Hayriddin Ravshanov

The Gathering of the Conceited

(or, a Ph.D. sans Shakespeare)

By Hayriddin Ravshanov

I

It was a glorious gathering. In a large banquet room, a few hundred of the brightest literary minds dressed in their finest were seated around tables decorated with all the delicacies imaginable to indulge upon. The distinguished guests sipping from the glasses of champagne were enthusiastically exchanging compliments and congratulating one another on their envious successes.  The party would have go on just as glamorously as it was, but when the attendants saw a lady with almost an authoritative aura about her, walking up to the podium, they cut their compliments short, and quickly took to their seats. Highly educated in France, Dr. Michelle F.  Hicklearns was a well-respected literary critic of her time.

“Dear the talented bunch,” began a lady in her sweet voice that made her sound charming, “What a privilege it is to be amongst the foremost novelists and poets of our time. I would like to welcome you all to our annual gathering where we celebrate and recognize the hard labors of creative folks who do so much through their timeless works to bring about social change and harmony, equality among all races and genders.” Some in the crowd already began to feel appreciated and could not hide their excitement.

“Now, now, what I am about to say may not please the ears of the so-called the ‘elites,’” a hysterical laughter broke out in the crowd at this point,  “but I am sure you will agree with the fact that after all, racial and gender empowerment is the main purpose of all good literature.” Everyone in the audience began to thunderously applause at the words of this distinguished lady whom they considered the indefatigable fighter for good literature that empowered all voices previously unheard or discarded by the “elitists” for lack of merit.

“For too long,” the lady went on with her passionate speech with almost a revolutionary rhetoric, but the crowd had not stopped clapping, “for too long, hear me out ladies and gentlemen, we had to abide by the problematical standards of the ‘Dead White Men’ School of Snobbery, who shamelessly urge us to read the misogynistic dead white men whose works do not at all represent our feelings and struggles, and therefore cannot be of any use to us.”

Such forceful comment caused a certain kind of reaction from the crowd that is endlessly repeated throughout the event in which people nod at each other approvingly while clapping simultaneously. This is very common in events of the like-minded where nothing wrong can be said and very little is needed to excite the crowd.

“I believe I have said enough” Dr. Hicklearns said, visibly pleased with the positive response, “but before I introduce our presenter for the evening, let me just make two more comments. First, I would like to especially thank the brave professors present here tonight who work tirelessly to promote the changes we want in the institutions of higher learning; they have bravely introduced our choices of important books previously ignored into their curriculum to shape the minds of future generations. I say to you, ‘Keep up the good fight!’  And lastly, I am proud to announce that Borrdum House has agreed to publish my long-awaited book Why Shakespeare was a Misogynistic Fraud. I have spent many years on this important book which I am confident will bring about a different and much-needed meaningful discourse on the subject.”

II

Dr. Hicklearns introduced the presenter of the awards in her same proud and forceful tone. “Now, I am very pleased with our choice,” she began, as Dr. S. C. Umbeggs waited to come to the stage. “He is a professor, a unique poet, a lover of cats, a musician, and an unsung hero of good poetry about fish, hallucinations, and self-importance.  You know him by his famous collections of poems entitled: Hagfish: A Journey in Poetry“

“You may not have heard much about me,” the humble professor began, “but, I am famous in Ireland.”

“As we are rewarding talent tonight, let me begin with a reading of a poem by a very promising poet student of mine. I am proud to call myself her mentor. This excerpt was originally published in the student literary journal Propoopium of which I am the editor. I always look for excellent poems like this one to publish in the school journal; our journal is full of such excellent poems.”

Lament for a Frog

Last night on my facebook page

While I was checking for updates

I saw your picture, sweet frog

It made me wonder where you were.

Next morning I woke early and rushed

Into the backyard to the place

Where I last spotted you.

But alas, I could not find you.

I remember the first time we met

What a difficult beginning

For such an endearing friendship!

It was  at a gas station

I was drinking something when I caught you

Undressing me with your froggy eyes

As if I were a piece of meat.

“No, Mr. Frog, that is a bad frog. Stop it!” I said

In an angry tone which I now regret.

