The Moon In Its Flight Read Online Free PDF

cake and a teal-blue candle that had been “handcrafted.” I kept still. Making love that night, she began to cry, and I thought of the foreman and his fantastic wife. Perhaps he had been telling the truth, after all.
    The next few years are a blur of the most disparate things, all of them, however, very much the same in essence. My Jon Vie girl left me one night in a bar when I began to insult her because she had been talking incessantly about Saul Bellow. “Fuck you and your mockie writers,” I said, or words to that effect. “Them Jew writers don’t speak for us proletariats and blue-collar woikers.” I don’t know why I said this: I have nothing against Saul Bellow; I’ve never even read him.
    At about the time of this unpleasantness, I began to write again, but found it unsatisfying, both as act and product. I thought that I might write a detective story and get enough money to leave my job and go somewhere, but I couldn’t get past the first chapter. What made me quit the whole thing was coming across a magazine one day in the 8th St. Bookshop; in it, there was a poem by Benjamin Stein. I can’t remember all of the poem, but it was cast in a curious and affected language, a kind of modernist cant then abounding. The first few lines ran:
I touch ya, ya touch
me, yer bellie an mine.
ole catullus wuz rite
1,000,000 kisses …
    On the contributors’ page, it said that Mr. Stein was an “ex-professor of English now living in the Bay Area with his wife and son.” I can’t express the feeling of defeat that this little poem carried into my very spirit. I did understand, however, that my own aborted “return to writing” had the closest affinities to this ridiculous trash of Ben’s.
    I didn’t go back to work the next day, nor the next, and then I went in to collect my pay and tell the boss that I had to leave for Chicago because of a family emergency. I lived frugally on some money I had saved, supplemented by occasional freelance proofreading jobs, looked out the window, and mentally composed hundreds of letters to Ben and Clara. But they were impossible to write, filled, as they would have to be, with no facts at all. I suppose I was vaguely ashamed of myself.
    About six weeks before the last of my savings ran out, I got into a silly conversation with some idiot I had known for years. He was buying the drinks and I, in a sponger’s honesty, kept telling him, as we got drunk, that I could not buy back. Somehow, we made plans to collaborate on a play that would exploit the ludicrous side of the flower children. “A winner, man, a winner! Maybe we could get a goddamn grant and do it in the parks even!” So we became collaborators, and I moved in with him after explaining my wretched financial status. Oh, well, not to go into it, but I began to carry on with his girl, who was always conveniently at home when he was not. She was a true Miss Post Toasties, white teeth, blue eyes, sunny California hair—ah, dear God. She, of course, told him of our indiscretions after we had had a bitter argument one night over the ultimate artistic value of the Beatles. The Beatles! You can see that I had gone beyond foolishness.
    He threw me out, and I took a room by the week in the Hotel Albert until I could get up the nerve to write Ben and ask him for enough money to put down as security and the first month’s rent on a shotgun flat on Avenue c. It struck me as I wrote him that I had no one else to write to. I didn’t expect him to send me the money, but two weeks later he did, a money order for a hundred and fifty dollars, and a note: Peace. The letter was postmarked from Venice, California, another outpost of the lost battalion. I moved into the new place, started working temporary office jobs, and recovered some of my solvency. I even managed to send Ben ten or fifteen dollars a week to pay off the debt. Some months passed, during which time I heard no more from Ben, nor from Clara, either. My experience had got me