realms. Books from all over the universe are here. The tethered balloons are all outside. Most of us have come here in usual modes of transportation, but this year balloons borne aloft are the most favoured way.
2
Towards the evening a bald man with a rocklike head was seen walking through the fair. He was a hired hand for hard jobs. He was next seen sitting on a wooden chair, giving an account, cap in hand, to the one who had commissioned him. He had done satisfactorily what he had been told to do, making everyone a suspect. It was now impossible to separate the innocent from the guilty.
When he had finished giving his report, the hired hand disappeared into the unsuspecting crowd. The rigged condition lingered, but it meant nothing, it changed nothing. For here, in this fair, the only thing that matters is the charmed condition of books that endure. It is impossible, in the long run, to rig a book into a magic condition, or make it give off a light it does not have.
3
And so the lady of the fair wandered among the flowering books untouched by the scandal. And the scandal itself was soon dissolved by the higher truth and the beautiful light that protects this place from all evil.
The air is clear again. The books breathe out a timeless peace and an eternal youth into the festival. It is as though nothing untoward had happened here, or ever could.
The Racial
Colourist
THIS HAPPENED DURING the war. A group of us were sitting on a wall, and I was trying to get these two people to meet. But one of them was a racial colourist. He had a chart in one hand and paste on his fingertips. He told me there was no way he could shake hands with a third-rate white man. I was surprised, because this chap too was white, and he would receive a hug from me but he wouldn’t touch another white man whom he considered inferior. The other man was so offended that he stormed off. I went after him, but he walked away so fast he disappeared. As I went back to the group, I became aware for the first time of the danger of my position.
The man who began it all had gone. I stood among the rest, ill at ease. I had no way of telling who was a racial colourist. Then I noticed a white youth in the place of the man who had gone. He wore little round glasses. He kept looking at me in a peculiar way. I tried to ignore him. A girl went past and waved at me. She was someone I knew. The youth with the glasses consulted his colour chart and then made an urgent call with a walkie-talkie.
‘Yes, sir. He said hello to one of ours. Yes, yes, sir.’
It was clear he was monitoring the contact I had with people of accepted racial purity. I became aware that he belonged to a shadowy organisation. What else do they do? Do they murder people like me? I felt unsafe. I hurried away from the group. The bespectacled youth, with his chart, and his walkie-talkie, came after me. I crossed a field, at a near run. He picked up speed. Where was I running to, where could I run to, where was safe for me? It grew dark. The chap kept on my trail, pursuing me. I lost him across a whispering maze of fields. Soon it was night. Then suddenly I saw him in the distance, with a torch in his hand. He walked alongside the nocturnal silence of a village green. Behind him, revealed in a blue flash of lightning, was a quaint provincial town. A voice within me said:
‘Go towards him. Don’t run away. Go menacingly, purposefully. He’s more scared of you than you are of him.’
So I stopped running. And as I strode towards him, with a mean purpose in me, he appeared to hesitate. When I neared him I gazed into his eyes. Behind his glasses, he had scared, timid eyes and an ordinary harmless face which I didn’t have the heart to hurt in any way. I brushed past him in the dark. I went towards the village. I didn’t look back. I didn’t care any more.
The Black
Russian
THE FIRST TIME we failed but, this time, we will succeed in filming our version of
Eugene Onegin
, in splendid
2
Towards the evening a bald man with a rocklike head was seen walking through the fair. He was a hired hand for hard jobs. He was next seen sitting on a wooden chair, giving an account, cap in hand, to the one who had commissioned him. He had done satisfactorily what he had been told to do, making everyone a suspect. It was now impossible to separate the innocent from the guilty.
When he had finished giving his report, the hired hand disappeared into the unsuspecting crowd. The rigged condition lingered, but it meant nothing, it changed nothing. For here, in this fair, the only thing that matters is the charmed condition of books that endure. It is impossible, in the long run, to rig a book into a magic condition, or make it give off a light it does not have.
3
And so the lady of the fair wandered among the flowering books untouched by the scandal. And the scandal itself was soon dissolved by the higher truth and the beautiful light that protects this place from all evil.
The air is clear again. The books breathe out a timeless peace and an eternal youth into the festival. It is as though nothing untoward had happened here, or ever could.
The Racial
Colourist
THIS HAPPENED DURING the war. A group of us were sitting on a wall, and I was trying to get these two people to meet. But one of them was a racial colourist. He had a chart in one hand and paste on his fingertips. He told me there was no way he could shake hands with a third-rate white man. I was surprised, because this chap too was white, and he would receive a hug from me but he wouldn’t touch another white man whom he considered inferior. The other man was so offended that he stormed off. I went after him, but he walked away so fast he disappeared. As I went back to the group, I became aware for the first time of the danger of my position.
The man who began it all had gone. I stood among the rest, ill at ease. I had no way of telling who was a racial colourist. Then I noticed a white youth in the place of the man who had gone. He wore little round glasses. He kept looking at me in a peculiar way. I tried to ignore him. A girl went past and waved at me. She was someone I knew. The youth with the glasses consulted his colour chart and then made an urgent call with a walkie-talkie.
‘Yes, sir. He said hello to one of ours. Yes, yes, sir.’
It was clear he was monitoring the contact I had with people of accepted racial purity. I became aware that he belonged to a shadowy organisation. What else do they do? Do they murder people like me? I felt unsafe. I hurried away from the group. The bespectacled youth, with his chart, and his walkie-talkie, came after me. I crossed a field, at a near run. He picked up speed. Where was I running to, where could I run to, where was safe for me? It grew dark. The chap kept on my trail, pursuing me. I lost him across a whispering maze of fields. Soon it was night. Then suddenly I saw him in the distance, with a torch in his hand. He walked alongside the nocturnal silence of a village green. Behind him, revealed in a blue flash of lightning, was a quaint provincial town. A voice within me said:
‘Go towards him. Don’t run away. Go menacingly, purposefully. He’s more scared of you than you are of him.’
So I stopped running. And as I strode towards him, with a mean purpose in me, he appeared to hesitate. When I neared him I gazed into his eyes. Behind his glasses, he had scared, timid eyes and an ordinary harmless face which I didn’t have the heart to hurt in any way. I brushed past him in the dark. I went towards the village. I didn’t look back. I didn’t care any more.
The Black
Russian
THE FIRST TIME we failed but, this time, we will succeed in filming our version of
Eugene Onegin
, in splendid
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