But you kept looking at me instead.

“Bug off, you dirty  frog”

I found myself repeating four times or so.

Wow, that seems like long ago now.

“Well folks, this goes on about  twenty remarkable pages  of inspired poetry which you can find in her blog, but for the sake of time, let me just read the ending:

I miss you frog,

RIP my exceptional jumper friend.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Dear Reader,

Unfortunately, before Dr. S.C. Umbeggs presented the awards to the illustrious literary minds selected, the author of this report had to leave the ceremony troubled by an unusually painful headache, the cause of which is still a mystery to him. But, he feels obligated to inform you of the night’s winners which he gathered from the official newsletter, without any personal impressions. Some of the main awards were as follows:

The best novel of the year was Nicholas Stretch’s latest “Johnnie Remembered” A sentimental story of a soldier who lost his penis during a combat in Iraq, and his struggle to find love after his return to his home state of Alabama. The driving force in the narrative is the very tough choices the main character has to make. In his acceptance speech, Mr. Stretch announced that the novel would soon be made into an emotionally moving film, and Milee Virus was cast as the lead, Marck Notless. This was a second recognition for Mr. Stretch, whose first novel “The Brotherhood of Traveling Balls” was selected as the best novel three years prior.

Lifetime achievement award was given  to Estaban Queen, whose superb suspenseful novels have kept the publishing industry afloat. His latest novel is a story of an English teacher who travels to diners back and forth through time in search of some truth which the readers have to read very deeply to understand; it is hidden.

The poetry award went to a lady who said she was inspired by a chair to write her latest collection called “Chair: the Tenth Muse” There was an excerpt published in the newsletter but the author of this report could not understand such a difficult poem.

And the last award of the evening for exceptional productivity went to a 90 year old life-long author of 300 romance novels. Her latest novel is the story of her most famous female character who appears in many of her novels. This time, the heroine who has been romantically involved with everyone at work in the previous novels, begins a different journey in which she attempts to resist her urges when she meets a newly-hired Mexican janitor. As for scenes of most passionate sexy intercourse, the 90 year old author, does not disappoint. Ah, nostalgia!

The Events Surrounding the Passing of Mr. Roberts

By Hayriddin Ravshanov

I

James was sound asleep when his father woke him up at an early hour of the morning, looking a bit distraught. He thought he was being woken up to get ready for school, but when he looked at the clock by his bed, he saw that it was 5 a.m. Still half-asleep, he looked at his father.

“James, wake up little man, I have to tell you something even though it will make you sad,” his father said to him, while the ten year old James was still trying to wake up, wondering what had happened. The little boy was so accustomed to his daily routine that he thought nothing major would happen outside the normal schedule. James, as if ready to console his father whatever may have happened, unsuspectingly said: “What is it, Dad?”

“James, we received a call from the nursing home earlier and they said that grandpa passed away an hour ago.”  He waited looking at James observing his reaction— which he thought would help him to know how to further explain the sad news. “Your mom and I decided that we should tell you now.” A sudden fear took over the little boy, and he began to involuntarily cry, helpless to understand why grandpa was longer alive. His father tried to comfort him, but James could not hear anything his father was saying. He was lost in the memory of the last time he had seen his grandfather in the nursing home: the emaciated feeble man, sitting on his wheelchair unable to utter a word.

His tears stopped when he began replaying in his mind the images from their last meeting. The frail old man, for about two weeks or so, had not been able to recognize anyone who visited him; since his memory was erased, everyone looked familiar in his eyes. “Someone has a visitor!” the nurse would say in an obligatory cheerful tone as if wishing him a happy birthday (it was her job, sweet thing!), while rolling him in a wheelchair to the visitor’s hall, which had the pretty design of a decent hotel lobby: a design almost too elaborate for a group of people with a vague idea of their surroundings.

James recalled waiting with his father in the visitor’s hall, which had a large aquarium filled with fish as isolated as the elderly patients of the nursing home. All the pleasant decorations helped to alleviate the gloomy atmosphere in the place; the younger visitors who did not have much to talk about with their grandparents could watch TV sitting on the comfortable leather couches and play on their phones.

