AMERICONORMAN

Let's See: "Kira" is the feminine of Cyrus in Russian and he is the hero from The Mysterious Valley. Howard Roark, I suspect was named for "How" as in the essence of him is his method; and "roar" as in a metaphor for his spirit. Francisco was obviously named for Frank O'Connor. Ragnar is a known scandinavian name, but Danneskjold sounds like "Danish Gold". Judge Narraganset; Narraganset is a native name and it seems ironic that the grand advocate of objective law would be a member of the race that accuses the white man from stealing their land. Hugh Akston; You Ask Him. Hank Rearden: Hank for Patrick Henry. Toohey as in "Me too". Leo Kovalensky is named after her childhood Leo. Victor has something to do with Victor Hugo, perhaps Ayn Rand's love and dislike for him. Prometheus is obvious. Wesley Mouch: "Mooch" Patrick Henry University for Patrick Henry. Peter Keating; Keating for "cheating" Gail Wynand. A gale of wind, wine as in Dionysus. Most of these are guesses but I suspect it's a combination of personal values, thematic symbols, the sound of words, and spontaneity. For me the same applies. But sometimes they are so subjective and personal, a code to myself. Sometime they are just silly and saying those names at the time of writing made me giggle. For example Freddy Donini is the name of a future character. Freddy is an indictment of a certain philosopher and Donini is the name of a good cheap value for your money Italian wine. Jose.

By Jose Gainza Dancing, while getting me my cup of dark House brew; dancing to the music of rhythm and blues, was the lovely, black-haired, blue-eyed Lorenzo. By that time I had read that name off his name tag many weeks ago, in the first instant I saw him, and I believe it was the time of his first shifts at the coffee shop. Back then I witnessed his glowing beauty and my eyes immediately sought to know his name. Today it was the first time he had ever danced for me. And I immediately wondered whether he had done so for others. I wondered how long he had done so. How long had this entertainment been going on? They were questions of jealousy, and I knew immediately vision of the spectacle of him dancing for another after me would be hard to bear. But that was just a short moment. I commanded myself to enjoy the watching of him. The enjoyment was easy. So he was dancing: His tall lanky body slid to the coffee machine. One leg proudly stomped before the machine, and the other one followed soon as he dragged it elegantly. And with an empty cup in hand, Lorenzo allowed his torso to tremble in unison with the electric guitar in the music around us. Soon after he choreographed a twist to the floor, whilst his lips puckered up as if kissing the strings of the music; his head nodded side to side like a wave. And then he shot up and began to pour my cup of House, though as he wiggled his buttocks to the rhythm of the strings. Then he turned to me with a full cup. I believe that he noticed my wide grin, and my red cheeks. I believe that he knew that I enjoyed the show. It’s because next he made me feel that I was the only one in the room for him in that one moment of life. Thus it wasn’t over. The strings of the music called him again. He tapped his way to that part of the bar where the barista makes those special Americanos. And he was looking at me, smiling. And then he marched to me with a rhythmic hop with each leg, to the register, a rhythm joyous and purposeful. At that point the strings were very happy. He twirled his fists together forward like a wheel. Upon arrival, he spun around. He did one quick tap combination and then dropped the needle. On his standing up at the end of that move, he simply said, “two dollars, Simon.” I gave him a five dollar bill and told him to keep the change. I remember hearing benevolent laughter and giggles from the other patrons. Several looked in my direction. I was shy at their attention, but more so at the special attention from Lorenzo. I felt my cheeks blushing. I was speechless and I quietly went to sit down at a love seat, still embarrassed to look at him. Without looking, I knew he was still grinning at me—all proud that he had done something special for me. And that was the question: why me? Why me and why today? Why didn’t he do it yesterday when I entered the shop with my friend, Tiago? And today he didn’t do it for anybody after me: a line of customers reached his alter at the register before we discussed the matter. Was he trying to impress me? Was that dream coming true? I thought I would never pursue it, and now it seemed to be coming true, without any effort on my part. For an instant I allowed myself to imagine things that could be done in the privacy of the bathroom or in my shower. You must understand that a tall, slender, black-haired, blue-eyed, beauty-marked, smooth-skinned, young man, with a natural charisma, and affectionate nature, with intelligent, unafraid eyes—to have such a creature dance for me is a perfect way to get my attention—and to get me dreaming, as I can so easily do. Could it be that this sweet angel had a crush on me—I a vice grip to his heart? My reverie was interrupted by a smiling barista named Ayn. She had what seemed to be a very rich chocolate brownie on a white plate in her hand. “Simon,” she said, “the team here wants to wish you a happy birthday.” I was almost speechless but I immediately said, “How did you know, Ayn?” “Lorenzo told me.” I said, “thank-you,” and allowed her to walk back to the bar. I yelled across the room. “So Lorenzo, how did you know it was my birthday?” He yelled back, seemingly angry, “you were broadcasting it all over the place yesterday, when you were he with the great, reliable Tiago.” And then he grinned. I knew then he was merely being playful by that. I shot up from my loveseat and went towards him. “What do you mean?” I asked. “No, I’m just playing. I overheard some of you conversation with Tiago yesterday. You told him.” “So that whole dancing episode was all for my birthday.” “Yes.” “Me? Why?” “Because I like you.” He said it simply, so simply that it seemed very true. “What?” I asked it as my heart began to race. “I wanted to let you know that I like you,” he said it with calm and confidence, no longer smiling. “I know you like me. I have noticed the way you look at me. I see how you watch me work. I see how you watch me with the other customers. And that’s not a bad thing. I wanted to let you know that just because we can never have sex together, doesn’t mean that we can’t be friends. Or does it?” “No. And besides, I would never insist on such a thing until the moment that I knew that I could take you.” “Good.” His chuckle must have been directed at the notion that I could take. “So why do you want to be my friend? What do you like about me?” “For one thing; that you ask that question is what I like. It assumes that there is no unconditional love. I believe there isn’t … Perhaps the first thing I liked about you was when I heard you tell your friend Mikey that one can change one’s emotions—that the object is what inspires emotions—and when your evaluation of that object changes, so does the emotion … Or there was the time when you got up from you chair suddenly, when you were with your friend, Nathaniel, and you acted out the end of Patrick Henry’s Liberty or Death speech; I almost cried when you plunged the sword into your own heart.” “Wow.” I said. “Simon, there are so many reasons to like you—is this true?” “Yes it is. And there’s one big reason to like you.” “Have a wonderful birthday.” I said it part in jest, part earnest, “Will you promise not to dance for anybody else for all of today, Lorenzo?” “I really like to dance, though, Simon,” he was smirking. “Life is worth celebrating everyday. But I think I can keep the yoke on my feet just for today.” “I myself would like to learn the tango, Lorenzo.” “Me too. Actually, I have this kind of movie in my head, where these two old good friends and business partners—top executives—solve a major problem, burning the midnight oil. They are both expert tango dancers, along with their respective wives. When the emergency is finally solved, they dance a celebratory tango together. It is platonic.” “That would make an interesting movie.” We grinned at each other silently for a long moment before I walked out of the coffee shop to enjoy my day. THE END

The act of me writing it was also a perfect expression of the romantic principle in literature: what could be and should be. I was actually in a coffee shop when I wrote it. I did see a beautiful woman. I wondered what I should say to her. But I did not speak to her, though I admired her beauty. But what could I do? I could speak to her. But I preferred to write about it. Should any man be afraid to do so? If she were alone, perhaps. Now make it more difficult--if she was with a man, a strong man, who seemed to be her boyfriend, most certainly. Would one dare? Yes, I think one should. Ta da, Jose Gainza.

Watch what happens. It's only two pages. So watch: A man is distracted by beauty. He has the courage to tell a strange woman that she is beautiful. There's benevolence in that. I count on the idea that most men would be angry to hear compliments so blatant. But obviously this man is not interested in her romantically. So it isolates the idea of benevolence, of justice, of appreciating beauty for beauty's sake. And the woman confirms that indeed her boyfriend would be jealous. Five minutes in a coffee shop will now lead her to re-evaluate a major decision in her life. I think it's beautifully done. One of my favorite lines is when he talk about biting his lips versus tongue. It reveals his character in which ever way you want to understand it. But there is a connotation that I intended. Thanks for the question. Jose.

I wrote this induction based contemplation some time back: A Motor Like Mine Let me know what you think. Jose.

