punished me. I read it all the way through, and do you know what it said on the bottom of the last page?"
" 'Then she awoke and found it had all been a horrible dream.' "
"Worse than that. It said, 'End of Volume One.' "
"And you were never able to find Volume Two."
"Never. Not that I made searching for it my life's work. But I would have liked to know how it all came out. There were times over the years when that's what kept me from jumping out the window. I'm not talking about the book, I'm talking about life. Wanting to know how it all comes out."
I said, "You really look beautiful tonight."
"Why, thank you," she said. "What brought that on?"
"I was just struck by it. Watching the play of emotions on your face. You're a beautiful woman, but sometimes it all shows- the strength, the softness, everything."
"You old bear," she said, and sat down on the couch next to me. "Keep saying sweet things like that and I've got a pretty good idea how tonight's going to turn out."
"So have I."
"Oh? Give me a kiss, then, and we'll see if you're right."
Afterward, as we were lying side by side, she said, "You know, when I was saying earlier that the club was a real guy thing, I wasn't just making war-between-the-sexes jokes. It's very much a male province, getting together to work out a relationship with mortality. You boys like to look at the big picture."
"And girls just want to have fun?"
"And pick out drapes," she said, "and exchange recipes, and talk about men."
"And shoes."
"Well, shoes are important. You're an old bear. What do you know about shoes?"
"Precious little."
"Exactly." She yawned. "I'm making it sound as though women's concerns are trivial, and I don't think that for a minute. But I do believe we take shorter views. Can you think of a single female philosopher? Because I can't."
"I wonder why that is."
"It's probably biological, or anthropological, anyway. When you guys finished hunting and gathering, you could sit around the campfire and think long thoughts. Women didn't have time for that. We had to be more centered on home and hearth." She yawned again. "I could formulate a theory," she said, "but I'm one of those practical broads, and I'm going to sleep. You work it out, okay?"
I don't know that I worked anything out, but a few minutes later I said, "What about Hannah Arendt? And Susan Sontag? Wouldn't you call them philosophers?"
I didn't get an answer. Ms. Practicality was sleeping.
6
In the morning I deposited Lewis Hildebrand's check and walked over to the main library at Fifth and Forty-second. A young woman with the unfocused energy of a marijuana smoker got me set up at a table and showed me how to thread the microfiche rolls into the scanner. It took me a couple of tries to get the hang of it, but before long I was all caught up in it, lost in yesterday's news.
The next thing I knew it was almost 2:30. I bought a stuffed pita from one sidewalk vendor and an iced tea from another and sat on a bench in Bryant Park, just behind the library. For several years the little park had flourished as the epicenter of the midtown drug trade. It got so no one went into it but the dealers and their customers, and it had degenerated into a nasty and dangerous eyesore.
Just over a year ago it had been born again, with a couple of million dollars spent to re-create it. An architect's heroic vision had been brought to life, and now the park was a showplace, and an absolute oasis in that part of town. The junkies were gone, the dealers were gone, the lawn was lush and green, and beds of red and yellow tulips made you forget where you were.
The city's falling apart. The water mains keep bursting, the subways break down, the streets are cratered with potholes. Much of the population is housed in rotting tenements, scheduled for demolition sixty years ago and still standing. The housing projects that went up after the war are crumbling themselves now, in worse shape than the hovels they were built to
" 'Then she awoke and found it had all been a horrible dream.' "
"Worse than that. It said, 'End of Volume One.' "
"And you were never able to find Volume Two."
"Never. Not that I made searching for it my life's work. But I would have liked to know how it all came out. There were times over the years when that's what kept me from jumping out the window. I'm not talking about the book, I'm talking about life. Wanting to know how it all comes out."
I said, "You really look beautiful tonight."
"Why, thank you," she said. "What brought that on?"
"I was just struck by it. Watching the play of emotions on your face. You're a beautiful woman, but sometimes it all shows- the strength, the softness, everything."
"You old bear," she said, and sat down on the couch next to me. "Keep saying sweet things like that and I've got a pretty good idea how tonight's going to turn out."
"So have I."
"Oh? Give me a kiss, then, and we'll see if you're right."
Afterward, as we were lying side by side, she said, "You know, when I was saying earlier that the club was a real guy thing, I wasn't just making war-between-the-sexes jokes. It's very much a male province, getting together to work out a relationship with mortality. You boys like to look at the big picture."
"And girls just want to have fun?"
"And pick out drapes," she said, "and exchange recipes, and talk about men."
"And shoes."
"Well, shoes are important. You're an old bear. What do you know about shoes?"
"Precious little."
"Exactly." She yawned. "I'm making it sound as though women's concerns are trivial, and I don't think that for a minute. But I do believe we take shorter views. Can you think of a single female philosopher? Because I can't."
"I wonder why that is."
"It's probably biological, or anthropological, anyway. When you guys finished hunting and gathering, you could sit around the campfire and think long thoughts. Women didn't have time for that. We had to be more centered on home and hearth." She yawned again. "I could formulate a theory," she said, "but I'm one of those practical broads, and I'm going to sleep. You work it out, okay?"
I don't know that I worked anything out, but a few minutes later I said, "What about Hannah Arendt? And Susan Sontag? Wouldn't you call them philosophers?"
I didn't get an answer. Ms. Practicality was sleeping.
6
In the morning I deposited Lewis Hildebrand's check and walked over to the main library at Fifth and Forty-second. A young woman with the unfocused energy of a marijuana smoker got me set up at a table and showed me how to thread the microfiche rolls into the scanner. It took me a couple of tries to get the hang of it, but before long I was all caught up in it, lost in yesterday's news.
The next thing I knew it was almost 2:30. I bought a stuffed pita from one sidewalk vendor and an iced tea from another and sat on a bench in Bryant Park, just behind the library. For several years the little park had flourished as the epicenter of the midtown drug trade. It got so no one went into it but the dealers and their customers, and it had degenerated into a nasty and dangerous eyesore.
Just over a year ago it had been born again, with a couple of million dollars spent to re-create it. An architect's heroic vision had been brought to life, and now the park was a showplace, and an absolute oasis in that part of town. The junkies were gone, the dealers were gone, the lawn was lush and green, and beds of red and yellow tulips made you forget where you were.
The city's falling apart. The water mains keep bursting, the subways break down, the streets are cratered with potholes. Much of the population is housed in rotting tenements, scheduled for demolition sixty years ago and still standing. The housing projects that went up after the war are crumbling themselves now, in worse shape than the hovels they were built to
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