with shadow and the joke went into a dying fall. He tried to break
its fall by laughing at himself.
Why laugh at himself ,
however, when Shrike was waiting at the speakeasy to do a much better job?
"Miss Lonelyhearts , my friend, I advise you to
give your readers stones. When they ask for bread don't give them crackers as does the Church, and don't, like the State, tell them to
eat cake. Explain that man cannot live by bread alone and give them stones.
Teach them to pray each morning: `Give us this day our daily stone.'"
He had given his readers many
stones; so many, in fact, that he had only one left--the stone that had formed
in his gut.
Suddenly tired, he sat down on a
bench. If he could only throw the stone. He searched
the sky for a target. But the gray sky looked as if it had been rubbed with a
soiled eraser. It held no angels, flaming crosses, olive-bearing doves, wheels
within wheels. Only a newspaper struggled in the air like a kite with a broken
spine. He got up and started again for the speakeasy.
Delehanty's was in the cellar of a brownstone house that differed from its more respectable
neighbors by having an armored door. He pressed a concealed button and a little
round window opened in its center. A blood-shot eye appeared, glowing like a
ruby in an antique iron ring.
The bar was only half full. Miss Lonelyhearts looked around apprehensively for Shrike and
was relieved at not finding him. However, after a third drink, just as he was
settling into the warm mud of alcoholic gloom, Shrike caught his arm.
"Ah, my young friend!" he
shouted. "How do I find you? Brooding again, I take it."
"For Christ's sake, shut
up."
Shrike ignored the interruption.
"You're morbid, my friend, morbid. Forget the crucifixion, remember the
renaissance. There were no brooders then." He raised his glass, and the
whole Borgia family was in his gesture. "I give you the renaissance. What
a period! What pageantry! Drunken popes...Beautiful courtesans...Illegitimate
children..."
Although his gestures were
elaborate, his face was blank. He practiced a trick used much by moving-picture
comedians--the dead pan. No matter how fantastic or excited his speech, he
never changed his expression. Under the shining white globe of his brow, his
features huddled together in a dead, gray triangle.
"To the renaissance!" he
kept shouting. "To the renaissance! To the brown
Greek manuscripts and mistresses with the great smooth marbly limbs...But that reminds me, I'm expecting one of my admirers--a cow-eyed girl
of great intelligence." He illustrated the word intelligence by carving
two enormous breasts in the air with his hands. "She works in a book
store, but wait until you see her behind."
Miss Lonelyhearts made the mistake of showing his annoyance.
"Oh, so you don't care for
women, eh? J. C. is your only sweetheart, eh? Jesus Christ, the King of Kings,
the Miss Lonelyhearts of Miss Lonelyhearts ..."
At this moment, fortunately for Miss Lonelyhearts , the young woman expected by Shrike came
up to the bar. She had long legs, thick ankles, big hands, a powerful body, a
slender neck and a childish face made tiny by a man's haircut.
"Miss Farkis ,"
Shrike said, making her bow as a ventriloquist does his doll, "Miss Farkis , I want you to meet Miss Lonelyhearts .
Show him the same respect you show me. He, too, is a comforter of the poor in
spirit and a lover of God."
She acknowledged the introduction
with a masculine handshake.
"Miss Farkis ,"
Shrike said, "Miss Farkis works in a book store
and writes on the side." He patted her rump.
"What were you talking about so
excitedly?" she asked. "Religion."
"Get me a drink and please
continue. I'm very much interested in the new thomistic synthesis."
This was just the kind of remark for
which Shrike was waiting. "St. Thomas!" he shouted. "What do you
take us for--stinking intellectuals? We're not fake Europeans. We were
discussing Christ, the Miss Lonelyhearts of Miss Lonelyhearts . America has her own
its fall by laughing at himself.
Why laugh at himself ,
however, when Shrike was waiting at the speakeasy to do a much better job?
"Miss Lonelyhearts , my friend, I advise you to
give your readers stones. When they ask for bread don't give them crackers as does the Church, and don't, like the State, tell them to
eat cake. Explain that man cannot live by bread alone and give them stones.
Teach them to pray each morning: `Give us this day our daily stone.'"
He had given his readers many
stones; so many, in fact, that he had only one left--the stone that had formed
in his gut.
Suddenly tired, he sat down on a
bench. If he could only throw the stone. He searched
the sky for a target. But the gray sky looked as if it had been rubbed with a
soiled eraser. It held no angels, flaming crosses, olive-bearing doves, wheels
within wheels. Only a newspaper struggled in the air like a kite with a broken
spine. He got up and started again for the speakeasy.
Delehanty's was in the cellar of a brownstone house that differed from its more respectable
neighbors by having an armored door. He pressed a concealed button and a little
round window opened in its center. A blood-shot eye appeared, glowing like a
ruby in an antique iron ring.
The bar was only half full. Miss Lonelyhearts looked around apprehensively for Shrike and
was relieved at not finding him. However, after a third drink, just as he was
settling into the warm mud of alcoholic gloom, Shrike caught his arm.
"Ah, my young friend!" he
shouted. "How do I find you? Brooding again, I take it."
"For Christ's sake, shut
up."
Shrike ignored the interruption.
"You're morbid, my friend, morbid. Forget the crucifixion, remember the
renaissance. There were no brooders then." He raised his glass, and the
whole Borgia family was in his gesture. "I give you the renaissance. What
a period! What pageantry! Drunken popes...Beautiful courtesans...Illegitimate
children..."
Although his gestures were
elaborate, his face was blank. He practiced a trick used much by moving-picture
comedians--the dead pan. No matter how fantastic or excited his speech, he
never changed his expression. Under the shining white globe of his brow, his
features huddled together in a dead, gray triangle.
"To the renaissance!" he
kept shouting. "To the renaissance! To the brown
Greek manuscripts and mistresses with the great smooth marbly limbs...But that reminds me, I'm expecting one of my admirers--a cow-eyed girl
of great intelligence." He illustrated the word intelligence by carving
two enormous breasts in the air with his hands. "She works in a book
store, but wait until you see her behind."
Miss Lonelyhearts made the mistake of showing his annoyance.
"Oh, so you don't care for
women, eh? J. C. is your only sweetheart, eh? Jesus Christ, the King of Kings,
the Miss Lonelyhearts of Miss Lonelyhearts ..."
At this moment, fortunately for Miss Lonelyhearts , the young woman expected by Shrike came
up to the bar. She had long legs, thick ankles, big hands, a powerful body, a
slender neck and a childish face made tiny by a man's haircut.
"Miss Farkis ,"
Shrike said, making her bow as a ventriloquist does his doll, "Miss Farkis , I want you to meet Miss Lonelyhearts .
Show him the same respect you show me. He, too, is a comforter of the poor in
spirit and a lover of God."
She acknowledged the introduction
with a masculine handshake.
"Miss Farkis ,"
Shrike said, "Miss Farkis works in a book store
and writes on the side." He patted her rump.
"What were you talking about so
excitedly?" she asked. "Religion."
"Get me a drink and please
continue. I'm very much interested in the new thomistic synthesis."
This was just the kind of remark for
which Shrike was waiting. "St. Thomas!" he shouted. "What do you
take us for--stinking intellectuals? We're not fake Europeans. We were
discussing Christ, the Miss Lonelyhearts of Miss Lonelyhearts . America has her own
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