Tell me a secret, dear Yankel Brodny. How does Nagel do it? Confront himself eye to eye while writing and tell a story whose essence can be summed up in three sentences? I don’t doubt his fairness and honesty for even an instant. I know the man; he was my friend. But he’s fooling someone: either himself or us, his readers. There is something shady somewhere in the way he lays the eggs of his stories and hatches every one of them into a novel. To his credit, I have to say that he is less infected than anyone else by the narcissism of the time, less spellbound by the utterly amazing mystery of existence, even when confronting himself eye to eye. Thus, he appears to succeed in peering through and beyond himself and perceiving his fellow men and neighbors Tom, Dick, and Harry. Okay. No one is saying that novels have to be ineluctably autobiographical. On the contrary: there is a widespread opinion that there is no such thing as a true autobiography. Even more unavoidable in literature than in everyday life is the con of the as-if. Fiction, Mr. Brodny. Nagel iz a firstrayt fikshinriter. I am an even better fikshin-riter. But Nagel has the colder heart. He does not sufficiently love his fellow men and neighbors Tom, Dick, and Harry. Otherwise, he would commit to them more fully and turn them into human beings, not marionettes. As he presents them they function purely to present the events of which “reality”—according to his steadfast troglodyte opinion—is woven. Sure, this method produces stories that can be told in three sentences, but one wonders why he bothered to use more than three.

And that is Nagel’s con, Mr. Brodny. For reality does not consist of events. It consists of existences. Believe Uncle Ferdinand. In his Middle Kingdom, only the same things keep happening: champagne breakfasts lunches polo games golf tournaments hunting parties Mediterranean cruises cocktail parties intimate dinners galas poker chemin-de-fer roulette movie stars duchesses and other whores. These things keep repeating themselves from here to eternity—and thus, nothing happens. However, Bully Olivera and Agop Garabetian—what full existences they have! Tom, Dick, and Harry, if one takes them lovingly and thoroughly in hand—what miracles of creation! If Nagel succeeds in letting Tom stroll through a novel without supplying the total content of his skull, the myrmidon teeming of Dick’s thoughts ideas impressions experiences reflections, the entire meteorology of Harry’s spiritual life, then I can only repeat: Chapeau, monsieur! This strikes me as neither fair nor honest. I for my part love people; I encounter them wherever I go. All I have to do is stick my nose out the door and I run with the pack. There are crowds of people around. They populate the towns, the highways . . .

But I see I am boring you. You’ve scarcely got a shrug for my problems. As far as my novel and I are concerned, you knew at first glance: this guy is cradling a dead child. You don’t want to squander your time on my adolescent writing problems. Please, however, permit me to take the matter seriously. These were the problems that caused the death of my friend S., my brother Schwab.