Confessions of Westchester County by Barry Malzberg

Author:Barry Malzberg [Malzberg, Barry]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B000M78DYQ
Publisher: The Olympia Press
Published: 1971-11-14T18:30:00+00:00

XII

I enter the rectory, and instantly sense desertion. I have lived with Hilarion for too long not to know what has happened: he has dealt with the situation in his own way, made his own obscure preparations. It is quite empty; all of his possessions are gone. The church is locked and bolted, but somehow one miserable penitent has managed to get by the bars (or perhaps was locked within, it is impossible to tell with these people) and hands clasped, deep in meditation, seems to be unaware of a situation which might otherwise end only in starvation and death. I decide not to deal with this for the time being and instead go to the modest study where Hilarion and I have spent so many fruitful hours. On the desk, as I expect, lies a sealed envelope addressed to me. I open it and read Hilarion's last statement.

(I point out in all fairness that I have always despised the epistolary technique, which seems to me to be nothing more than a device exploited by weak authors to escape the narrative mechanics of dialogue, scene, characterization and so on which would otherwise defy them—the construction of a novel without furniture, so to speak. For this reason I have always sedulously avoided it in my own journals, although the letters which the ladies have written me are myriad and would of themselves compose a fine appendix.... But I felt that a document of the importance ascribed to this journal should not seek the epistolary answer to complex problems. All this to one side, I do have a problem here: Hilarion wrote me a final letter and I read it. What am I supposed to do? paraphrase Hilarion? This would hardly be fair to my adoptive father who wrote a superb if rather cracked prose. Skip over it? But Hilarion's influence upon my life has been prime and no completist can ignore this significant statement. Try to dramatize it with props, perhaps an auditor or two to whom I can read the letter while occupying myself with cigarettes, ashtrays, table legs, rugs and so on? But there was no one except the inexplicable penitent, and it might have taken hours to open up the church if the keys were not readily available. No, no: I stood and I read the letter. This is not dramatic but it substitutes for the bellows of drama the infinitely sweeter music of the truth and it is the truth which I am seeking in these final notes. Truth! The truth! Sweet, sweet reason!)

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