TWO CUPS OF HARMONY By Jose Gainza I actually entered the Starbucks to have a cup of dark, bitter-sweet coffee, over the act of writing the first chapter, of the book of Holy Scriptures, of the religion I was to then originate and create. The idea of doing so had tickled me from time to time these last few years. That day and that hour I knew that I wanted to follow through. Before I entered I was disappointed at finding that one store operator was a woman, and the other one was a male who was not exceptionally beautiful but who did share in the harmony of beauty to some extent. And it was then that I knew that I was being emotional because the desire to see a beautiful employee was not my explicit purpose. And I was about to follow through with that, so I needed to order that cup of coffee, pour some of it out in the garbage, so I could add a sufficient amount of milk; and so I could sit down at a round table, to begin to write my religion. When I arrived at the cash register to place my order I smiled to find a third employee greeting me; his smile being the omnipotent cause of mine. It was then obvious that when I entered the shop, his figure was hiding behind the pillar at the register. He was skinny and young. I was thirty. I knew that there was enough evidence on his physical body and the way he dressed for me to believe that he was of age. There was maturity in the ease with which he greeted me and its seeming sincerity. I allowed myself, for that short moment, and took advantage of his good service to contemplate the degree of his harmony, which was simply irresistible. The name tag on his chest said: Ritchie. In that moment it was clear that he was good at customer service because his talent made me feel that I had a chance with him. Smiles can be powerful and his dominated that short moment. But I was not there to try anything with him. It was not my purpose to investigate whether he was intellectual. I admit that it was hard to believe that our souls could satisfy each other for more than a dozen minutes or so. I smiled and walked away to the preparation counter. I sat down at a small round table by the window and immediately began to brainstorm. I was intent in a burst of brainstorming, as my eyes stared at a wall across the room, right through the face of the boy at the register. I asked myself a question: What will be the character of my Deity? Soon after I asked: What will I make his moral commandments and to whom, his would be followers—and will they be commandments? And then a cell phone rang at the table just across from me. And then I saw her face. I did not notice her as I entered the coffee shop. I described her in my mind, as she looked outside the window, no longer partly hidden by hanging hair, her phone at her cheek. I actually said to myself, “She is quite beautiful; exceptional; nearing the stature of the boy at the register.” And then she placed her phone down on the table and returned to her reading. I decided that it was very nice to feel delight in the harmony of this woman. I must admit that I hardly notice women. But sometimes—sometimes—a few are ideal representatives of nature’s beauty, that I can’t help it to enjoy an innocent and safe delight. I had never informed one of this before. I began to imagine what I would say to her if I had the courage to tell her so. And then her cell phone rang again. I heard her soft voice say incomprehensible words, though they were loud enough to know that they were English. I noticed this time that her lips were thin, long and wine colored though without lipstick. I contemplated that face again and recalled the words of description I had given to her before. And then she put the phone back down to return to her reading, so that her hair veiled her face. And then I spoke. “I was glad that you picked up the phone to answer that second call.” I said it aloud to grab her attention but I failed. “I was glad that you picked up the phone to answer that second call!” This time she looked up slightly puzzled. I looked her straight inside her wolf-like eyes and politely said it again. “Why?” She then asked. “Because I was able to contemplate your face as you had to hold your head level to engage in your conversation, so that I took advantage of your distraction in that conversation, as you looked out this window at our side.” I nodded at the window. “Why would you want to contemplate my face?” “It is exceptionally beautiful.” “What did you see?” She said it with challenge. I recalled those words again. “I saw your small head and your blonde, thin, long hair, as it fell close to wrap the skin of your face. I saw your blue eyes that gave me the feeling of looking into the eyes of a happy wolf. I saw your delicate features, your fine, pointy nose, you sharp chin, and your cheeks flat but curved as if by perfect craftsmanship. I saw the appropriateness of your dark, thin long eyebrows. I saw that your face had the quality of a greatly cared for porcelain doll, cared for by its creator, and yet you were so real, so absolute. Your stare, when it chanced to catch mine, expressed awareness—simple, magnificent consciousness—of a woman in control of her person. And as I saw you intently read and underline your book, I knew that you were happily aware of your purpose; that you were shamelessly intelligent.” She remained silent in a look that seemed frightened. But I continued. “I was thinking that in this moment some great man should paint you.” And then she smiled and said in a tone of sarcastic, benevolent mockery, “that’s original.” “Most pretty girls would think like you do now, wouldn’t they?” “I think so.” “How else would people meet? What’s so unfriendly and ill-suited about the nude truth? Starting with that does not have to make the intention sexual … but I’m actually—” “—You’re right.” She interrupted me. I smiled and continued, “But I’m actually gay.” She grasped it with ease. “You’re right,” she said, “Not because I’m presently attracted to your own beauty … it’s because if my fiancé were here now, and heard you say what you have said, he would become ferociously furious at—at your nice compliment.” “I would suppose sometimes a daring man has to bite his lips.” “You mean ‘tongue’!” “No; lips would stop speech too.” “You’ve just allowed me to identify a problem in my romantic relationship. But thank you for your gesture and your compliment.” “Is it his jealousy?” She nodded affirmatively. I arose from the table and spoke to her thus, “I will leave you then to think about that. Perhaps we will run into each other again here soon.” “Yes. Thank you.” I walked out and went home to write an ode as an opening to my book of Holy Scripture to the image of a beautiful man. THE END _____________________________________

When I googled the phrase, "When did Romanticism start?" I immediately found this website: Victor Hugo Website Which should be quite informative. Jose.

MEDITATIONS ON ROMANTICISM OF JOSE GAINZA 1 Can reality ever be romantic? By “reality” I mean everything and the way in which it exists. I mean this pen in my hand, this black notebook (whose motto reads, “Learning is in the eye of the mind”), this round table top on which my hands rub, the YMCA recreation centre across from me, this intersection, this city, this country, this planet, and all the rest of it. And what is “romantic”? Immediately one sees the word “roman”. One thinks of the Roman Empire, of the city of Rome, of Italy. The empire was one of grand conquest, of military bravery, of national heroes, consisting of an enormous population, of culture, of accomplished art; men with ideals were the Romans, willing to die for a philosophical cause, and yet who finally extinguished temporarily man’s torch. Can the definition of “Romantic” be found when we achieve the understanding of the essence of the Roman character and personality? If ROMANTIC’s meaning has any relation to that ancient civilization, it has one only by the achievements of the latter’s historical representatives. Though the geographical region that the Romans inhabited still is there in some form, the Romans died with the birth of Christianity. If you clutch a handful of Italian soil today, you will not be grasping in your hands Romantic soil. Just by setting foot into Italy today is not at all tantamount to being Romantic. Though we may love the climate and geological virtues of Italy today, we know that the personality of Rome’s men is what counts. And yet men have in the modern era called themselves “Romantic”. There is a whole score of novelists, poets, painters, sculptors, musicians, working mostly in the 19th century. And there are also some German philosophers at around the same time who are called by the same name. If we’re going to apply the term ‘Romantic’ to reality, we must acknowledge that reality is in large part activity. The activity of the artists of that name is more akin to the ancient Romans, than that school of German philosophers who are associated too with that name. It seems absurd to think that an art or a science can focus its quest on a reality that is inconceivably static. A man cannot experience reality without being struck with the fact of movement or change. So what will be romantic about reality? What types of movements and by what kind of agents? Do we call romantic the flowing of a river, the tides of the ocean, the breeze making the trees dance, the dawn and dusk, the earth around the sun, the flow of the stars? All these things move but without the assistance of man at all. Men are the source of a different type of activity—activity possible by the intelligence of men. This sphere too is large and complex. Now, it is obvious that human activity is what the Romans were doing since the Romans were human. There are some romantic artists who sought to emulate the Romans in craft and in subject. Perhaps all had been educated in the classics. They learned from the ancient Romans some of the methods of their respective arts. They chose Rome as their subject, if not in setting, then in the grandeur of their scenes and themes. The ancient Roman, like Ancient Greece, seems to be an icon, an idol, and ideal of modern Europe. I do believe that the first men to coin the term Romantic had the ancient Romans in mind, and so they chose their name as a sort of tribute. And perhaps one of these men had as his subconscious motive in choosing the term Romantic: to ensure that the concept would forever be associated with human nature. But much more historical research is surely needed to validate this idea.

