The Laughing Matter by William Saroyan Page A

error every day and correct not one error in a lifetime. What do you do, my brother?
Whatever
you do, you
yourself
do nothing. Your doing is done
for
you. Whatever you do is right. If you hate, it is. If you kill, it is. Brother, if you love, it is right. If you love her who destroys you, it is right.” His tired eyes searched his brother’s. “Brother,” he said, “do what you must, do what you will, it is right.”
    â€œIf I am husband to another man’s woman,” Evan began to say.
    â€œIt is right,” Dade said quickly, his voice deeply tired.
    â€œIf I am father to another man’s child,” Evan said.
    â€œIt is right,” Dade said.
    â€œWhat do I do?” Evan said.
    â€œSleep?” Dade asked. “Is that it?”
    â€œSleep?” Evan said. “I can’t sleep. There is no sleep left for me.”
    â€œI long for my children,” Dade said. “To long is right. I wish to see them. To wish to see them is right. I do not see them. Not to see them is right.”
    â€œWhy, Dade?”
    â€œIt’s a game,” Dade said. “The playing of a game is right. The game is this. Which will it be for myself? To be proud and to lose that which I love, or to be without pride, and soft, and to have softly that which I love? Each is right. Which will it be for myself? It will be to be proud, and to lose. And if they love me, want me, but cannot reach me, what will it be? It will be to be proud, and to have them reach me not. And if they perish for want of me, what will it be? It will be to be proud, and to learn that they have perished. Is this so? Is this a way to be? It is, my brother.”
    â€œYou’re tired,” Evan said. “You’re very tired. You must not take the airplane.”
    â€œIt’s a game,” Dade said. “There it sits, waiting. It is there always. I require no excitements. I have
never
required them. The excitements of money, coming or going, I have never required. The game waits to excite, surprise, reward, belittle. It has never excited, surprised, rewarded, or belittled me. Do you understand, my brother?”
    â€œNo, Dade.”
    â€œI will tell you, then,” Dade said. “Here.” He reached into his pocket, brought out rolled currency, and handed it to his brother. Red saw the stuff. He knew it was money, but he didn’t understand the language. “This is the prize,” Dade said. “I have not slept because until the other players surrender I stay with the game. It is a silly game, with a silly prize, but it is right. What do you do? Go home, my brother.”
    He turned the boy’s head to him again, and again pressed his dry mouth to Red’s forehead.
    â€œRed,” he said. “Isn’t it strange and wonderful that a brother’s son is a man’s own father?” He smiled at the boy, tightening his hand on the boy’s chin. “Isn’t it strange, Red? Isn’t it strange? I was a poor son. Perhaps that’s why I was never a father. What are you thinking, Red? Tell me.”
    â€œI want to talk the language,” Red said.
    â€œYes,” Dade said. He looked over the head of the boy at the boy’s father. The man hadn’t put the money away. Dade noticed this, then said in English, “He must be taught.”
    â€œWho will teach me?” Red said.
    â€œYour father will,” Dade said. He spoke again to hisbrother. “Teach him the language in thoughts, not in words,” he said in English. “One thought after another. By the time you’re nine,” he said to the boy, “you’ll speak the language as well as you speak English, or better. Put the stuff in your pocket,” he said to his brother in English, and then in the language he said, “There is more, take it and go home. If there is someone you wish to kill, you will find in my own room the weapons for it. Why not? It is right. If