that would sell. Make Hallmark cards of yesterday’s Picasso.  Even I only like Vonnegut knowing that he shaved so much dross off the finished product. Was that him or his editor.  

“I liked your articles in the paper. You had an editor then, didn’t you?” He asked nibbling on the ginger bread cookie his friend had brought with the two coffees.  Slim wages for reading a page of writing.  He made more at the office. But here was different.  They were on the street. Street people and those who just passed through were there.  

‘I loved the editor.  Kindest most particular man I ever knew.  I sent him a handful of pages, drivel I’d written in a rage late some night about government and war , when it was becoming obviously they just made stuff up.  All of it Olympian.  The place agreed and the terms somehow manageable. I’d called it Desert Storm Arms Bazaar but was livid at my own stupidity. I thought it was before the UN and Roosevelt and the realization that there was as much money in rebuilding as tearing down. A wet war or a dry war and rarely an arctic war.  He was kind enough to send it back with a note. “I don’t think you want to publish this Bill”.  No doubt that man kept me out of jail.  I miss him.  

“Is he still alive?  

“I doubt it . He was 20 years older than me back then, wise in a C.S. Lewis kind of way but more a Somersert Maugham sort. Did you read Somerset Maughan?’

‘The doctor, like the Jurassic Park fellow. Never practiced but wrote the most amazing stories and plays.  Of Human Bondage, was his famous one but I liked most the one where they were on a ship going to India back in the days of London and Mombay before that Empire staggered and fell. And thank you for the ginger cookie . It was awfully good.” He said smiling and finishing the last bit.

“Yes , that’s him.  He was gay. I never knew.  Liked to cruise the docks for rough young seaman, “ I said 

“I never knew. Kind of like Byron in Greece.”

“Yes.  The thing is I never knew and thought there must be a tell. I was quite surprised when I later read some autobiographical bit written in old age.  Who knows really.  That was the attraction of the age of rationalism , the intellectuals, their writing was all fiction.  So completely alien to their own lives No obligations to be consistent. Not like the present .  I liked Paul Johnson book Intellectuals mostly for the gossip.  His companion piece the ‘Creators’ wasn’t at all juicy and sort of flopped by comparison. I was rather amuse d when it turned out he liked to be spanked by some long term mistress. It came out when he was getting some award for celebrating the family.  Sad really, like Lawrence Seven Pillars of of Wisdom.  Totally into S&M after coming back from Arabia.”  Standing, I reached for my blue wool long coat.

My friend pulled on his puffy winter jacket and zippered it up as we prepared to leave.

“I think I liked it better somewhat not knowing the authors.  I rather enjoyed a book written by a woman under a man’s name. Today she’d be all the rage but likely it would turn out she was a trans or something with a pet anaconda.”.

“It used to be alright for writers to be eccentric but not since the totalitarians.  The only eccentrics left are the visual artists and the classical violinist.  Everyone else has to fear for their lives with art.  That’s why I’d like an editor again. ‘

“Perhaps you could.  But what do I know. With self publishing I’m only a corporate as like fellow. It’s like the cookie cutter stars. The money men want a sure thing so it’s Ben Hur with robots and some black lady playing Ben this month and an Eskimo next month.  Publishing isn’t about finding the artist.  It’s lost it’s appeal like most everything else.  

‘We’re just getting older and jaded.  The fact is. I ‘m still happy writing. Imagine all the great works that are in the endless storage lockers in decaying cardboard boxes.’

They were on the street.  Night time. Traffic and jostling people. Staying close to be sure to hear each other.

“I love the archeological reports.  A bloke found frozen or stuck in the mud, the only one of his kind, not Brad Pitt or Nicole Kidman.  But as likely a Barney Miller.  The burials are better sources of the rich and beautiful but thousands of years later there’s little left. No trace of Jesus.  No trace of Mohammed.  Atilla the Hun gone but at least Ghengis Khan and his brothers slept with enough women they left a gene variation over most of Asia.’

“I don’t think our books will be for posterity. That Tar movie was good for that . Kate Blanchet was remarkable. But Bach compared to Chaucer remains intelligible.  I was reading Hebrew and saw that so much misinterpretation has occurred given the intrinsic nature of the language itself.  There once was no dictionary.’

“At least not Wikipedia.”

Yes, well here’s my car.  Keep writing old friend.  I wouldn’t worry about editing so much. Elon Musk will have some AI for that when we all move to Mars if we live so long.  

At that he climbed into his Black Range Rover  as I waved and carried on to my British racing car green Mini thank ful for the little rally car’s easy parking and mobility in the city.  

It was a good night.  Damned if the coffee wasn’t going to keep me awake. The dog would be glad to have me home if only for a chance to check his pee mail and leave his own replies on bushes and pavement.  Lucky mutt doesn’t even think about editors.  

Just for today.  Carpe diem.  The page is written and done.  The hand moves on.  She told me the moon tonight was called the Crow’s Moon.  It was almost as big as the moon in Paris.