However, now I'm thinking that perhaps the affair lasted several years, because he had an affair with Patricia for some years, which would lead me to believe that she was sleeping with both men. So I suspect it's simply that she was a giant of a woman, and no man was at her heights, embodying the same characteristics that she possessed; so that Frank's essence embodied something important that Ayn had but Nathaniel did not possess, while Nathan's "essence" embodied something important that Ayn had but that Frank did not possess. The sex was a celebration of two different things, that one person could not give her. It is a rare event, requiring a very rare and magnificent soul with very great needs. Note that Barabara and Nathaniel like to point out flaws in Ayn Rand, which amount to the idea, "see--she wasn't SO great." If you succeed in convincing people of that, then you can succeed in convincing them that such an affair was representative of a flaw in Ayn Rand's character, and not in the people who could not live up to a rational morality, while having the benefit of living in the presence of such a great teacher and mentor. Wouldn't you have love to have lived just one year with Miss Rand? Jose.

Think about it this way: Why do lovers break-up? Why do people get divorced? What would bother me is if she was sleeping with both men at the same time. I haven't read the book, and I dont' remember what Branden said in Judgment Day but I suspect that she was only sleeping with Branden at the time. If this is true, then it was not that she was deciding who was the better lover, but who was the better soul for her, that necessarily would arouse a greater sexual passion in her and a better sex life. I suspect that if Frank did not allow her to decide and make her final choice, it would have meant divorce immediately. If she was sleeping with both men at the same time, then: then this represents a "dimension" I have no clue about. But I suspect that the affair involved the commencement of a spiritual relationship that she could not have had had Frank not given her the opportunity to explore it, and the sex was a necessary corollary of that. I think Frank's "sharing" Ayn Rand could be understood by looking at Ayn Rand's short story, The Husband I Bought, available in the book The Early Ayn Rand. He could not interfere with her happiness, because if you love someone you would want to see them happy, even if it meant giving up that person. In the loss, you still maintain what you once had, i.e., the level of love, but the one you lose moves on to something greater, and the potential for you to find something better still remains. As to how could Ayn Rand be duped: taking people at their word until their actions prove otherwise, and when they are proven to be trangressors, meeting that with the appropriate justice. Jose.

The problem with universities is that more than likely they will have no romanticism being taught. Romantic realism will be even more rare. However, I suspect that you will find some courses devoted to Joseph Conrad. Ayn Rand considers him a romantic realist though she doesn't like him. I'm starting to understand why she labels him such. Also, O. Henry she considers one, but he's not serious enough, nor intellectual enough, in his stories. But I think Romanticism is the more important concept there because there are volumes of referents in the form of works of literature. Ayn Rand is the only great Romantic Realist that I know of. Other Romantic writers merely have a work or two that can fit under this, or perhaps aspects of the "strictly" romantic works. You're real lesson will be in reading. When you read the Romantic Manifesto and The Art of Fiction, read the works and authors that she names in a positive light. If she takes the time to name them and give them a sentence, in my experience, I have found that it will be at least an interesting read. You will only understand "Romantic Realism" if you actually understand the works that are considered such. Your learning thus has to be inductive. Jose.

I would suggest that you enrol in the Van Damme Academy, even if your 60, and learn from Lisa Van Damme. Tore Boeckmann is awesome. And Andrew Bernstein has devoted his life to studying and writing literature. About Universites I know nothing. Jose.

TO TODAY’S MARILYN (Ecstasy Sounds From The Future) Inescapable so, is man’s benchmark of beauty. Undeniable so, is this better—this best: Man’s physical form which pleases Most pleasingly so, and eternal. Such is man’s godly-like flesh; Remember—remind me: Have you felt his broad shoulders, with height, bring you smiles? Have you felt stomach ripples by six bear your teeth? Or did his armor—his chest—bite your lips? Did definition in his legs close your eyes? Did the silk of his skin leave your breathless? And did your memories chase you restless? Did you when balance did blend pigment to features Shudder— Hotly inside you, like me, and in them? And when his chin matched his nose, And his lips matched rightly the ears, And when his eyes matched his hair, And when his cheeks matched his crown— Did you tremble? Such is perfection. With all of this we feel and know Beauty, perfection, and man at his best, Even now when you have yet to reach your ideal. You’re too slender; you are too child-like. It is time for nature’s rebuke Coz this is when nature beats on her chest And proclaims: “Though your beauty meets my test, I know there’s more of you to grow— And there’s more to man than that. But though you’re still slender, You wear my great gown of beauty still. And I know that one day you will will What I will. And though your best is before you still, You’re still so real and great.” You excite me coz from where you extend! How you shoot from a splendor of spirit! This smile, this fair harmony, which I brush, Could not compare to her benchmark, If not to seal the deeper beauty of your soul. It’s the dancer in you who struts and flies— For sure. It’s the singer in you, your harp— You know? You’re a businessman who knows his field— You market your talent. It is you— You who values, you who plans— You, creator of your creations— Creations of passion, creations from thought— Creations ecstatic, spectacles, dreams— Dancing conceptions, inductions, perfections— So that I must love this new infection: My sickness itching me deep in my skin; This pain in my chest futile but tempting; Your echoing song while I work— You rooster who wakes up my dawn! It’s the dream of your kiss from afar; Now, the scent of your scent too Pacific; Now, the dream of the home where you dance … Far too far, Too terrific, and much more.

I think the fact that Dominique is willing to sleep with Roark, to be taken by him, Roark knowing exactly who he is and how great he is; I think that by the time she let's herself feel ecstasy by the act of Roark, while it is quite evident, at least for the reader, perhaps more so for Roark, that she is on a mission to resign herself from the world's pleasures, because she gives the evil too much credit, Roark knows that she is his. Without them sleeping together Roark would never "wait for her", if that's what he's doing, which he is not. He's continuing to pursue his highest value, incidentally him doing so, and succeeding at that, will change her mind. What she has to do is realize who she really is. By the time they sleep together, Roark already knows that she will come around. Notice what has to happen before she marries Keating--the Stoddard Temple fiasco. What has to happen for her to marry Wynand--that Keating's complete smallness is exposed. In marrying Wynand she thinks that she has found the worst form of masochism but Roark knows better. The love is born immediately from Roark for her. The question is, is there clear indication that she is gradually getting better, will she still make the wrong choices? If she's improving, getting closer to the truth, then he has nothing to worry about. This is the greatest risk in the face of him pursuing his highest value, his work. Yes, she is only confusing because she is a Romantic Moral Archetype, and must be an exaggeration to emphasize an essential quality about her. Have you read any Schopenhauer? He and her have some similarities. Though Schopenhauer is surely evil, if one just focuses on his good ideas, and put them in an historical context, e.g., his hate for Kant, one can find room to admire him, at least temporarily. Just some thoughts that have almost become abortive in my mind, Jose Gainza.

At this point I recommend you watch The Good Sheppard. If the facts are true, I am so shocked, and feel that the world is hopeless. If the facts of the movie are not true, i.e., the climax, then wow, what a thrilling movie. ....Yes, I've been to Venezuela many years ago. It is such a beautiful country. It's a shame that Chavez will destroy it. I hope America one day finds reason to invade it. Jose Gainza.

If you want to succeed as a novelist this is what I suggest you do. These are your intellectual goals: Read Rand's The Art of Fiction, The Romantic Manifesto, and The Virtue of Selfishness. Study We The Living, if not her bigger novels, intensely. Read Hugo's Notre Dame de Paris, know it well, and his Preface to Cromwell. Know what Naturalism is; read Zola and Sinclair Lewis. Get very familiar with various systems of ethics. You're going to need to build believable characters in the future. Start writing short stories regularly. Apply the principles you learn in The Art of Fiction to short stories. This will make the novel writing process that much easier. Reading short stories is quite fun and inspiring (on various levels) Decide honestly what will be the first novel you will want to write. This will become your central purpose and help you decide what your other intellectual interests will be. Know what psycho-epistemology is, a sense of life, the inductive method according to Objectivism, and the nature of emotions according to Objectivism. There are other important and helpful people to read, but doing the above will lead you to all of them. The discoveryis a very enjoyable experience. -I don't mean that you will never write a novel without doing the above but if you succeed in the above, while regularly practicing the craft of ficton writing, you will be able to produce high quality art. In the meantime you will have to save your money. This is important. At some point in your life you will want to buy six months or so of free time from work. Also, falling in love might give you great inspiration. I hope you succeed because the world and Objectivism desperately need great Romantic writers. Jose Gainza.

