“But your collection of poems, Papa.”

“I once thought I’d continue.”

“I’m asking what made you stop.”

He smiled sarcastically, but then a sudden desire to be frank prompted him to confess, “No one listened to my songs.”

The silence hurt you, but Mustapha urged, “Perseverance and patience,” and Othman said, “Write for the Revolution and you’ll have thousands of listeners.”

You were beset by privation and oppressed by the silence. Poetry could not sustain you. One day Mustapha announced happily that the Tali’a troupe had accepted his play. The silence became more oppressive. Samson fell asleep before he could destroy the temple.

Buthayna asked, “Do there have to be listeners, Papa?”

He reached over and stroked a lock of her black hair. “Why rescue the secret of existence from silence, only to be greeted by silence?” Then he added gently, “Don’t you want people to listen to your poems?”

“Of course, but I’ll keep on anyway.”

“Fine, you’re braver than your father, that’s all.”

“You can return to poetry if you want.”

“The talent has died completely.”

“I don’t believe it. In my mind you will always be a poet.”

What has poetry to do with this hulking body, with the preoccupation with legal cases, the construction of apartment buildings, and gluttony to the point of illness? Even Mustapha slumped on the couch one day as if he were declining visibly into old age.

“What wasted effort,” he said.

You replied with concern, “But the Tali’a troupe welcomes your plays, and they’re excellent works.”

He gestured with his hand in deprecation. “I have to reconsider my life as you have.”

“You’ve always counseled perseverance and patience.”

He laughed harshly. “You can’t ignore the public.”

“You’d like to start out again as a lawyer?”

“Law died even before art. In fact, the concept of art changed without our realizing it. The era of art has ended, and the art of our age is simply diversion, the only art possible in an age of science. Science has taken over all fields except the circus.”

“Really, we’re all going to pieces, one after the other.”

“Say rather that we’ve grown up, and regard your success in life as an exemplary case. I think that amusement is a splendid objective for the world-weary people of the twentieth century. What we consider real art is only the light coming from a star which died millions of years ago. So we’d better grow up and pay the clowns the respect they deserve.”

“It seems to me that philosophy has destroyed art.”

“Rather science has destroyed both philosophy and art. So let’s amuse ourselves without reserve, with the innocence of children and the intelligence of men—light stories and raucous laughter and nonsensical pictures—and let’s renounce delusions of grandeur, and the exalted throne of science, and be content with popular acclaim and the material rewards.”