Thinking of Alyosha, I talked with a child this afternoon. We conversed, that is. I approached smoothly and I performed well, but I felt correspondingly wooden. I was too grateful, and that was humiliating. In the end, there was nothing there but a craving for a test, a sign, a chance; an exercise involving a mannequin and the rest of the world.

For how can you talk to a child and Dostoevsky, the author, at the same time? He was restless; he interfered without having to utter a word. Yet another opportunity spoiled by an old love, my proudest. And I indeed love him, as witnessed by the horror I experience whenever I read another literary critic who knows no limits, whose ugly nose continues to poke hither and thither, aimlessly, routinely, with eloquence.

Ama, et fac quod vis. I know, I know, but what about the literary critic? Most bitter prospect, I confess. Will I ever have the courage? Will I ever talk to a child past the literary critic? Will I ever digest his eloquence and wit? Undoubtedly, the master will not have it any other way.

Hoping for the best, repenting, I kissed my own son tonight. Asleep, he grunted. I promised again not to lose my temper for those very precious few moments that separate me from this world, this author, and this literary critic. Dark wrath. Never again, I whispered piously, and I dragged my feet, my slippers, toward the only place where a child is still talking: my desk.

Addendum (July 22, 1993)

Saint Augustine’s admonishment, “love, and do what you like,” just surfaced in the wrapping of Italian candy, Baci, where it was translated into three languages besides Italian—English, French, and Spanish. Every candy in a box of Baci is wrapped into a different aphorism about love. Saint Augustine would have been pleased: “Kiss, and do what you like.”