The nurse had informed the old man that his son and grandson were there to see him, but he could not react to the news. During the last visit, James’ father only said a few words to the old man asking him how he was feeling, but Mr. Roberts had only given him a brief glance, and nothing more. As usual, James was the one paying full attention to his grandfather, looking at the old man with a smile expressing his happiness to see him again; while his father chatted with the nurse, who gave him a report on the old man’s condition. She reported that Mr. Roberts had not had any accidents that day, was taking his pills on time, and was still persistent about staying out at the nice garden for at least an hour every day. She also added that he was eating well and had enjoyed the banana pudding for desert.  Such was the nature of their recent visits, and even before that it was not at all different.  Before, James’ father would do most of the talking, mostly work related, and barely thirty minutes after, he would usually end the conversation with, “Well, we better get going before it gets dark; we haven’t even had dinner yet.”

James had a feeling that his grandfather somehow still remembered him. He could tell this because the old man’s eyes lit up, and he extended his left hand for a hand shake when James said to him: “I saw your picture in our family album the other day, grandpa. You were wearing your soldier’s uniform, and had dark black hair. ” Perhaps the old man’s memory briefly came back to him triggered by the boy’s innocent voice or the fact that he reminded Mr. Roberts of his own childhood. Holding his grandfather’s hand, James gave him a hug, but his father did not witness this rare moment because he had gone to see the administrator about the health insurance and billing. The old man could hardly say a word anymore, and surprisingly that did not depress him at all.  All he could do now was to silently survey his surroundings and be with his own thoughts without any interruption; and such immunity from engaging in the expected form of daily contact with others strangely pleased him.

The elderly enjoy not saying much, except among their own peers, not because they are wiser and know not to seem foolish by what they say, but also because very few are interested or care to know about their past lives. Such is a sad nature of current times: the elderly who have seen wars, hunger, depression, and other hardships the current “Lord, help with me with my exams” generation cannot understand nor cares to know about the experiences of the past generations.  What the elderly have experienced has more than ever become a subject of interest only to themselves and archivists and historians.

James was slightly consoled by the last memory of his grandfather, even though he was still terrified of attending the funeral. All the while James was lost in reminiscing, his father had left the room, which James could not recall seeing.

II

It must be said that Mr. Robert’s never imagined himself ending up at the nursing home. The likely possibility of this reality rarely escaped his mind and he knew what a rare blessing it was to die at home  nowadays; nevertheless he desired to peacefully die at his own home and to be buried immediately afterward. His wife was of the same belief.  However, three months prior his death, he had reluctantly agreed to undergo what his doctor called “a minor surgery.” Mr. Roberts strongly believed that hospitals and nursing homes were a bad omen for folks of his age, because he thought most that were accepted into those places rarely got the chance to return to their homes. Sadly, several so called “unforeseen” complications developed soon after his surgery– the details of which the author not only lacks the learning to explain, but also does not wish to burden the reader with.

Unlike in weddings, family holiday gatherings, or joyous occasions of such nature, it is difficult to have scheduling conflicts in regards to attending a funeral ceremony.  God fearing folks manage to set their earthly matters aside for an hour or two in order to bid farewell to the deceased. Some are by nature weary of attending funerals as it reminds them of their own impending end, and they customarily console the family of the deceased with the repeated sayings of, “This just reminds us how fragile we all are.” Strangely, it is not unusual to meet others, who abstain from making such superfluous comments, and instead would prefer to learn how the deceased had met their deaths: were they frightened at the last hour or did they sigh with relief?  Some brave souls are seldom bothered by death.

Mr. Robert’s widow had not been able to sleep well the night when she too received the fateful phone call. The person who called also informed Mrs. Roberts that her son knew about the passing. The poor lady used to visit her husband in the mornings as much as she had the strength to walk with a cane.  Lately, she  had complained that she felt very lonely without her beloved of 50 years at home with her. She had told him many times that she felt she did not belong to this world anymore.

