One
evening in the newsroom she told me, calmly and apropos of nothing, that she
believed in nothing. She sounded surprised, not desperate, as though reaching an
unexpected conclusion. My instinct was the conventional one of offering
consolation: “You’re so talented.” “You have friends who care about you.” And
so on. I knew how empty the words sounded because I had heard them before.
I
left for another job. She stayed, and was soon let go for the obvious reasons. For
middle-class drunks, often the last thing to go is the job. One’s supply must
be maintained. She died in her apartment, alone. I go months without thinking
about her, as we do with people we never knew well but who left an impression
and now are gone. I thought of her this time because I was rereading Richard Wilbur’s Paris Review interview and came
upon these deeply unfashionable thoughts:
“To
put it simply, I feel that the universe is full of glorious energy, that the
energy tends to take pattern and shape, and that the ultimate character of
things is comely and good. I am perfectly aware that I say this in the teeth of
all sorts of contrary evidence, and that I must be basing it partly on
temperament and partly on faith, but that is my attitude. My feeling is that
when you discover order and goodness in the world, it is not something you are
imposing—it is something that is likely really to be there, whatever crumminess
and evil and disorder there may also be. I don't take disorder or
meaninglessness to be the basic character of things. I don't know where I get
my information, but that is how I feel.”
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