The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children by Brendan Connell Page A
Authors: Brendan Connell
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Jainist—poor, outdated translations from the Prakrit, the Pali, the Sanskrit, which spoke of liberators of living beings, the practice of diverse penances devoid of a desire for acquisition in paudgalic terms, the ever-peaceful soundless and of infinite sounds, the sameness, the illusory nature of waking and dream states;—so a vague, not quite solidified question now haunted his mind: If the objects cognized in both those conditions are illusory, who is it who cognizes them and who is it who imagines them?
XVI.
A)
I am willing, even more than willing, to take the full responsibility for all your little quirks. For me they are so many lovely things; they are things that I admire and believe the world should relish. . . . You are you, never be another; rest awhile, and then visit me, in my humble temple.
Others say that you could never love, but they have not nurtured you, my sprout, my tree. Are you my all?
Just think on me once in a while, and try not to forget the woman who sheltered and taught. There are still deep chasms for me to bridge for you. Walk my body underfoot; there is no need to be gentle.
B)
. . . as she, buried her head in his shirts, sniffed at his discarded socks, slept with a lock of his hair beneath her pillow. . . . It was an obsession, single-minded, that strangled the life from any real, material affection she might have ventured on; and even in the future, when her withered breasts would hang limply from her chest and her back would be bent, that pathetic fantasy would continue, as the most bitter and true pleasure of her life.
XVII.
Denny waited in the library of the great house, one leg draped over the next, a French cigarette hanging from his lax fingers. He had not been invited to lunch, or dinner, or an evening party. He had not been invited at all and had no expectations of receiving exotic nourishment from Pellington’s kitchen. He was there solely for Allen—for his supposed benefit.
For Denny to be concerned with anyone but Denny, the situation must have been grave.
“ Make yourself at home,” said Allen as he walked in, his feet dragging lazily in slippers, body entrenched in a silk paisley bathrobe. “I wasn’t expecting you. . . . Might have called before coming.”
“ No. I might not have. You might not have let me come.”
“ Well, you came, were let in the front door,—so that’s about it. But I may as well tell you,—it’s Pellington’s day off.”
“ It decimates me to hear that I will not be fed a reasonable lunch, but the real reason that I’m here is to talk about you, my friend.”
“ Well, it seems to me you’ve picked the wrong person to talk to then. The best policy, generally speaking, is to talk about someone behind their back, not straight at them.”
Denny took a long drag of his French cigarette, and, exhaling, said, “But you see, you are not a general case, you’re peculiar. . . . Don’t look so faux-shocked. Rumours have been spreading themselves through the social circuit that you’re going a bit . . . well, whack-o to put it bluntly. . . . People are saying that you’re turning into a sort of Howard Hughes. . . . And by the way, you needn’t fib to me about Pellington. I know very well that you let him go. He came to my door with the whole story. . . . Told me about all kinds of monstrous things you wanted him to serve you. . . . Plain rice and unseasoned vegetables. . . . Really! . . . Naturally I hired him on the spot. Of course, when you come around, you can have him back. Only a truly mad man would let a fellow like Pellington go. . . . In other words, if it was not for this gross proof I might not have believed the rumours.”
The silence lasted several minutes. Denny extinguished the butt of his French cigarette and lit another. Allen circled the room slowly in his slippers, hands tucked in the pockets of his night robe.
“ Denny,” he said, stopping abruptly and looking fervently at the other man.
XVI.
A)
I am willing, even more than willing, to take the full responsibility for all your little quirks. For me they are so many lovely things; they are things that I admire and believe the world should relish. . . . You are you, never be another; rest awhile, and then visit me, in my humble temple.
Others say that you could never love, but they have not nurtured you, my sprout, my tree. Are you my all?
Just think on me once in a while, and try not to forget the woman who sheltered and taught. There are still deep chasms for me to bridge for you. Walk my body underfoot; there is no need to be gentle.
B)
. . . as she, buried her head in his shirts, sniffed at his discarded socks, slept with a lock of his hair beneath her pillow. . . . It was an obsession, single-minded, that strangled the life from any real, material affection she might have ventured on; and even in the future, when her withered breasts would hang limply from her chest and her back would be bent, that pathetic fantasy would continue, as the most bitter and true pleasure of her life.
XVII.
Denny waited in the library of the great house, one leg draped over the next, a French cigarette hanging from his lax fingers. He had not been invited to lunch, or dinner, or an evening party. He had not been invited at all and had no expectations of receiving exotic nourishment from Pellington’s kitchen. He was there solely for Allen—for his supposed benefit.
For Denny to be concerned with anyone but Denny, the situation must have been grave.
“ Make yourself at home,” said Allen as he walked in, his feet dragging lazily in slippers, body entrenched in a silk paisley bathrobe. “I wasn’t expecting you. . . . Might have called before coming.”
“ No. I might not have. You might not have let me come.”
“ Well, you came, were let in the front door,—so that’s about it. But I may as well tell you,—it’s Pellington’s day off.”
“ It decimates me to hear that I will not be fed a reasonable lunch, but the real reason that I’m here is to talk about you, my friend.”
“ Well, it seems to me you’ve picked the wrong person to talk to then. The best policy, generally speaking, is to talk about someone behind their back, not straight at them.”
Denny took a long drag of his French cigarette, and, exhaling, said, “But you see, you are not a general case, you’re peculiar. . . . Don’t look so faux-shocked. Rumours have been spreading themselves through the social circuit that you’re going a bit . . . well, whack-o to put it bluntly. . . . People are saying that you’re turning into a sort of Howard Hughes. . . . And by the way, you needn’t fib to me about Pellington. I know very well that you let him go. He came to my door with the whole story. . . . Told me about all kinds of monstrous things you wanted him to serve you. . . . Plain rice and unseasoned vegetables. . . . Really! . . . Naturally I hired him on the spot. Of course, when you come around, you can have him back. Only a truly mad man would let a fellow like Pellington go. . . . In other words, if it was not for this gross proof I might not have believed the rumours.”
The silence lasted several minutes. Denny extinguished the butt of his French cigarette and lit another. Allen circled the room slowly in his slippers, hands tucked in the pockets of his night robe.
“ Denny,” he said, stopping abruptly and looking fervently at the other man.
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