James’s father had spoken with Mrs. Roberts and the relatives from far and near about the funeral arrangements and they had agreed to set the date for the visitation and a ceremony a day after for Friday, giving everyone three days to arrive and make the necessary preparations. Meanwhile, Mr. Robert’s body was collected from the nursing home to be taken to the funeral home, where the “funeral professional” as they call themselves, promised James’ father that they would take good care of the body.  So, Mr. Roberts was to remain in the funeral home for three days to accommodate the schedules of the living.

The funeral professional, as promised, had done everything necessary to ensure that Mr. Roberts looked his finest for the last time his family and friends would see him.  He had not worn such a fine suit since his wedding day and needless to say, it looked better than the hospital garments he had worn in the last couple of months; and that luxurious piece of furniture that was his coffin, looked more comfortable to rest on than the hospital bed. He was clean shaved and his remaining hair was nicely combed, and he lay as peacefully as only a lifeless body could.

Mr. Robert’s coffin was set in the front-center of the visitation room which looked very similar to the visitor’s hall of the nursing home; it too was agreeably furnished and decorated with flowers and nice paintings often with spiritual messages to help console the grieved for the duration of their brief visit. When the family arrived, James noticed that his grandfather looked strangely different in his coffin which frightened the little boy even more. Despite all the efforts of the funeral professionals to make Mr. Roberts look more lifelike, the heavy makeup on his face had significantly changed his appearance, and given him a waxy look.

Mrs. Roberts stood first in line in front of the coffin, along with few other members of the family to accept the condolences of the visitors, who greeted the family members, said all they could, and briefly glanced at the body of Mr. Roberts. And before disappearing into the crowd to talk about unrelated matters and catch up with the people they have not seen for a while, they stared at the big photo collage of the deceased at the end of the line. This collage, even though it was an unsettling contrast to the body in the coffin, served as a reminder to all the attendants, both related to or unfamiliar with Mr. Roberts, about the life he had lived. There were pictures of him as an infant in the arms of his sweet mother, as a playful boy sitting next to his father, and as a fine-looking soldier in his uniform, along with photos from other walks of life. His peers who were deeply distressed by his death, had to remind themselves that their now deceased friend by whose coffin they stood glancing for a long time, could once breathe, speak, and stand on his own two feet.

After the end of the visitation, the family members drove to Mr. Roberts’ home, where they stayed for half an hour with Mrs. Roberts, before leaving for their hotel rooms to rest and get refreshed, and come back that evening. Only James and his mother had stayed on. Mrs. Roberts went to her room where she mourned her husband in solitude; she felt more isolated and not part of this world, and had never had less desire to wish for more life.  She was disturbed to recall one particular conversation with her husband, in which Mr. Roberts had informed her that some of the deceased in the nursing home whose bodies were not claimed by family members or anyone else, would get buried in unmarked graves by the State or if cremated, their ashes would be kept in box at State coroner’s office indefinitely.

A Solitary Man

by

Hayriddin Ravshanov

I

            There existed an isolated house in the country town in northern Minnesota whose monastic features could make a stranger doubt that anyone lived in it. Although the outside appearance of the house resembled that of a depressing ruin, it still retained the remnants of its long-since lost splendor. The windows were covered in dust, the outside walls looked as if they had been painted by the dusty winds, and even the once bright red bricks had lost their florid design over time. The town itself, like any ideal inconspicuous village for people who wished to escape their hectic lives in the city, was conveniently located out of sight.

The seemingly lifeless appearance of the house inspired the imaginations of the locals and the strangers alike to become more familiar with this melancholy structure. But they were out of luck; because the owner, an old gentleman whom locals did not know well but supposed of good character, rarely left the house and was not fond of entertaining. He was rarely seen outside his door and each of his brief appearances provided the locals with enough material for a day-long conversation. During those rare appearances, the people who were lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the old man would always notice rapid changes in his features. Every time he appeared, he seemed older, weaker, slower and thinner to them. Sadly, the defects of old age are readily visible even to the most inattentive of eyes, and no unnatural remedy could help to disguise them for long.

