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I was in the Public Library in New York, looking at all the readers and thinking about myself and my choices when suddenly, I saw that taciturn man sitting in a corner, reading my book "Look Homeward, Angel." Yeah, it was my book with all the words translated from my soul onto the paper. Looking closely at that man, a thought came to my mind, and I couldn't resist. I got up and went next to him, saying softly, "I noticed that you're reading my book, huh?"
He looked at me,
completely astonished,
maybe because my hair
needed a cut or because
I'm totally unkempt. I
know what I am, but I
think I am hot shit.
Anyway, he shouted back,
"What?"
Then, I grabbed a chair
and sat down beside him.
He asked again, "What
are you talking
about?" I looked at
him with a little bit of
fear and whispered with
the intention of not
drawing the attention of
other readers, "You
have my book!" He
responded with a lot of
confidence that the book
was taken with the proper
permission from the
librarian.
I went on, "Some
things will never change.
Some things will always be
the same. Lean your ear
down upon the earth and
listen."
Meanwhile, still very
confused, he appealed,
"Sorry, but I
don't understand what
you mean." I decided
to extend my thoughts and
said, "Make your
mistakes, take your
chances, look silly, but
keep on going. Don't
freeze up." He
responded quickly with
this masterpiece,
"Man is born broken.
He lives by mending. The
grace of God is the
glue."
I pondered for a moment
and then declared,
"The whole conviction
of my life now rests upon
the belief that
loneliness, far from being
a rare and curious
phenomenon, peculiar to
myself and to a few other
solitary men, is the
central and inevitable
fact of human
existence." He seemed
to engage in the dialogue
game, and in response, he
offered, "Life is for
each man a solitary cell
whose walls are
mirrors."
At that moment, I got up
from my chair and
concluded, "Naked and
alone we came into exile.
In her dark womb we did
not know our mother's
face; from the prison of
her flesh have we come
into the unspeakable and
incommunicable prison of
this earth." And then
I left the library room.
While I was walking in the
corridor, suddenly, a hand
was placed on my shoulder.
I turned around, and the
taciturn man was there,
looking at me and saying,
"The librarian said
you are the writer who
wrote that book I was
reading, is that it?"
I attempted a response,
but it didn't come out
as I intended. He
continued, "Are you
the writer?" I simply
nodded in affirmation. He
inquired, "Why
didn't you say who you
are?"
Overwhelmed with emotion,
I replied, "Because I
love your work! And any
good words said to you
would be less than all my
feelings." I had
nothing more to say to
Eugene O'Neill, and I
couldn't even reveal
that he was my alias in
"Look Homeward,
Angel." I said
goodbye and etched that
meeting in my mind forever.
On that Christmas, I
remembered my childhood
when, night after night in
late autumn and early
winter, I would scrawl
petitions to Santa Claus.
There were so many gifts
that I wished for, but I
never thought I would
receive one of them in the
form of an encounter with
a playwright who gave me
the right words to
navigate inside the
imagination and always try
to go further, because all
our certainties have a
final stop, but our doubts
are endless.
Merry Christmas!
END
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