A Critical Evaluation

I think of that sort of thing as worthless, almost. That rambling. But I mean that sort of thing. Sort. The thing itself has worth, this specific thing. Did you catch it? Did you see? Every once in a while a single line pulls it all together. Do you at least think about me. What a world of secrets, discovered in so few words. But all those other words, rambling, hedging, circling -- they are the mountain that makes the view possible.

I do it on purpose. I won't say how true it is. It's true enough. It's artistically true. Whether or not it's actually true is my business. Jack H, as I continue to maintain, is an artifact. The artist who continues to create him prefers to remain anonymous, recognizable only in reflections and silhouettes. I, the artist, not Jack H, am inferential. I step back sometimes to admire the effect of what I can achieve, through him. I've striven to make him human, revealed through his flaws. I think he is a character as fine as any that might be found in literature. We learn so much about him by what he refuses to say. Even I, who invented him, am surprised by his humanity. Sometimes I find myself wishing he were real.

I wrote the end of his story today. I've saved it as a draft. It's ugly. Interesting, I suppose, but you'll be disappointed. You would be, if you could read it. You expected more, I think, from him. Instead you'd see such a fool, a weak foolish coward. If you read it. But I don't think that's likely. Is it?


J