Moise and the World of Reason Read Online Free PDF

a child of God called Moise and that she was enduring an existence impossible to sustain because her primary excellence in her vocation, the purity and austerity of it, made it psychologically impossible for her to exhibit during her lifetime. This reference to Moise and her work was noted by a friendly acquaintance of hers on the staff of
The Village Voice
and it was printed, the reference by Smith, in that gazette. Moise did not refer to this reference, never, but it was the first bit of real encouragement which she had received and it had, I infer from her announcement last night, made of Tony Smith of Hunter College and South Orange, New Jersey, and the world of Western Art, a God to Moise.
    I feel a bit of confusion coming on me and if I were on a plane there would surely be an announcement: “Please fasten seat belts, we are about to enter a bit of turbulence.”
    (I’ve never been on a plane but “the living nigger on ice” was often on them and he told me of these announcements which always amused him so that he would howl with laughter at them, he told me.)
    Now I have got to discontinue this thing for a while, even though I never ignore the possibility that some inadvertence, a sudden subway of sorts, may stop it permanently in its tracks as Mr. Eighty-seven at Bellevue.
    Rest, breathe, recover if you can, the cry is still
En avant
.

    I suppose it is simply and inescapably human to attribute all defections on the part of your loved one to some influence other than what is the commonest fact, an insufficiency in you to his requirements of a lover. Such an admission is quite inadmissable at first, so you attribute it to some external thing such as fever and the unsettling announcement party at Moise’s. This gives you an excuse to make all dignified and many undignified efforts to recover him from the seductor. “Seductor” is not a true word, I’m afraid, but never mind, let it pass. I’m sure you know what it means. Later on you will be obliged to accept that commonest truth of the matter, assuming there’s truth in matter, that he has simply latched on to a new and more magnetic attraction than you have presented to him, and that later-on moment is probably the moment when you stop being young, even though it may not whiten your hair at the temples prematurely or score its impact with deeper lines in your face.
    I did not feel at all young anymore when I entered Phoebe’s and looked all about, including the men’s room, and discovered nowhere in that oasis of chic on East Fourth Street a sign of Charlie and Big Lot on their vodka and hot chili date.
    After prowling the premises in this houndlike fashion, I inquired of the barman if Big Lot had been there with a long-haired boy.
    â€œBig Who?”
    â€œLot.”
    â€œNever heard of her.”
    I was only slightly comforted by the fact that the barman at Phoebe’s disclaimed any knowledge of Big Lot, whom I’d assumed to be known in all fashionable resorts both uptown and down, and the barman had even referred to him by a female pronoun.
    Well, there was no reason on the conscious level to continue along East Fourth, but possibly on the unconscious level, with which I am more familiar, it seemed appropriate to move closer to the Bowery. I was frightened across the street by a very tall, raggedy speed freak leading a reluctant dog past me with a metal chain that was not an ordinary leash but more like those things you see displayed in leather bars for the giving and receiving of correction. The tall frenzied man suddenly snatched the chain off the whining dog and began to lash the poor creature with it, apparently for its failure to keep pace with him. This was just under a streetlamp and I saw that the dog was covered with sores new and old, in fact his long muzzle was hairless and blood-stained.
    â€œStop it, stop it or I’ll report you!” I shouted.
    The dog-beater instantly lifted the