And now the last Patrick Verder story .... -------------------------------------------------------------------- Nathan Love Shiloah, The Radiant— A Sketch By Jose Gainza Based on a story by Arnold Post, Nathan The Radiant, from a book called, Israeli Tales and Legends Rest assured that there is no god of retribution—there is no god. I know—this from the lips of a philosopher and a profound storyteller. There is the will of Man, there is his sacred code of action, and there is his conscience. A man must be honest and accept this, or suffer the consequences of his delusions. Nathan Love Shiloah was not a believer, knowing this since his days of high school; perhaps earlier. And he struggled ever since to be a moral man, to be a happy man, despite his renunciation of supernaturalism. He investigated the issue in books and he soon found the infamous Nietzsche: the philosopher who declared that men are no longer commanded to action by their fear of their leper-loving god, nor their biased-racist god, and therefore, men find themselves in the midst of a crisis of values. Men, therefore, historically, go through a stage of Nihilism, which is necessary for the grand cleansing of mankind, to lay way for a superior type of animal. His is the philosophy of the Superman. And though this philosophy was quite attractive at first to Nathan Shiloah, he could not escape the horrors that his logic led to when following Nietzsche’s premises. Soon he decided that this was his philosophy: A man must work for his own keep, he must buy his own way. A man must find his one love, his work; he must excel in it and be satisfied with the joy that it brings him. The standard of his goodness would not be charity, or obedience to god’s morality of altruism, or the breaking of his “metaphysical” pre-determined inferiors. It would then revolve around his efficacy, translated into a practical profession, providing for a fundamental sense of joy for life. It would be about the joy of achieving values, engaging in productive, even artistic activities, and the joy of creating his, sufficient wealth. And charity would not be beyond his reach, though; surely he would help a friend in need, or a worthy stranger who became impoverished by some tragedy, or an allowed ignorance. He would thus detest sloth. He would not lie, cheat, or steal—and know the first causes for why. He would work and think. In his twenties he moved from Toronto to Alberta. At first he learned the cattle trade, and developed a tremendous strong body, though lean, to compliment an already strong mind. Soon he moved on to the booming oil industry and became a favorite of his of his foreman and managers. He had few friends, few vices, except for a bottle of good scotch every few months; and so, his savings account grew vast to a point when he decided he would invest in real property. He moved back to Toronto to invest his money. He bought a house and rented it out to boarders. After some years he bought a few more. Soon he bought a string of small apartment buildings. By the age of thirty five, with the help of an honest and brilliant stock broker, he became a millionaire. But something was missing in his life. It was obvious he wanted someone to hold at night, someone to eat meals with, to go shopping with, someone to scold lightly on occasion, someone to forgive, someone to worship, someone to pamper, someone who could predict his motivations, and someone who could move him. For years now in his easier life, he had taken up poetry. He had become quite prolific for a man just starting out in his thirties. Though the muse was there in his mind and in that sphere forever willing, she was not there, existential, and in the flesh; just a hope was she. One night after dinner, he knew he was tired of writing poetry and that it was time for a break. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a few weeks, he would write again. Tonight, he would buy himself a good bottle of scotch and watch a good movie or two on television, and order some Chinese food. He walked on Queen West eastbound from Brock, from where the government liquor store was. He passed a few small private art galleries, and passed them by with indifference, for they resembled kindergarten arts and crafts. Soon he saw her. She was standing in a window, and she was smiling with pride, in a simple dress, but the contours of the folds making prominent her feminine sexuality. The Toronto skyline, the eastern wall, was behind her, so that she was at some window at the east side of the Don River, somewhere on ledge close to Queen East. Nathan Love Shiloah was in love for the first time in his life. He could not help but enter the gallery, this time. It was a small gallery; there was almost as much space in the window display. There was only three more painting on the walls of the tiny show room almost as beautiful as the one in the window. One was of a beautiful man, young, Nathan’s age, like the woman, seeming to be a self-portrait of the artist. Another was of the city, and Nathan knew the vantage point: a school yard at Dufferin and Davenport, atop a hill, seeing the skyline from the Northwest from the property’s southern ledge. The third was of a town in a small productive valley. Soon Nathan heard a voice call out from the back room, “I’ll be right out!” And in a moment the beautiful painter came out, with the most angelic and benevolent aura, though smeared by paint. “I love your work,” said Nathan. “You have good taste,” was the artist’s answer, underscored by a welcoming smile. “Who’s the woman?” was Nathan’s blatant question. “Yes, she’s real. She’s my precious one.” “Is the commitment forever?” continued Nathan with such daring. The painter grinned like a champion and answered, “I’m glad you’re so honest. She is bewitching, isn’t she? Yes, we’re married.” “I’m sorry for being so frank.” “It’s okay.” “Can I buy one?” “Any one but her.” “I’ll take the valley. How much?” “How much you offering?” “Ten Thousand.” “Wow!” “You can buy your wife some precious things.” “I will.” “Who do I make the cheque out to?” “Richmond Virginian.” “What!” “Blame my parents. That’s my name. The surname was inescapable. They chose the first; they were fanatics of revolutionary America.” “Okay.” He handed over the written cheque bearing his own name and address in gold bold calligraphy. “What do you do … Nathan?” “I made my wealth in real estate. Will you join me for some scotch? I was going to go home and watch some movies as a rest from work.” Richmond led Nathan to the back room and locked the front door of the gallery. The room was several times larger than the showroom, well-lit, with several paintings covered by white blankets. Richmond would not reveal even one more no matter how much welcomed scotch he consumed. After Nathan listened attentively to Richmond talk about his work and how his motivation was to capture in one frame the most profound and blessed themes, Nathan asked, “What’s her name?” “Hannah Josiana Virginian,” and Richmond’s eyes sparkled. “What does she do?” “She’s a poet. She’s not published but she’s a poet.” “I can change that.” “Perhaps.” And Nathan spoke of anecdotes from his time in Alberta. He spoke of the time he tamed ten horses in one night. And how he found a missing herd of cows, that had fled a hundred miles, and how he brought them all back to a suburb of Calgary in unprecedented time, alone. And he spoke of the time he, by his forethought, prevented a destructive oil hemorrhage, which he had to fight so hard to make others see. And he spoke of how, for a time, he was the greatest shot in the Greater Calgary Area. He spoke about his philosophy of work and Richmond agreed. It was clear in that one night that they were of the same soul. Now that their cheeks were flushed due to the scotch, Nathan regrettably proclaimed that he had to go back home, and to call it a night. “You know, Nathan, my wife needs another poet in her life. We haven’t met her yet.” “I write poetry. That’s actually what I’m taking a break from.” “I’d love to read it.” “I have a website under a pseudonym.” Nathan handed him a business card with the URL. Nathan walked home almost overcome by his love for Hannah. But he did not feel guilt for coveting his brother’s wife. He was “scheming” in his mind to conquer her, to prove that he was a better man than Richmond, though a great man too. He thought of situations that would bring about a happy ending to the usually fatal triangle. He was confident that he would succeed. Meanwhile, Richmond had finished reading all of Nathan’s poetry on the internet. And Hannah can be pictured at home, asleep on the couch from waiting for her love, and a cold pasta dinner getting colder on the dinner table, the candles long since blown out, and the cork back in the wine bottle. Richmond turned off the computer with a sense of torment and torture. For the next month he suffered silently from the guilt a man feels when he knows he possesses something he does not deserve, as if his marriage were now some theft. And Nathan could not bring himself to face Richmond and tell him of the upcoming competition, though he knew one day very soon he would. And then one day rational and honest Richmond knew what he would do … Hannah came home one night to discover several bouquets of flowers positioned throughout the apartment, a provocative dress draped over the living room futon, and pearl earrings hanging from the key rack. A note bore an address of a restaurant and a time of rendezvous. That same day, Nathan received an invitation to have dinner with Richmond. At the same hour that Hannah and Nathan were sitting across the same table, after both giving the receptionist the name of Richmond as the party to meet, with a pleasant bewilderment on both of their faces, Richmond was on a plane to Miami, just for a short trip, wearing the most radiant, brilliant, benevolent, and unprecedented glow of his life. And the waiter, after meeting with the receptionist, was walking over to Hannah and Nathan’s table prepared to present them with a note from Richmond: MAY WE ALL LIVE FOREVER HAPPY APART … AND TOGETHER … TOAST TO THE MEANING OF HAPPINESS AND THE COURAGE IT REQUIRES. I LOVE YOU BOTH. THE END.