The locals were discontent about how little they knew of their secluded neighbor even a year after his arrival in the community. Everyone said it would not be amiss to make his acquaintance but few tried. Those who tried to engage him in a conversation seldom received any answer from the old man who seemed not to notice them at all. But he would always politely smile and nod his head as he walked by without facing the person trying to talk with him. The unsatisfied locals had finally decided that the old man was a sad recluse not to be disturbed or simply a mad man unaware of his surroundings and living in a different world.

Only Richard Lindberg had had a brief conversation with the mysterious old man. Mr. Lindberg was a man of few words, and the intricate details of other peoples’ lives did not interest him at all. Although he did not like the never-ending speculations circulating, one instance of such event amused him. He had gone into the bar and was surprised to see a group of men heartily speculating on the same subject as if every guess brought them closer to the answer. The men had been drinking for a while to keep warm in the wretched winter, even though alcohol only gave the illusion of warmth. Their intoxicated minds were creative about their guesses. One of them laughingly said that perhaps the old man had run away from his wife after decades of uninteresting marriage and did not want to be found by her; “He should not have waited so long,” said a man barely holding on to the table, “but I applaud his courage.” While another man who was still somewhat sober replied in more serious tone that maybe, the old man used to be one of those people who are too dedicated to their careers and have no time for families, and who live alone when they become old and incapable. “You are thinking too much,” said one of them in response as he was emptying another shot to keep him even warmer. At this point Mr. Lindberg approached the group and everyone looked, waiting for him to speak.  “Say what you may about the old man,” Mr. Lindberg said, “but he seemed very pleasant and educated to me. We should not bother him, he chooses to be alone.” The crowd remained silent after Mr. Lindberg’s comment until one of the yelled out, “He must be too educated to speak to us, then.” Mr. Lindberg wasn’t pleased with the man’s comment, but chose to ignore it. He knew the reason for his neighbor’s reclusiveness; or rather what kept him occupied at his house, but did not share it with anyone else.

II

  Some of the people in this country town who could not suppress their curiosities were soon to be consoled by the visit of a young man from the city. Ethan Carter was a university student of pale and feeble complexion; his unusually large-sized glasses later made the locals in the natural humor think him overburdened by books. The readers can be certain that this studious young man was inevitably to become a literary critic of some kind someday, as his voracious appetite for books had made him ill-suited for every other profession.

The first destructive blizzard of winter was about to hit Minnesota. The train being late, Ethan arrived in the village close to midnight to find Mr. Lindberg, his host, sitting on the bench with drooping eyelids. A tall man of very serious countenance, Mr. Lindberg looked more like a detective there to arrest the young man, rather than a host. Slightly intimidated by his strong physique, Ethan began walking toward Mr. Lindberg uttering any polite excuse that came to his mind.

“Are you Ethan Carter? It is about time you came in, son!” said Mr. Lindberg with an unexpected smile instantly freeing Ethan of any distress. Those who are often reserved and diffident have the most radiant smiles. So did Mr. Lindberg, who behind his rustic complexion was a kind-hearted family man content with life.

“I must apologize for my late arrival” was one of the few coherent thoughts Ethan could put together. “It was unbearably cold in the train.”

“You sure don’t look like you’ve been in the country much” said the host in good humor shaking hands with Ethan.

“My appearance is obvious enough for me not venture outside of the city much, Sir! My poor health restricts my traveling around much. I should be in a warm place ideally, but I have come to see your neighbor.”

Ethan had already been up and reading the next morning when he heard a group of men talking in kitchen: it was the same curious group from the bar a night before. When Ethan heard his name mentioned, he understood the reason for their visit. Ethan was surprised at how little Mr. Lindberg inquired about the old man. But Mr. Lindberg thought he knew enough having met him once. He did not think it necessary to know everything about a person in order to have a decent opinion of him. But his visitors thought otherwise.

Ethan was perfectly aware of what everyone expected of him. Unlike the locals who had seen the old man albeit infrequently but knew nothing about him, Ethan had heard a lot about the man but had never laid eyes on him.

He waited  nervously listening before entering the kitchen. “Although I am pleased to share what I know of your mysterious neighbor” he began, looking around the room, “I fear it may not satisfy your deep curiosity.”

