Now, about that other one, the sober one,
(To be objective, for a change, about one’s public self. After
all, each of us has that stupider side)
Yes, you have seen him around, that self-appointed Dr. Jekyll
who shares (reluctantly) by day this name and being with
his Mr. Hyde (as he would put it) of the night,
Yes, him,
That fellow with this face, this voice, and even (by some crash
ing magic we will not go into now) possessed with a few
of the same superficial traits,
That one whose first awakening voice is a hoarse, barbaric blast
(you know against whom), who damns the excess (how
ever moderate), deplores the extravagance and winces (as
he reaches for the aspirin) at the smallest memory,
That fellow with the curdled eyes and not quite steady hands
(poor guy, he must be slipping), to say nothing of a dis
position that is really a wonderful, wonderful thing in
itself,
Yes, well, now that you have the picture, take him,
And all his pathetic protests and his monumental vows to
abstain, totally, forthwith (these need not concern us here)
(Two more of the same)
But, more especially, his pious recantations and denials, his
ceaseless libel of one who is (why dodge the issue?) his
mental, physical, and yes, moral superior
But do you begin to see the point?
Because the point is this (he talks of self-respect, and decency
is a favorite word of his), the point is this:
Does he think that he is the only one?
Does he think that he is the only man on earth who has felt this
thing?
The only person ever to sit and watch the rain drive against the
lighted windows, revolving at once some private trouble
and knowing, for everything that breathes, a cold, imper
sonal dismay?
From which (drinking, he says, is just an escape) he searches
daily, down a thousand familiar avenues, for an escape that
simply does not exist,
(Those Chinese dreams he palms as reality, those childish ambi
tions, and then that transparent guile of his)
That fool (who must, it seems, be suffered) (but not gladly),
that bore (and who has tolerated most? Has overlooked
most? Which of us has forgiven most?), that fool in love
with some frowsy fate that plays with him as a cat plays
with a mouse,
That fool (and this, at last, is the question), what would his
decency amount to, but for the simple decency of this
escape?
And if this is not true,
If this is not the final truth, then no one here is drunk, drunk
as a sovereign Lord of France,
If this is not the inescapable truth, then the night is not dark
but bright as day, and the lights along the street are not
really made of burning pearls and rubies dipped in liquid
fire,
If this is not true, the truth itself, as hard as hell and stronger
than death,
Then time does not fly but life grows younger by the hour, and
the rain is not falling, falling, everywhere falling,
And there are not, here, only pleasant sights and sounds and
a pleasant warmth
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