Now that the muse is gone it is appropriate to post the second-last Patrick Verder story .... The Dancing Sage and the Passion of The Portuguese—By Jose Gainza SARGENT TWIN TOWERS extend twenty floors high, with their skin of light pink brick, and their lengths half the height, while their respective southern ends, only, curve to provide for a greater panorama of Lake Ontario. The architecture of this lakefront neighbourhood, on humid summer days, gives off a Miami-like aura, and aura of heat, rhythm, spice, dance, sex, and rest. And it is the same neighbourhood and abode, SARGENT TWIN TOWERS, which witnessed a few years ago, the launching of a new superstar to the Canadian music scene. It was here where Darius Julius Éclair lived and slept, as he sung his way to the pinnacle of the largest and most infamous singing competition ever to invade Canada, CANADA’S DARLING; here at 390 Queens Quay West, the western tower. Yes, this is where Darius Julius lived during his triumph, and when he won his best actor OSCAR, a year ago, for his role in KISS ME BEFORE I FLY AWAY. Yes, Darius Julius with his splendid hazel eyes, flowing brown hair, the copper too perfect tan on his slender silky skin, and his magnetic French lips, and his voice that could call forth the sunrise. But a story not as well known is the one about the actions of an ordinary woman, who lived there too, one can say. Mona Costa was the cleaning manager there for WE DO THE DIRTY WORK INCORPORATED, contracted by GOODTIMES PROPERTY MANAGEMENT, for the property known as SARGENT TWIN TOWERS, so that men of the calibre of Darius Julius could live amongst an aura of cleanliness, symbolic of their unique talent. Linds Rupert was the twenty-three year old head Tenant Service Representative, which is a job similar to what a security guard might do, except for the illusion of government backed authority, working for DUE RESPECT INCORPORATED. By the time of their situation, the darling Darius Julius had left the building and parked his sweet behind on an elegant, cashmere ottoman, in a Spanish-style villa, atop a Malibu hill, with the Pacific panorama. It was a humid week, and on a Monday morning in mid-summer, Linds Rupert passed Mona in the main common lobby at 390 building, greeting her with an eager smile of welcome, with the usual question, “So did you find me a boyfriend yet?” It was in the tone of a taunt to express his doubt that she could, and to hide the hope that she would. Usually she would answer with a sexy Portuguese accent, but with proficient grammar, “still looking, Sweetie.” But today she answered, “I found the perfect one but he’s too scared to meet you still, but he’s been getting better as the months go by, and I’ll soon break him.” He doubted the validity of this declaration, for he doubted whether this foreign, simple woman could identify an agent with whom he could chemically mix well, and without catastrophe. But she had never before made such a claim. “What’s his name,” asked Linds. “I promised him I wouldn’t tell you.” “But you already have.” “Yes, but his name would be too much for you.” “I guess I’ll wait.” “No choice!” She exclaimed. And as he changed the subject of concern in his own mind, he began to look at her for too long a moment and expanded his smile before he spoke, “Your hair looks lovely!” And she blushed and pinched his cheeks. Her hair was strawberry red and was combed straight past her chin, except for the elegant curls at the bottom; her bangs were cut just above her brows. Her physical Portuguese was of the kind that looks French. At the end of this exchange they went their separate ways to work. A couple of hours later, Linds brought Mona a chocolate ice-cream bar. And at lunch, they ate together, and she confided in him about a troubling employee, Lorenzo. “I must have caught him twenty times already coming out of various tenants’ suites, all sweaty and flushed. Woman AND men! He doesn’t care! He’s breaking hearts all over the place.” Mona explained to Linds. “Why don’t you fire him?” He suggested. “Because very few can clean with his expertise and attention.” “So he still manages to get the job done?” “Yes … well … much better than most do.” “If one of the lovers complains to property management, they’ll insist that he be out.” “Yes, and maybe even me.” “And it will be sad because I know how much you like him.” “Yes, even though he’s a dog, he makes me laugh too much.” “And he’s so lovely to look at, which is no wonder why he’s so popular with some of the tenants. Too bad he’s a dog.” “But I have to put a stop to his antics, or he’ll bring me down with him.” “So what are you going to do, Mona?” “I got to tell him that if I catch him only one more time, I’ll boot his ass out of here, from here to the top of the CN tower. That will be the end of his easy access to his trophies.” “He’ll be moody for a week.” “Yes, quite so. But I have to. I’ll tell him before he goes for the day.” Linds commenced an every-floor patrol of the eastern tower, 350. Apartment 1509 had its door wide open, which he decided to inspect quickly. Upon realizing that there was no furniture, he recalled that 1509 had moved out on the last weekend. Suddenly a vacuum sounded from the master bedroom. It was Lorenzo cleaning the lush white carpeting. And Linds watched his movements for a long moment, until soon, Lorenzo noticed him and smiled. He then turned off the vacuum. “I’ve been waiting months to get you all alone,” Lorenzo proclaimed. “You can’t have me,” was Linds’ curt response. “Come on; I see the way you look at me.” “But it’s just a superficial delight.” “I know I can get much deeper.” So Lorenzo turned the vacuum back on. And he took off his blue golf shirt, to reveal his chestnut Mediterranean tan, and rippling contours. Thus Linds’ breathing required more effort. So Lorenzo rushed towards him and kissed him, allowing Linds to experience the pleasant delusion for at least a moment. Linds had no time to regret allowing that his neck be bitten and sucked, and his shirt taken off, and finally, the licking of his nipples. This last gesture made him declare, “No! No. This isn’t right,” as he struggled against the need to experience the tenderness of eager yeses. But Lorenzo could not hear the repetitive “no,” for the howling of the vacuum. It is doubtful also whether Lorenzo would have obeyed; because he initiated his trance-like state of passion, it would make the attempt to sever them like trying to pull a man being electrocuted from the source. On his knees now, Lorenzo unzipped Linds’ pants so that, in a moment, Linds found his own source of delightful electric shock. It was not the violence of a resolute self-will that pulled them apart. It was the violence of a roaring force from the outside world that managed to breach them before Linds let himself go too far. It was the violence, the brute strength, and the audacity, of a short, full-bodied, and well-fed Portuguese woman who tyrannically tore them apart … finally. The sounds of her screams could not be heard due to the buzzing of the machine. She tore Lorenzo away so violently that Linds’ manhood could have been severed in that moment. She put Lorenzo in a chokehold, and dragged him out of the apartment, and left him lying in the hallway. When she returned alone, and by the look on her face, and her heaving chest, Linds knew that he would never see Lorenzo again. She rushed to the vacuum, and yanked the plug out of the socket, and looked at Linds with terrible eyes, “You too!” She inquired rhetorically. “Why are you so mad?” Linds asked bewildered. Mona did not answer but it was clear to him that her exaggerated outburst revealed a secret she would not name. “I’m not,” she answered, “it’s just that you deserve better than that. You’re too special for that Turkey’s stuffing.” Linds could not help but giggle as he made the following serious identification, “You’re still … shouting, Mona.” She then changed her composure to one of serene professionalism, she closed her eyes, and let out a deep breathing sigh. “My husband will be working here tomorrow for Lorenzo.” Mona proclaimed. “I’m looking forward to meeting him.” “He is too. Linds, there’s a DVD waiting for you in your mailbox. You’ll be happy to know that me and my daughter have made up and she has done me the favour of making you a copy of her wedding video, since you could not make it back then.” “So she is no longer angry at you for marrying again.” “No. She has even grown to like Amadeo. She has gotten past the great difference that we both share.” “I’m so glad. I’ll watch the video on the weekend.” “Good bye now,” she said with anger still lingering in her tone. Why was Mona so angry, Linds wondered, as he rode the streetcar north to Spadina station? Was it that she wanted to be the one to find him a beloved, added to the idea that Lorenzo could never serve such a role? Was it really the motherly concern that Mona claimed? And Linds recalled last week when he had seen her watering plants on the second floor terrace of the connecting building, and what he did. In a spirit of jest and amusement, he began to serenade her. And she laughed and cackled, looking down on Linds with teary, sparkling eyes. Could she be in love with him? He wondered in horror. And her husband was to begin work tomorrow morning; how awkward the triangle would be! Mona approached the entrance to her home hoping to find her husband in, so she could inform him that he would be working with her for the week, until she could succeed with a replacement. She would therefore insist that he not go Latin dancing tonight, and she was confident he would agree. He was very generous with his time for her because he was forever grateful at the benefit he had acquired by her marrying him. He had arrived from Portugal two years ago, the third cousin of one of her good friends. She had immediately taken a liking to Amadeo, appreciating his wit and his intelligence. Perhaps it was his talent for poignant sarcasm that she most admired. She was shocked at first sight at his utter beauty, his subtle dimples, his too happy grin, his doll-like cheeks, and his tender lips. He had long black locks that waved with flare, brown eyes, and the skin of a gypsy, so that she named him “my perfect gypsy.” She showed him around Toronto and introduced him to people. And soon he confided in her a vulnerable secret, which only led her to love him even more, with a nurturing concern. And soon his visitor’s visa was to expire. And since she did not want to lose him they were soon married. And she vowed to ensure that she would not rest until his deserved happiness was realized and she could fulfill his one greatest dream. She found him a job in the building trades, which contributed greatly to their mutual income. And on the weekends