“We have had years to imagine everything about him, boy! Now go on and tell us what is true,” said one of the men in the back.

“The little that I know is that your neighbor is Dr. Mark Stevens, but he never uses his real name for his writings. He used to be a professor of Romantic Poetry at my university several years ago. I was told that one day he resigned without explanation and canceled all contact with his colleagues.”

This bit of unexpected information surprised the men listening; in their eyes Dr. Stevens had become more complicated and stranger figure than they had thought, albeit less interesting. That the old man should turn out to be just a professor was the last possibility that had crossed their minds. All this while, they had thought that he was either a retired businessman from the east coast, or some other presumably important persona not locally connected. Ethan, naturally shy and wary of people observing him for a long time, paused not knowing how to continue the conversation. He then went on to explain why he had been so eager to meet with Dr. Stevens, an explanation he soon after learned his audience did not find amusing.

“A professor of mine recommended reading Dr. Stevens’ brief book on the poems of John Keats for a class and I came to admire him. The man has an immense understanding of Romantic Poetry and I have not read any other piece so exemplary from any of his contemporaries. It baffles me that he quit academics. Given his deep passion for teaching, I thought that he would teach until his last day. But some of the faculty members have speculated that after decades of teaching, Dr. Stevens had often talked of dedicating the rest of his time solely to writing. So, I have come to learn from him.”

The men had begun leaving Mr. Lindberg’s home before Ethan could finish. The only cause Ethan could give for such abrupt departure and dissatisfied looks of the men was that the answer he gave was drastically different from that of what those men had concocted in their own imaginations. It is rare virtue not to betray one’s disappointment when the answer one has—and thought was the correct answer—is not true. Luckily the visit was over and the only good outcome was the suppressed curiosities of Mr. Lindberg’s guests.

“That was rather awkward, was it not, Mr. Lindberg?” said Ethan, relieved that he was no longer being scrutinized by people watching him. “I suppose so. It sure was obvious they were disappointed that they did not learn as much from you as they had expected,” responded Mr. Lindberg as he was walking out of the house, signaling to Ethan that he should follow him. They were going to meet Dr. Stevens.

III

            Dr. Stevens’ house stood alone, as isolated as its owner, a few miles up the road. Surely the old house was once a vibrant structure, but now it had become a place of solitude worthy of a monk. The old man was usually talked about when he made an appearance outside his home. The locals only remembered of him when they saw him and quickly forgot about him during the times he did not venture outside for days. Neither of the men knew what to expect of their uninvited visit to Dr. Stevens. In fact, most people would have no legitimate reason to dare to visit Dr. Stevens at his house. But Mr. Lindberg knew his reclusive neighbor to be a kind man, and even if their sudden visit did not please their host, he thought he would apologetically promise not to be so bold to visit him again.

“Is it true that you had a conversation with Dr. Stevens once?” asked Ethan, hoping that the question would not be asking too much of his host. But, Mr. Lindberg’s expression and gestures seemed peculiarly in the same calm manner to most things, making it hard for Ethan to guess what his host might be thinking or how he would react. Mr. Lingberg humorously waited a few minutes to answer the question as those idiosyncratic men who prefer to answer any question asked of them in their own time and terms as if it were a privilege to ask them a question in the first place. Mr. Lindberg knew that this uncomfortably long silence, however simple the question, did make the person asking the question feel a bit silly, and usually resulted in making the answer sound more learned and profound. Noticing the increasingly obvious signs of regret for ignoring deference, Mr. Lindberg could not torment the young man any longer.

“Yes, I did speak with him once,” he said, “but I am not sure that I could call it a conversation. It happened back when he had recently moved into the community and before we knew of his affection or strict preference for solitude. My wife and I had invited our friends in the community for a dinner party in December, and she insisted that we invite the ‘new neighbor’ to make his acquaintance.”

“Did you want to meet him yourself?” asked Ethan.

