banknotes in the street, or from the floor of a shop, a cab, a bus, in the car park at the back of a rowdy pub â so many people have paused there â rendered careless, eccentric, helpless by their pleasures â and have burrowed into pockets and bags for their keys, have ended by dropping, losing everything as they search. This wasnât money which was yours and yet you kept it. Like a strangerâs little gift.
But there was no fault involved, not on your part.
And you would never damage an animal or a child. Unless, of course, it was to spare them greater hurts. And perhaps animals are frightened, sacrificed in the production of your food, even though you do everything reasonable to avoid this. You assuredly have good will, but also distractions â it is sometimes hard to apply yourself for othersâ sakes and to stay comprehensively informed. Child labour, for instance, can ooze into places you might not suspect and undoubtedly ruins lives, but you may unknowingly support it, buy its fruits. Nevertheless, if you heard of a young individual who was growing without the benefit of an adequate education, who was forced to work, who lost a finger in machinery, or an eye perhaps, then you would act. You would make complaints.
You have defended those weaker than yourself. You were pleased to discover you couldnât do otherwise.
You have a great capacity for kindness.
Thatâs why you give to charities â you canât donate to everyone, wouldnât be foolish about it, but you still try your best. And there have been times when you have enjoyed doing something for nothing and payment would have been unwelcome, if not insulting.
You like the way it feels when you can help.
Itâs clean.
It makes you feel useful and clean.
And you can rest assured that youâre more honest than most people.
Which means youâd prefer to be careful about your employment and it could only seem strange to you, quite terrible, if you slipped into earning your living by doing wrong.
You wouldnât choose to be associated with an unethical company, or criminal behaviour, deception.
So you wouldnât do this.
You wouldnât stand in a moderately spacious civic theatre (with poor acoustics) and address 750 people (the place is full to capacity this evening) having assured them that you have knowledge of their dead. You wouldnât present yourself as being controllably possessed, rattled by the voices from buried throats, gone flesh. You wouldnât peer off beyond yourself into what observers might believe to be a stirring but vaguely melancholy space in which youâll seek out messages of love.
You wouldnât do this.
But your book has to show you the man who would.
This man: tall, pale, golden-headed, and an ache in him thatâs plain when he raises his hands â long fingers, delicate, uneasy â and when he paces, rocks. He offers his audience â mainly female â a pain thatâs as bright as his hair, as his skin under the lights. He is alone for them and burning in the bleak space of the stage and any reasonable spectator might want to help him, to touch him, to believe.
And none of this happens by accident. He is not an accidental man. He is prepared. He is never, if he can avoid it, outside in the day â night walks at home and sunscreen with the homburg when heâs on the road. No red meat, not ever â rarely meat in any form â a diet he constrains to thin essentials, minimums, as poor in iron as can be survivable. The anaemia refines him, tunes him, lets him flare.
Because appearances matter. Everyone judges the cover before the book.
The man wears a good suit, elegant, his tastes beginning to turn more and more expensive. A quiet tie which he may loosen but not remove. And the jacket stays on, no matter what. Dark, hard leather shoes with a good shine, an uncompromising impact at each step. Dark socks. Plain cufflinks. Shirts
But there was no fault involved, not on your part.
And you would never damage an animal or a child. Unless, of course, it was to spare them greater hurts. And perhaps animals are frightened, sacrificed in the production of your food, even though you do everything reasonable to avoid this. You assuredly have good will, but also distractions â it is sometimes hard to apply yourself for othersâ sakes and to stay comprehensively informed. Child labour, for instance, can ooze into places you might not suspect and undoubtedly ruins lives, but you may unknowingly support it, buy its fruits. Nevertheless, if you heard of a young individual who was growing without the benefit of an adequate education, who was forced to work, who lost a finger in machinery, or an eye perhaps, then you would act. You would make complaints.
You have defended those weaker than yourself. You were pleased to discover you couldnât do otherwise.
You have a great capacity for kindness.
Thatâs why you give to charities â you canât donate to everyone, wouldnât be foolish about it, but you still try your best. And there have been times when you have enjoyed doing something for nothing and payment would have been unwelcome, if not insulting.
You like the way it feels when you can help.
Itâs clean.
It makes you feel useful and clean.
And you can rest assured that youâre more honest than most people.
Which means youâd prefer to be careful about your employment and it could only seem strange to you, quite terrible, if you slipped into earning your living by doing wrong.
You wouldnât choose to be associated with an unethical company, or criminal behaviour, deception.
So you wouldnât do this.
You wouldnât stand in a moderately spacious civic theatre (with poor acoustics) and address 750 people (the place is full to capacity this evening) having assured them that you have knowledge of their dead. You wouldnât present yourself as being controllably possessed, rattled by the voices from buried throats, gone flesh. You wouldnât peer off beyond yourself into what observers might believe to be a stirring but vaguely melancholy space in which youâll seek out messages of love.
You wouldnât do this.
But your book has to show you the man who would.
This man: tall, pale, golden-headed, and an ache in him thatâs plain when he raises his hands â long fingers, delicate, uneasy â and when he paces, rocks. He offers his audience â mainly female â a pain thatâs as bright as his hair, as his skin under the lights. He is alone for them and burning in the bleak space of the stage and any reasonable spectator might want to help him, to touch him, to believe.
And none of this happens by accident. He is not an accidental man. He is prepared. He is never, if he can avoid it, outside in the day â night walks at home and sunscreen with the homburg when heâs on the road. No red meat, not ever â rarely meat in any form â a diet he constrains to thin essentials, minimums, as poor in iron as can be survivable. The anaemia refines him, tunes him, lets him flare.
Because appearances matter. Everyone judges the cover before the book.
The man wears a good suit, elegant, his tastes beginning to turn more and more expensive. A quiet tie which he may loosen but not remove. And the jacket stays on, no matter what. Dark, hard leather shoes with a good shine, an uncompromising impact at each step. Dark socks. Plain cufflinks. Shirts
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