he managed to, overtime, renovate her basement into an apartment to add to their matrimonial treasury. Though the nature of this and her previous marriage was different, her previous marriage in which she had her only daughter, this new one was the one she enjoyed more. And she was so resolute to go through with it that she didn’t mind the scandal it would cause within her circle, and the eventual estrangement from her newly married daughter. She felt it was her destiny, and her mission from her god, to make Amadeo Costa a happy man. And when Linds Rupert arrived as the new head TSR of SARGENT TWIN TOWERS, his existence soon began to add to the joy that she already felt. She looked upon Rupert like a son, and she wanted to see him married, and she wanted to walk him down the aisle, giving him away to married bliss. Outside her home’s entrance she could hear loud electronic music, and she knew what it meant. She entered her home, and rushed into the living room. She saw Amadeo kicking his legs up, swinging his arms, squatting, crouching, and bending, all to the rhythm of the music. He was engaging in his aerobics workout, which was a custom for the last few weeks, as Amadeo was on vacation after quitting his construction job. He was now looking for something less demanding on his body, so that he could focus on more intellectual concerns. He had improved his English at a very impressive rate, so that the main stumbling block to comprehension was his thick Portuguese accent. When he noticed Mona watching him, Amadeo smiled, turned off the music, rushed over to her, hugged her, and gave her a kiss on each cheek. “Have you found a job yet?” She asked. “No.” “I need you to work with me for a week.” “Why?” “I fired Lorenzo.” “So you caught him again?” “And this time in the act.” “It was about time. Do you think I can work comfortably there?” “It will only be temporary.” “Do you think I could bear it?” “That’s up to you. You’re going to have to.” “How is Linds?” “Don’t ask.” “What happened?” He asked with great concern. “Nothing. He’s fine; great and moral as he always is.” “I hope we get along.” “I hope you two do too; I know you will.” Linds was troubled for two main reasons as he road on the streetcar, south to Queens Quay where the towers were. He was ashamed that he let the extravagant beauty, and the humid summer heat, get the best of him, so that he went too far with Lorenzo, further than he had ever promised he would with any man who was not ‘the one’. He now could no longer grant his future soul mate the gesture of being the first to have ever tasted him. His ideal soul mate would surely forgive the fact but that extra touch of the special was now forever gone. And he was grateful to Mona that she did pull Lorenzo away, and still more, guilty that he needed her strength and not his own volitional will. And he was frightened that perhaps Mona was in love with him, and fearful that her husband would catch a hint of that affection and thus cause him bodily harm, a husband who he pictured as a black-haired, hairy giant with matching moustache. At the same time he was looking forward to meeting Amadeo because it was clear to him that Mona had a happy home life, and in large part because of Amadeo. He approached the main lobby at 390, the western tower, and as he got close, he saw the most beautiful young male creature he had ever seen in his life, about the same age as he, perhaps twenty-five or so, wearing a cleaner’s uniform. He immediately thought that Mona’s husband couldn’t make it today, and this was the last minute replacement, and he was glad of it. Linds’ immediate love for this boy, who was not the giant he had just imagined, made him thank the coincidences of nature, as this boy was even more beautiful than Lorenzo, and by the feeling he was feeling, a much better romantic prospect. And he was glad that he would not have to face the husband who he might innocently be betraying. He walked into the lobby with a big smile. He greeted Mona with a kiss on each cheek, despite his previous fear. It was now time to be introduced to the splendid Portuguese stud before him. The stud took it upon himself to initiate the introduction, “ You must be Linds. I am Amadeo. I am so happy to meet you.” He said it eagerly, and very child-like. Linds was dumbfounded and his face went white. At the sight of this, Amadeo showed a face that seemed to Linds to be one of deep worry, and it seemed that tears were beginning to form. And Linds then thought that perhaps Amadeo mistook his shock for a secret lust for Mona, and that he, though young, bore a genuine and jealous love for his middle-aged wife. And Mona watched this moment with an almost choking grin of delight. Though, all parties soon regained their professional composure. Mona then took Amadeo with her to continue teaching him the regular cleaning duties. Linds went to get changed for work. And he consoled himself from the frustration of Amadeo ‘the impossible one’ by reminding himself that Mona had promised to find him a boyfriend, which made him realize that if Amadeo was not the one, there was another waiting at the horizon, and that he, Linds, was the inevitable horizon of another. A minor consolation also was that Mona had good taste. During his first hour of work, Amadeo had the responsibility of mopping and cleaning the area around the Tenant Services desk. And so Linds had no choice but to watch Amadeo’s expert movements with delight. Linds’ heart beat faster, and the blood rushed through his body, with every arch, bend, and reach of Amadeo, that accentuated the sculpted muscles of his form. But Linds was soon interrupted by a tenant with a need. “Amadeo, will you do me a huge favour?” “It depends on what the favour is.” “Do you know that lovely brunette you’ve seen me with this last week?” “Yes.” “She’s my mistress. I keep this apartment just for the purpose of my romantic exploits. Obviously my wife shouldn’t know about it. But somehow she knows where the building is. I do not want you to reveal any information to her. And if she manages to know the suite number, do not sign out my spare key to her. Yes she’s my wife but she has no authority to enter that suite. She’ll try to get in and she’ll bang on the door but no one will be there. My mistress will be put up in a hotel until my wife finally goes back to California. But all her things are in the apartment. Can you promise me she won’t have access?” “Mr. White, though I don’t approve of your deceit, I have no choice but to grant your wish. According to the information in my computer, you are the only one with the authority for access delegation. Therefore, no one, not even your mother, can get your key from this desk, unless you provide me with the necessary written authorization. I will pass on the information to my co-workers and anyone who is found to breach our strict privacy rule in this specific matter will be terminated immediately.” “Thank you. I knew I could trust you. You do good work here. I hope they appreciate it.” “Thanks for the compliment. Good bye, Sir!” It was in a tone, though unbeknownst to Mr. White, which was ordering the tenant’s haste exit, to allow for the continued contemplation of Mr. Costa’s work. Amadeo noticed this and smiled as Mr. White exited. And so Amadeo went back to work but only for a moment because after a dance, which consisted of several mop swooshes, then a turn to have his back to Linds, and a few more swooshes, he suddenly jerked still, and flashed his head and eyes to Linds’ surprise. Linds blushed. So Amadeo asked what exactly Linds wanted to do with his life; that Mona had said that he wanted to be an English teacher, but that she could not give any important specifics due to her ignorance of literary criticism. And Linds answered: “So you two talk about me?” And yet Linds could not control the feeling of comfort, though he asked this concerning question, and he continued thus, “I want to teach students how to write fiction, and mainly through teaching them the art of the short story. But I can’t really consider myself a writer because, for me, writing is not an end in itself. I write so I could teach. And I’ve only written short stories because I couldn’t bear to endure the writing of a novel, because it would take away from reading and studying the stories I still have yet to read and know. I get a thrill from witnessing the literary subconscious of young writers be improved and empowered over time.” “It is very admirable,” began Amadeo with a solemnity that seemed haughty due to his thick Portuguese accent that made a word like ‘admirable’ sound ‘admeerabull’, “admirable what you are trying to accomplish with wanting to develop a curriculum that will finally help to define the limits of the short story. For according to my knowledge it is still a riddle in the history of literature, even after Poe’s doctrine, and even after there existed the likes of Alicia O’Connor and the publishing of her literary aesthetic expletives. For it seems a titanic task to attempt to tackle the application of her grand principles of writing to something so comparably microscopic and blurry as your typical short story. It is still hard for me to begin to answer how something so small in matter could show and say something aptly grand in spirit. Some themes just require the length of a long novel, and short stories therefore seem to me mere training wheels.” The oddity of a young Portuguese, immigrant cleaner speaking of such things had still not reached Linds’ consciousness, for he followed this dialogue cue from Amadeo almost instantly, “Yes, I too have wondered whether a writer can really be considered a writer if his short stories are not mere stages of completion en route to finishing a series of long master works. I would have to say that really, then, a man like O. Henry was not a writer; perhaps it is more a testament to the tragic idea of men who are suddenly stopped in mid-flight. Perhaps every time you get to enjoy an O. Henry story it is a reminder of how serious you have to take life, despite the laughter he so often inspires.” “I know what you mean;” continued Amadeo, “I’ve noted that funny men have a bitterness, a bone to pick, that distracts them from the solemn panorama of life, which should be, in the better world that writers can project, as simple as the inhalation of oxygen.” And Linds returned, in the tone of an inquiry, “So too much humour therefore can be a too dangerous and distracting addiction.” “My wife tells me that Lorenzo was quite funny, as are you, but in quite a different way.” The compliment, the painful reminder of the beautiful Lorenzo, and the naming of a person such as Mona, was a slap and attempted murder that shot him back to reality. And he felt as if a bullet was the