says. “When you haven’t had so much to drink.” He nods, then reaches his arms around her and rests his hands in their accustomed place below her breasts. As he falls asleep, Harrelson realizes that, after all, they are friends. Meredith does not think he will ever be a husband. Probably she is right. He does not have it in him to take care of another human being. It will never happen. As he drifts over, Harrelson has a premonition that he may not live for long. With what resistance he has left, he dismisses the idea as weakness, a bout of self-pity.
As soon as he is asleep, he finds himself in the company of his familiars. The faces that surround him are illuminated from within, and what they say is articulated in the language of angel speech. One of them welcomes him by saying, “What two time fine,” and another replies with “And certainly certainly more sunsets provided than last February.” These angels have no interest whatever in meaning. They say whatever pops into their heads. But it hardly matters because they gather around him, all smiles, and are pleased to be in his company. Some dispense with words and speak in music. Archaic joy washes over him. One angel detaches himself from the rest and says, “John, you are quite a poor sort,” and it is meant as a compliment. Harrelson accepts the compliment. He feels another one of them bend down and kiss him lightly on the head. He is being gathered up.
But no: at once there is a point on the horizon, a point insistent with earthly magnetism, drawing Harrelson away toward the world, the real world that made Plato so unhappy, and he wakes up, hungover, in Meredith’s arms, the sun rising orange over a field of snow. It is daytime, and Meredith is kissing him, and telling him he must go home now.
Surprised by Joy
1
BECAUSE THEIR PSYCHIATRIST had recommended it, they both began to keep journals. Jeremy’s was Woolworth-stationery drab, and Harriet’s was sea-blue with the title “A Blank Book” printed in gold script in the upper right-hand corner. Thinking that pleasant images would relieve the tone of what was to follow, she sketched a wren in flight, a Victorian lamppost, and an ash tree on the first page. Then she changed her mind and blacked the drawings out. There weren’t any drawings in the book Jeremy used. His writing was tiny and defiant. His first sentence, which was undated, read: “Benson told us it would help if we wrote down our thoughts, but I don’t have any thoughts, and besides, the fact is that I don’t feel like writing a goddamn thing.” That was the end of the first entry.
One night Jeremy came home and found all the silverware—knives, forks, spoons, gravy bowls, and ladles—lined up according to type on the living-room carpet in front of the Hide-A-Bed sofa. Harriet said she wanted to do an inventory, to make sure the place settings were all present and accounted for. She threatened to count all the dishes, and all the books. A week later when he arrived home she was standing on her head with her legs crossed and her knees positioned against the wall. He put down his briefcase, hung up his coat, and sat in his chair. “So,” he said. “What’s this?”
“An article I read says it helps.” Upside down, she attempted a smile.
“Standing on your head.”
“Yeah. Think about it: the brain under stress needs more blood, the cerebral cortex especially. The article says that when you stand up you feel an instant of physical exhilaration.” She closed her eyes. “The plumber came out this morning. The faucet’s fixed.”
“Physical exhilaration.” He turned away from her to stare out at the street, where two children were roaring by on their Big Wheels.
“They say you’ll feel better.”
“Right. What article did you say this was?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “It sounds like Parade magazine. How much did the plumber charge? God, I could use a drink. I have the most amazing willpower.” He
As soon as he is asleep, he finds himself in the company of his familiars. The faces that surround him are illuminated from within, and what they say is articulated in the language of angel speech. One of them welcomes him by saying, “What two time fine,” and another replies with “And certainly certainly more sunsets provided than last February.” These angels have no interest whatever in meaning. They say whatever pops into their heads. But it hardly matters because they gather around him, all smiles, and are pleased to be in his company. Some dispense with words and speak in music. Archaic joy washes over him. One angel detaches himself from the rest and says, “John, you are quite a poor sort,” and it is meant as a compliment. Harrelson accepts the compliment. He feels another one of them bend down and kiss him lightly on the head. He is being gathered up.
But no: at once there is a point on the horizon, a point insistent with earthly magnetism, drawing Harrelson away toward the world, the real world that made Plato so unhappy, and he wakes up, hungover, in Meredith’s arms, the sun rising orange over a field of snow. It is daytime, and Meredith is kissing him, and telling him he must go home now.
Surprised by Joy
1
BECAUSE THEIR PSYCHIATRIST had recommended it, they both began to keep journals. Jeremy’s was Woolworth-stationery drab, and Harriet’s was sea-blue with the title “A Blank Book” printed in gold script in the upper right-hand corner. Thinking that pleasant images would relieve the tone of what was to follow, she sketched a wren in flight, a Victorian lamppost, and an ash tree on the first page. Then she changed her mind and blacked the drawings out. There weren’t any drawings in the book Jeremy used. His writing was tiny and defiant. His first sentence, which was undated, read: “Benson told us it would help if we wrote down our thoughts, but I don’t have any thoughts, and besides, the fact is that I don’t feel like writing a goddamn thing.” That was the end of the first entry.
One night Jeremy came home and found all the silverware—knives, forks, spoons, gravy bowls, and ladles—lined up according to type on the living-room carpet in front of the Hide-A-Bed sofa. Harriet said she wanted to do an inventory, to make sure the place settings were all present and accounted for. She threatened to count all the dishes, and all the books. A week later when he arrived home she was standing on her head with her legs crossed and her knees positioned against the wall. He put down his briefcase, hung up his coat, and sat in his chair. “So,” he said. “What’s this?”
“An article I read says it helps.” Upside down, she attempted a smile.
“Standing on your head.”
“Yeah. Think about it: the brain under stress needs more blood, the cerebral cortex especially. The article says that when you stand up you feel an instant of physical exhilaration.” She closed her eyes. “The plumber came out this morning. The faucet’s fixed.”
“Physical exhilaration.” He turned away from her to stare out at the street, where two children were roaring by on their Big Wheels.
“They say you’ll feel better.”
“Right. What article did you say this was?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “It sounds like Parade magazine. How much did the plumber charge? God, I could use a drink. I have the most amazing willpower.” He
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