Interesting.

I gave up apologizing for myself a long time ago. What should I say? That I’m sorry to be that which I am? I’d very little to do with it. As to your question—to concede to my taste for sweeping generalities—I might well say that what smacks of conundrum is usually just a thesis badly stated. Which I think I’ve suggested before. It’s really just a rather bald rendering of Wittgenstein. I dont know. Maybe we could talk about something else.

I sort of like this.

Oh boy.

I’m just teasing. Who is Miss Vivian?

She was an older woman. Thin. Eccentric. She dressed garishly and wore slabs of makeup. A shabby fur stole. She would look at you through this rhinestone lorgnette and she smoked cigarettes in an ivory holder.

You speak of her in the past tense.

I havent seen her for a while.

Was she one of the Kid’s acts?

No.

Did you talk to her?

Sure. We’d sit and chat. She was pretty unhappy. Her makeup would be streaked from crying. Or gullied, in her case.

What was she unhappy about?

She was unhappy about the babies. She used to cry about the babies.

The babies?

Yes.

What babies?

I dont know. All of them I guess.

Why was this of particular interest to you?

Because I cried nonstop the first two years of my life.

Reason enough, I suppose. Did you know why she was crying about the babies?

She didnt say. Other than the fact that they were unhappy. Are you sure this is something you want to go into?

It’s up to you. Yes. I would.

She was gone for a long time. And I was surprised to find that I missed her. I had a dream about her. I thought that the fact that I missed her and wanted to talk to her would make her come back. But it didnt. What was the dream?

Sorry?

I was just saying your next question for you.

All right. What was the dream.

It was a dream about children crying. When I woke up they were still crying. It just got farther away. I dont think that it had stopped. I just couldnt hear it anymore. I hadnt been around babies much. But I got to wondering why they cried all the time.

I think they cry for different reasons. Dont they? They’re wet, or they’re hungry.

I thought there had to be more to it. Animals might whimper if they’re hungry or cold. But they dont start screaming. It’s a bad idea. The more noise you make the more likely you are to be eaten. If you’ve no way to escape you keep silent. If birds couldnt fly they wouldnt sing. When you’re defenseless you keep your opinions to yourself.

That sounds metaphorical.

It’s just biology.

All right.

What was startling was the anguish in those cries. I began paying attention. There were always babies at the bus station and they were always crying. And these were not mild complaints. I couldnt understand how the least discomfort could take the form of agony. No other creature was so sensitive. The more I thought about it the clearer it became to me that what I was hearing was rage. And the most extraordinary thing was that no one seemed to find this extraordinary. Except for Miss Vivian. Of course you could point out that however gracious or kind or concerned she might be she was still an old looney. Of problematic reality. So I took that home with me. I dont think we ever really discussed it. She would just start weeping and shaking her head. I thought if she had brought me all this baggage she must be expecting me to do something about it but it began to get more complicated. I thought about it. The rage of children seemed inexplicable other than as a breach of some deep and innate covenant having to do with how the world should be and wasnt. I understood that their raw exposure to the world was the world.