“Well, I could not say ‘No’ to my wife,” Mr. Lindberg continued, “I did not hesitate to invite him, because to be honest, I wanted to thank the man who by purchasing the house had made the leaving of its previous owners quick, and less arduous for us to bear.” Ethan was amused to learn that the always calm Mr. Lindberg could sometimes be so annoyed, and asked him whether the dinner party had coincided with the departure of his disliked old neighbors. Mr. Lindberg was rather pleased with the understanding and appropriate reaction of Ethan and said, “I now regret I waited until the week after. I did not like the old neighbors because unlike Dr. Stevens, they had too much to say; and in this community we have too much work, so we don’t care for people who seem to have nothing to do but somehow manage to distract others from their work. I got to the point where I had heard and seen enough of them.” Mr. Lindberg realized that he had said too much of the disliked previous neighbors; they had been gone a while and there was no reason to talk about them anymore. Ethan patiently listened to his host but it was obvious that he would much rather hear about the encounter with Dr. Stevens. “I hope you were not bored listening about the unpleasant neighbors,” said Mr. Lindberg about to reveal a certain weakness of his. “For some reason I have this daunting realization that I will always have to endure the company of people I am not fond of.”

Mr. Lindberg fell silent to observe Ethan’s reaction to his altogether insincere concern; and before he was about to speak again,  he noticed that he could see Dr. Stevens’ house even though it was still quite a distance away on foot. He then abruptly resumed his story.

“I went to his house before dark. I did not see any lights on and assumed he was asleep. I could only see a little light coming from one of the rooms, it seemed like a candle. In order to avoid an argument with my wife about why I should not have assumed that he was not at home, I waited around a little longer. I had stepped back a little to peek through the front windows to see whether there was any movement when I saw him entering the kitchen. He filled the pot with water and put it on the stove and stood by it, reading the pages on his hands and waiting for the water to boil, yawning as if he had just woken up. I knocked on his door. I heard a dog, and by its loud bark it sounded like a big dog. When he opened the door, I was shocked to find out that the dog with an alarmingly loud bark was actually a tiny Maltese. I introduced myself and noticed when I shook his hand that his fingers had ink stains on them.

‘I am sorry to disturb you at such inconvenient hour,’ I said trying not to betray my nervousness, ‘my wife and I wanted to invite you to a dinner party at our house in hopes of making your acquaintance and introducing you to few other people in the community.’ By his silent response, I could tell that he was amused that a grown man should be so anxious talking to another person.

‘I thank you for you kind invitation,’ he said still holding those pages in his hands, ‘but I have work to do.’

‘What keeps you so occupied that you so rarely venture outdoors?’ I hesitantly asked, though I was not as nervous.

‘I write. For many years, I have been possessed by the thought of writing the story of one delightful, albeit fictional lady. This may sound absurd, but I have become quite fond of her and I am afraid she will not leave my thoughts until I finish her story.’

“He went on speaking about his book in a pleasant language, like in novels with such ease and elegance, that I became gripped by the music of his words even though I did not fully understand him. I had not noticed the melancholy, emotional tone in his voice until I heard him say, with his doleful eyes looking at me, ‘…. as I do not have the luxury of time anymore.’  I sensed a profound sorrow in the old man, the cause of which I could never learn unless he had told me himself.

“Well, your day may be coming to an end, sir, but mine is about to start. So if you would excuse me,” he interrupted while I was thinking of a question to ask him. I understood that he wrote at nights; not wanting to bother him anymore, I left saying that the dinner was to start at seven o’clock, not remembering what he’d said earlier.

“I had told my wife that the new neighbor would most likely join us in the evening, so she had him seated next to us on the table. A little before seven o’clock, the rest of the guests began arriving but there was no sign of the anticipated gentleman. She expected him to show any minute and purposefully delayed the dinner by encouraging small talk. Half an hour had passed, and he had not come in yet. Our guests started wondering among themselves about the reasons for such an unnecessary delay; even the politest of guests would desire the dinner to be served at the appointed hour, as they had respectfully arrived on time, setting other personal matters aside. An hour had passed without any news of Dr. Stevens, and our guests were running out of topics for small conversations and growing noticeably impatient. We had to proceed, but my wife kept his seat for the remainder of the evening.”

