more argument Rilke, she said, don't you love Rilke? no, I said, he bores me, poets bore me, they are shits, snails, snippets of dust in a cheap wind. Lorca, she said, how about Lorca? Lorca was good when he was good. he knew how to sing, but the only reason you like him is because he was murdered. Shelley, then, she said, how about Shelley? didn't he drown in a rowboat? then how about the lovers? I forget their names... the two Frenchmen, one killed the other... o great, I said, now tell me about Oscar Wilde. a great man, she said. he was clever, I said, but you believe in all these things for the wrong reason. Van Gogh, then, she said. there you go, I said, there you go again. what do you mean? I mean that what the other painters of the time said was true: he was an average painter. how do you know? I know because I paid $ 10 to go in and see some of his paintings. I saw that he was interesting, honorable, but not great. how can you say, she asked, all these things about all these people? you mean, why don't I agree with you? for a man who is almost starving to death, you talk like some god-damned sage! but, I said, haven't all your heroes starved? but this is different; you dislike everything I like. no, I said, I just don't like the way you like them. I'm leaving, she said. I could have lied to you, I said, like most do. you mean men lie to me? yes, to get at what you think is holy. you mean, it's not holy? I don't know, but I won't lie to make it work. be damned with you then, she said. good night, I said. she really slammed that door. I got up and turned on the radio. there was some pianist playing that same work by Grieg. nothing changed. nothing ever changed. nothing.