“That was a wonderful story,” I said.
The poet paused, and took a sip of his wine. He looked around the room, and his eyes met mine. I smiled, and he smiled back, a small, tired smile. Then he went on. Role Models
“You didn’t offend me,” he said. “You just reminded me of something I’d rather forget.” “That was a wonderful story,” I said
“She was a large woman,” he said, “with a large head and large hands. She wore a brown corduroy suit and a brown felt hat, and she sat in a large armchair, and she talked. She talked about the war, the First World War, which she had lived through, and about the way the young men had come back from it, changed. She said they had lost their innocence, and that this loss was the only thing that mattered, the only thing worth writing about. She said that Hemingway had lost his innocence, but that he had found a way to write about it that was like a clean, white line on a blank page. She said that Fitzgerald had lost his innocence, but that he had found a way to write about it that was like a beautiful, sad party that went on too long. She said that she herself had never lost her innocence, because she had never had any to lose. She said that innocence was a luxury of the young, and that she had never been young.” I smiled, and he smiled back, a small, tired smile
I closed my eyes, and I waited for morning. End of text.
The poet stopped again, and this time he did not go on. He looked into his glass, as if the wine held a vision, and then he looked up and said, “I have spent my entire life trying to get that innocence back. And I have failed.”