There is no “modest job”! How many times have you reminded me that there is no modest job! A thousand times, a hundred thousand times . . . numberless times. You haven’t let me eat one plate of beefsteak and potatoes in peace. My job as a poet—since you say that I am one—my modest job as a poet. To write the books I know how to write. Each one of us does what he knows how to do. To do what’s asked of me, what I’m paid for. They ask me for it because I’m good at it, because people enjoy it. They buy it because they know I’m a good worker in this business—I know my trade. I give exactly what they expect me to give.

What? The opposite? You’re saying I should give them the opposite of what they expect? What kind of tune are you whistling now? If you went to the shoemaker’s, and he handed you a guitar instead of a pair of shoes, what would you say? Yes, I know. You don’t need any shoes, or a guitar. All right, stop making that noise with your wings. I know you make music on your own, and you fly. I know you fly through the skies. But men don’t fly through the skies. They need to wear shoes, and they’re lucky to have somebody to make them.

Are you saying I preach to fill my pockets? Yes, I do preach to fill my pockets. Everybody preaches to fill their pockets. I too have the right. But you just said the word “pockets,” and that bothers me. You knew it would, that’s why you said it. You know how to get at me, better than anyone else. But you, who pride yourself on so much purity, you, with your wings . . . you know, all the same, what you just said isn’t true.

Do you want me to tell you exactly why I preach? I preach so that you’ll leave me in peace! I don’t deny I should be proud to wrestle with an angel. But I don’t give a damn! However glorious it might be to bear the distinction of spending one’s whole life in horrible struggles with you, with never a moment’s respite, I’m telling you, straight out, that I don’t give a damn for that glory and I’ve had it up to here with that distinction! I have no desire whatsoever to be distinguished. Nothing irritates me more than somebody telling me I’m distinguished because they think it will please me. And I’m never more enraged than when, after you’ve given me a good thrashing, you end up making me really distinguished, and I can tell it’s obvious to other people.

Go to hell! Let me speak! I don’t want to be singled out for duty anymore, understand? So there you have it, that’s why I preach. The hard things, the bitter cup: They’re always meant for me. Don’t you see that what I’ve accomplished already isn’t so bad? Five or six books. But maybe you haven’t even read them? You have? Well then, you can plainly see that I did what I could. (Would that each of us did as much.) More than one can do? Ah, old friend, that’s an easy thing for an angel to say. A man can say it too. But (and this is something you’ll never understand, you with your foolish angel’s head) when a man says it, he’s already done enough; he never intended to do more than he was capable of. Try? Me? Absolutely not, I’m telling you! When your cruelty gets affectionate, that’s when I have to be the most guarded. Oh, yes indeed! There’s nobody like you for saying you love me, even while you’re slapping me back and forth with your wings. I’ve always been taken in by your tenderness. If not for that, I would have had the upper hand a long time ago. It gives you the advantage.