wound in his heart. And it was no laughing matter. But along with humour, a pain like the one then inflicted, is one that also puts an end to romantic lust, for the moment, once the stabbing stops. And some men are able to subsequently become quite logical, and consequently, eventually witty. “Yes. Let’s take the situation of your marriage.” Retorted Linds. “The age difference is quite unusual and automatically suspect. And so Lorenzo would bring up her talents in bed, and your Oedipus complex, and your fetish for old, short, stalky, Portuguese women … And I … well, I could not make fun of your situation because, given what I know about Mona, there must be something special between you two, for there is obviously love between the two of you, because both of you have special spirits. Love is not a deficiency to abuse with laughter, even with the greatest of intentions. And I doubt the love that you two share requires a taunting towards a purer and happier plateau.” And Amadeo answered, “I noticed your face when Mona introduced us. There is a secret I would like to tell you, maybe. But I want to tell you about myself now.” “Yes.” “I want to teach philosophy in a University. I want to see men’s minds grow, and their right action along with it. I want to teach men to understand the ideas that move our world, even the one they call ‘love’.” And then it suddenly hit Linds. Was Portugal the alien planet, he thought, that he dreamed about from where the speakers of truth descended upon us, to move us to the right and prosperity? And was Portugal that planet where he, Linds, really came from, and why he too often felt like such an outcast in a bewildered world, and that perhaps his name was thus pronounced ‘Lindo’? And was Amadeo a Portuguese extra-terrestrial, brave and daring to speak such things? No. No, Amadeo was only a man from Portugal, that borders Spain in Europe. But it proved how far and wide the right ideas can spread and grow. This realization brought a fountainhead of tears to Linds’ eyes that he would never let wax. And thus spoke Amadeo, “Do you know what I want to do? Do you know what I can do? Do you know what contribution I can make to this country?” “Yes! And I know what a society like ours can contribute to you and your happiness.” “And do you think I should be deported?” “May those bastards be condemned to the noumenal realm who try!” “And that’s why Mona married me, despite the scandal it would cause, a brave woman indeed.” “What!” “We’re not in love … I dig dick.” “My God!” “Yes. She’s been trying to get us together for months now. I’ve been too chicken shyte and ashamed to meet you.” “Follow me,” Linds ordered. They went into the stairwell. And the echo of their voices rose above them. And they kissed. And they promised to love each other forever, and Amadeo promised to make SARGENT TOWERS his permanent job. And when they heard footsteps way up high, they left the well, and went to work, their respective ways. A female voice laughed a sonorous Portuguese laugh, like the songs of a Mediterranean deity of love approving the final consummation of lovers. It was Mona eavesdropping contently from one of the highest floors; pleased at a job well done. Linds, alone, walked from 390 building, across the administrative and recreation center, and into the hot tub room whose windows faced the eastern architecture of the city, the baseball dome still in sight, and the soaring, massive CN TOWER. He looked at the lower towers surrounding it, and it occurred to him that he needed a moment of cold hard thought. He went into the private shower stall, undressed, and let cold water stream all over his statuesque body, the course of its energy reaching inside him and flowing, calming the roaring humidity within him. He thought about the rare deserved happiness, though transient, he felt from the prior kiss. And he remembered the difference between that encounter and the seemingly drunken encounter with Lorenzo. He proclaimed in the silence of his mind, so prominent that it seemed to echo from the running water: He will not want me if he knows about Lorenzo’s suck. How could he, a guy who is still so pure? And Linds decided, as he turned off the water, that he would hand in his letter of resignation before the end of his shift. He left the hot tub room and walked to the tenant computer room, closer to the west wing (390), and sat down to resign. The property manager, Svetlana Ferazutti, asked Mona to come to her office for a meeting around two in the afternoon. “Mona! Mona, how’s life going?” “Wonderful!” And Svetlana was surprised at the enthusiasm, and sad because of the news she was about to disclose. “So, I’ve already heard that your husband is working for us today.” “I promise, Sveti, that our relationship here will be strictly professional.” “I understand that he is quite young.” “That I can’t help, Sveti.” “No, No! No problem … Flaunt it if you want. Hell, have sex in an empty suite if you want—you’ll be the one cleaning any mess any way. I’m impressed, actually. So what’s your secret?” “I don’t know what you mean.” “That’s fine. I didn’t call you in to discuss that. I have stumbled across a notable coincidence. Today is your young, beautiful, stallion of a husband’s first day at work—and not too long ago, I received this from Linds.” And she tossed the letter across the table; Mona read it silently. “Oh my God!” She soon exclaimed. “Mona, I don’t want to lose him. And that’s why I want to know if anything is going on between you and Linds?” “What? … you mean … sexually?” And Mona burst out a laughing cackle like that of a hyena, of not too long a duration but of eloquent leitmotif. Svetlana just looked at her, puzzled. Mona rose from her seat, still grinning, and assuredly said, “Sveti! Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this … don’t worry; I promise.” About an hour later, Linds walked by a secretive Mona and Amadeo whispering to each other at a corner of the lobby. They noticed the too obvious melancholy of his face, as he avoided looking at them. They grinned at each other in a conspiratory manner. Encouragingly Mona advised, “Recite your poem to him. Go practice. Call him to you later or go to him.” An hour later, while on the roof of 390 building, looking down at the toy-like objects below, he knew that to join them with a crash would be the easy way out of his current misery. But he just tore a beautifully blooming Camellia from a large clay planter, and threw it over the ledge. As it landed and crashed into invisibility, he heard an angelic voice over the radio beckon his name. “Linds. Linds. Come in please.” “Uh … uh … yes, yes—Amadeo, go ahead.” “I have some official information to relay to you. Where can I find you?” “I’m patrolling 390 rooftop. I’ll await you up here.” Amadeo embarked on the platform of the roof deck, the skyline and the lake, floating around him, and the humid summer sun penetrating his skin, to find Linds pacing nervously from North to South, impatiently biting his finger nails. Linds had no time to notice the shiny black leather shoes Amadeo was wearing, for Amadeo spoke immediately once Linds saw him. And the CN Tower stood next to them like an erect distant brother of equal height. “So you’ve betrayed me!” Amadeo shouted it like a spear. “Mona told me everything. I guess you’re convinced I can never forgive you. Why don’t you jump off the roof and save yourself the torment of my scorn?” And Linds rushed towards him, and fell to his knees, and clutched his arms around Amadeo’s legs. “I’m sorry. Yes, he tasted me. I have no excuse. I should have been strong enough to resist. If only I knew I would meet you the next day.” “I AM jealous.” “I’m sorry.” Amadeo let too long a moment go by and the he continued, “And I would be angry if the same thing didn’t happen to me.” And after Linds regained his power of speech, he was able to exclaim, “What!” “At Mona’s daughter’s wedding … I drank too much free scotch. I didn’t’ know, coz Lorenzo was such a good poser, that he was just a player.” “How far did you go?” “As far as you. He began, and I enjoyed—,” “—And why did you stop?” “Mona came to my rescue and pulled him off of me.” “God, I love her strength!” Exclaimed Linds. “But I still have a big advantage over Lorenzo’s achievement.” “What?” “And you have it too. I wrote you a poem the first time Mona showed me your picture and told me about you, a year and a half ago. Let me express it, and the gesture it proclaims.” “Please do.” And to Linds’ horror, Amadeo stood on the eastern ledge of the western tower, with the rising towers as a chorus behind him. There are inspirational moments in life, like that of a desperate mother killing the would-be kidnapper of her beloved child, that can make men do the extraordinary and dangerous, with superb expertise. After every line of his poem, Amadeo conducted a tap sequence with his feet, on that ledge but a few feet wide. And Linds watched in frozen stance, and struggling to keep his attention on Amadeo’s words, amidst the gravity that could once more make Amadeo ‘the impossible one’, really. Thus spoke Amadeo: “There are agents that flow out from men, [Tip-tap-tap …] “And these agents will flow out from you, [Tip-tap-tap …] “And then deep inside, inside me. [Tip-tap-tap …] “It can create a life that’s heroic in men [Tip-tap-tap …] “If it flows from you, my hero-man. [Tip-tap-tap …] “But it won’t, this we know; you won’t let. [Tip-tap-tap …] “You have other plans for their force, [Tip-tap-tap …] “There are other aims for their course: [Tip-tap-tap …] “Inside me, trembling, me. [Tip-tap-tap …] “I thus am the one who will only receive [Tip-tap-tap …] “Of all the billions who live on this earth, [Tip-tap-tap …] “Their sweetness, their salt, and their gel— [Tip-tap-tap …] “And their smell. [Tip-tap-tap …] “A man may endeavour to taste of my probe [Tip-tap-tap …] “But if my agents hide for too long, [Tip-tap-tap …] “The taster is missing the real taste of me, [Tip-tap-tap …] “As I miss still the full taste of you. [Tip-tap-tap …] “So let me just say why I’ve come, [Tip-tap-tap …] “What I’ve wanted to shout for too long, [Tip-tap-tap …] “To all of the world watching us now: [Tip-tap-tap …] “That I live for the day when your nectar is mine, [Tip-tap-tap …] “That I live for the day when from you I dine, [Tip-tap-tap …] “That life without it is a horrid decline [Tip-tap-tap …] “Coz I know it is already mine: [Tip-tap-tap …] “Your nectar right sweet, your nectar with spice, [Tip-tap-tap …] “Your nectar like cream, your nectar like pearls, [Tip-tap-tap …] “Your nectar in flight, your nectar sucked clean.” [Tip-tap-tap …] Once Amadeo was again safely on the roof deck, he did manage to swallow with the greatest of ease, despite the previous effort of performing his poem. THE END.

