Stranger in a Strange Land

«And getting eviler each year. We won't look at any others — usually I ration myself to one a day.»

«Suits. I feel as if I had had three quick drinks. Jubal, why isn't there stuff like this where a person can see it?»

«Because the world has gone nutty and art always paints the spirit of its times. Rodin died about the time the world started flipping its lid. His successors noted the amazing things he had done with light and shadow and mass and composition and they copied that part. What they failed to see was that the master told stories that laid bare the human heart. They became contemptuous of painting or sculpture that told stones — they dubbed such work “literary”. They went all out for abstractions.»

Jubal shrugged. «Abstract design is all right — for wallpaper or linoleum. But art is the process of evoking pity and terror. What modern artists do is pseudo-intellectual masturbation. Creative art is intercourse, in which the artist renders emotional his audience. These laddies who won't deign to do that — or can't — lost the public. The ordinary bloke will not buy 'art' that leaves him unmoved. If he does pay, the money is conned out of him, by taxes or such.»

«Jubal, I've always wondered why I didn't give a hoot for art. I thought it was something missing in me.»

«Mmm, one does have to learn to look at art. But it's up to the artist to use language that can be understood. Most of these jokers don't want to use language you and I can learn; they would rather sneer because we “fail” to see what they are driving at. If anything. Obscurity is the refuge of incompetence. Ben, would you call me an artist?»

«Huh? You write a fair stick.»

«Thank you. “Artist” is a word I avoid for the same reason I hate to be called “Doctor”. But I am an artist. Most of my stuff is worth reading only once … and not even once by a person who knows the little I have to say. But I am an honest artist. What I write is intended to reach the customer — and affect him, if possible with pity and terror … or at least divert the tedium of his hours. I never hide from him in a private language, nor am I seeking praise from other writers for “technique” or other balderdash. I want praise from the customer, given in cash because I've reached him — or I don't want anything. Support for the arts-merde! A government-supported artist is an incompetent whore! Damn it, you punched one of my buttons. Fill your glass and tell me what's on your mind.»

«Jubal, I'm unhappy.»

«This is news?»

«I've got a fresh set of troubles.» Ben frowned. «I'm not sure I want to talk about them.»

«Then listen to my troubles.»

«Youhave troubles? Jubal, I thought you were the one man who had managed to beat the game.»

«Hmm, sometime I must tell you about my married life. Yes, I've got troubles. Duke has left — or did you know?»

«I knew.»

«Larry is a good gardener — but the gadgets that run this hogan are falling to pieces. Good mechanics are scarce. Ones that will fit into this household are almost non-existent. I'm limping along on repairmen — every visit a disturbance, all of them with larceny in their hearts, and most of them can't use a screw driver without cutting themselves. Nor can I, so I'm at their mercy.»

«My heart aches for you, Jubal.»

«Never mind the sarcasm. Mechanics and gardeners are convenient; secretaries are essential. Two of mine are pregnant, one is getting married.»

Caxton looked flabbergasted. Jubal growled, «Oh, I'm not telling tales. They're sore because I took you up here without giving them time to boast. So be surprised when they tell you.»

«Uh, which one is getting married?»

«Isn't that obvious? The happy man is that smooth-talking refugee from a sand storm, our esteemed water brother Stinky Mahmoud. I told him that they have to live here whenever they're in this country. Bastard laughed and pointed out that I had invited him to, long ago.» Jubal sniffed. «Wouldn't be so bad if he would. I might get some work out of her.»

«You probably would. She likes to work. The other two are pregnant?»

«Higher 'n a kite. I'm refreshing in O.B. because they say they're going to have 'em at home. What a crimp babies will put in my working habits! But why do you assume that neither turgescent tummy belongs to the bride?»

«Why, I assumed that Stinky was more conventional than that… or more cautious.»

«Stinky wouldn't be given a ballot. Ben, in all the years I have studied this subject, trying to trace the meanderings of their twisty little minds, the only thing I have learned is that when a gal is gonna, she's gonna. All a man can do is cooperate with the inevitable.»

«Well, which one isn't getting married or anything? Miriam? Or Anne?»

«Hold it, I didn't say the bride was pregnant … and you seem to be thinking that Dorcas is the prospective bride. It's Miriam who is studying Arabic.»

«Huh? I'm a cross-eyed baboon!»

«Obviously.»

«But Miriam was always snapping at Stinky — »

«And they trust you with a newspaper column — Ever watch a bunch of sixth-graders?»