The men were getting close to Dr. Stevens’ house when Mr. Lindberg stopped to share an observation, fearing that it would escape his mind: “I tell you Ethan, I have often been told that a hungry person is able to think better, that an empty stomach somehow improves the perceptive powers of an individual. But I have learned it to be untrue in the case of dinner guests.”

IV

            Winter changes peoples’ perceptions of beauty in general; only in winter, it is no longer relevant how majestic or melancholy the homes are from the outside, but how indiscriminately beautiful they all look covered in snow. And only snow could hide every ruined detail of Dr. Steven’s gloomy home and make it look effortlessly splendid.

Ethan was all the more anxious, realizing how close he was to meeting the person whom he considered to be an ideal mentor. He was rehearsing in his mind what questions he would ask of Dr. Stevens, and imagining how their first encounter would go, how he would introduce himself, and how the old man would react to such an unexpected visit from a student he did not remember teaching.

“Did you speak with him again since then?” asked Ethan.

“I can’t truthfully say that I ever attempted,” replied Mr. Lindberg.  “I believe that he chose to be alone and I’m sure he still values his solitude. I am used to being around my family and busy households and, even though I sometimes chide my children for making too much noise, I would find it suffocating to live alone all day, every day. Have you ever visited a person who lives alone? It is an uncomfortable experience unless you know them well. ”

Ethan did not like the idea of visiting people at their homes even if he were familiar with them. “I was mostly home-bound as a child due to sickness, Mr. Lindberg. My parents used to have a lot people over at our house for parties and some guests would always entreat me to come visit their home and tell me how much pleasure my visit would grant them. Out of politeness, I went to a few homes and found my hosts completely changed and behaving inattentively toward me a few minutes after my arrival. I would be so hurt that I would spend the remaining of my stay trying not to betray my eagerness to leave and not ever come back. So, I have been fearful of putting myself in such positions again.”

Mr. Lindberg distractingly said “I tell you kid, you will eventually learn that people always seem more pleasant when they are attending occasions outside of their homes, because society demands such insincere formality.”

Their conversation ended when they had reached the home of the old man. With great hesitation, they knocked on the door. Ethan was nervously trying to remember his questions, expecting that the door would be opened any second. But there was no answer and for Mr. Lindberg, it was unusually quiet around as not even the dog was barking.  After receiving no answer to their many calls, Ethan leaned on the door to peek through the frozen glass and found the door to be unlocked; slightly opening the door, Ethan called for Dr. Stevens, but no one answered. Mr. Lindberg rushed into the house to search for the professor; looking into the living room he found unpacked boxes covered with spider webs. Ethan went into the study past the kitchen where he found his admired author seated at his writing desk with a cup of tea on his left side and a candle still burning on his right, his head resting on his unfinished work. There were pages of the manuscript scattered over the desk, and his right hand resting on a piece of paper titled “Author’s Note” in which he had begun to write:

For a long time, I avoided wholeheartedly devoting myself to the writing of literature, doubting that I had any talent for such a task. Even though my years of studying and reflecting on the sublime works of imaginative literature had helped me acquire an uncanny skill to recognize what constitutes an impressive work, I was not qualified to write one. One day my deceitful confidence overcame my realistic judgment, and I became determined to pursue this dream. I have not regretted it for a moment, though since then, I have lived in fear that the only body of work I will ever complete may at the end be a personal collection of musings lamenting my inability to write well; this daunting notion that my thoughts—however fully realized they may be in my mind—will not have the same appeal in my writings. But I have found much solace in my imagination in times of solitude and despair. I have, at last, made peace with the truth that those of us who were not born with acceptable talents to write must acquire it through hard work and hope to reach someday—even for one paragraph—the level of sublime. I have been ruined by the best works, and do not regret having lived the life in earnest attempt to reach their ranks….. I have admired the greats, have naively attempted to imitate them, yet for the longest time they have made me feel that I have nothing new and worthy of my own to say. I have concluded that in order to reach their ranks or have the rare blessing of surpassing them, I need to find a voice of my …..[own].