A good question to answer is: what rooms would you require? Jose.

Actually, I finally saw both Pirates of the Carribean, and I think that Johnny can do Cyrano quite well, if he can get rid of the Hunter S Thompson remnants in the character of Captain Jack Sparrow. That he did Don Juan De Marco, gives me hope that he will be wonderful in the role of Cyrano. Thanks to modern make-up, we can transform his flawless beauty into the required ugliness. Jose Gainza.

The old one, the Jose Ferrer one, version is acceptable, still very entertaining, well acted, but disappointing in that some scenes are altered, some are added, some are missing, the perspectives change. I think a movie should do the movie exactly like the play except by make the necessary improvements that the camera, cinema, and sound allow for. I personally prefer the Gerard Depardieu version because it is more whole than the one just mentioned. Some scenes are missing but the sound of the french by a good actor is such a welcomed relief. Actually the one that is most complete is a movie of a play starring Derek Jacobi. The acting from what I recall is superb, however, I do think that Jacobi yells too much. This is what I liked about Ferrer, he didn't yell so much; he had this Zorro quality. A good English newer version I think could star Hugh Laurie, while he can still be made to look young. A great French version today, today, I wouldn't know of who could star in it. Jose Gainza.

After thinking of my movie idea, three spots above, I had an idea. The rapper does not have to be a white gay male. He could be a white straight female, kind of like a white Lauren Hill, or a Pink (but without the aggressiveness). That would work and be intense too (like when she plots to kill her "lover"). Jose Gainza.

You could write an new ending but that would be it. You can write a story based on the events that she didn't cover but are implied by the story. You can write a completely new story based on her plot outline. You can't lay claim to what she wrote, for example prior to her ending. In fact, as a writing exercise, it helps to change the ending of short stories, or even novels, and to re-write scenes of whole novels, but what you didn't write is not yours. Feel free to write an new ending to We The Living but you'll have legal problems if you try to publish it, because if you just publish that ending, and it is good, it won't stand without what Ayn Rand wrote prior to it. Literarily, maybe the ending of her novel disappointed you; well, you would have to change the preceding scenes that are a necessary to make your ending stand. It would be easy in short stories because so much is missing; many short stories are sketches and can be made longer. For example, you can do this with Du Maupassant, for example his Necklace. I did it once with his Necklace for a creative writing seminar years ago. And I more recently did one, which I will include below for his story "Am I Insane?". Am I Insane by Du Maupassant: http://www.harvestfields.ca/horror/007/085.htm I think my ending fits well. But I could never publish it unless I give credit to Du Maupassant. So I must give credit to him and say that my ending is just an ending, an exercise, and in no way is a claim to ownership of Du Maupasssant's original story. --------------------------------------- “… She turned on me and dealt me two terrific blows across the face with her riding whip, which felled me, and as she rushed at me again …” –Guy Du Maupassant … I shot one bullet into the air and it stopped her rush. I pointed the barrel of my gun, her head the target, as she froze a few feet from me, and I demanded my answer, “Why did you whip me? You know I can shoot you with this gun.” “Perhaps I do not care to live with out that horse.” “And if I did not shoot that horse—if lightning struck it first?” “I would have chosen a better horse? I loved this horse you shot.” “Precisely; you betrayed me with that horse. I waited a week, a month—but longer than that would be betrayal. A year was generous enough on my part (and that only because I love you) to allow the beast to live. He was executed for his crime. The year was his tribunal. I shot that horse—now I’m ‘horrid’.” “My time was my prerogative.” “As it is mine.” “How dare you claim that?” “The way of the saddle is not your profession but the way of the pen … as is mine. When was the last time you saddled your pen?” “Riding did not cure me—but Tarzan was my leisure.” “And what am I?” “I know you missed me. But how could I ride you if I could not write?” “And the achievements of your entire life—are they not always worth celebrating? And mine?” After a long pause she spoke, “His execution was not your crime but mine. Will you punish me? Can I ride you now?” “No. We bury the beast now!” “You want him past me absolutely, first?” “Then you’ll ride me.” Three hours later we were covering a giant grave in the roadside. In the afternoon we were engaging in another act of destruction; the destruction of my bed frame with every thrust of my gun. Tell me am I Insane? --New ending to De Maupassant’s story By Jose Gainza.

I personally am confident that I can learn French on my own ... because I had to take French classes in school and fortunately my mother threatened me with execution if I didn't take French Immersion when the time came. Back then the vocabulary lessons and the verb conjugation lessons were so boring but looking back I have to be grateful that such things were drilled in me. And it was good that Monsieur Bartolini, the coolest teacher I have ever had, next to John Ridpath, made us as punishment for being bad, copy out countless verb conjugation lists. And it is good that he made me do them over again when I had the audacity to carbon copy my punishment lists one time. The point is that there is so much french in my subconscious, and this is why I can read french text with a dictionary--though ever so slowly. I wish there was someone in grade five who introduced me to Victor Hugo; I would have learned french then. I tried reading Hans D'Island and Ruy Blas this way. I understood it but the reading was too slow. It would be something I would resume when I have earned myself a good vacation. And I only attempted to go through the pains of reading them in french exclusively because I still haven't found english versions at used bookstores, to supplement my french reading of them. But I definately believe that if you know grammar as such, in what ever languages, and have a system of learning languages, especially the latin languages, then the initial mountain of an obstacle is only temporary, because then one will develop wings, and you'll devour all the great french works, from The Man Who Laughs to Chanticleer, with the talons of your system. I actually recommend that you start off with Chanticleer, because it is only a play and, in English still one of the greatest things I have ever read. What an example of not only the integration of theme and plot, but of those and style. The use of words is masterly, the fusion of animal life and the life of man. There is even an English translation by an Objectivist. I can't recall the name, but in The Objectivist, she is the one who wrote the article on Ibsen ... oh wait, I have the Objectivst right here: Kay Nolte Smith. This version is better than the Gutenberg one I have been reading online. Chanticleer is such a fun and benevolent experience for the very most part. Chanticleer is so adorable; if he weren't a chicken I'd have a poster of him next to my Justin Timberlake one. Just kidding; I don't have a Justin Timberlake poster, though I like the dance aspects of his new album. Jose Gainza.

If you don't have a small store of french vocabulary and some verb conjugation knowledge, and knowing which words are verbs and which are nouns, etc. it's going to be hard. I predict that the process will be quite slow. The Spanish and the Latin should help substantially. Given the last reason of yours for going through pains that you are planning, you won't read the English version while you're reading the French version. That is unfortunate. But it should be a successful way to learn French; you're way. Will it be your first time reading the story?