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I
was
in
the
Public
Library
in
New
York
and
silence
filled
the
place,
despite
some
other
people
also
sitting
in
that
room.
I
scanned
the
place
until
my
eyes
stopped
on
a
man.
He
was
the
only
one
in
that
room
who
wasn't
reading
any
books.
He
was
just
sitting
at
a
table,
observing
all
the
readers.
While
leafing
through
'Look
Homeward,
Angel'
by
Thomas
Wolfe,
I
searched
for
the
right
words
to
express
my
feelings
about
myself.
Then,
suddenly,
the
man
got
up
and
approached
me,
speaking
in
a
low
voice,
"I
noticed
that
you're
reading
my
book,
huh?"
What?
The
man
grabbed
a
chair
and
sat
down
beside
me.
I
asked
again,
"What
are
you
talking
about?"
He
looked
at
me
with
a
hint
of
disdain
and
whispered,
"You
have
my
book!"
I
responded,
asserting
that
he
was
mistaken,
as
I
had
taken
the
book
with
the
proper
permission
from
the
librarian.
He
breathed
deeply
and
said,
"Some
things
will
never
change.
Some
things
will
always
be
the
same.
Lean
down
your
ear
upon
the
earth
and
listen."
I
replied,
"Sorry,
but
I
don't
understand
what
you
mean."
He
completed
his
thought,
saying,
"Make
your
mistakes,
take
your
chances,
look
silly,
but
keep
on
going.
Don't
freeze
up."
At
that
moment,
it
became
clear
to
me
that
the
man
was
engaged
in
a
deep
cosmic
conversation.
He
wasn't
interested
in
a
typical
dialogue
but
something
transcendental.
With
that
realization,
I
responded,
"Man
is
born
broken.
He
lives
by
mending.
The
grace
of
God
is
glue."
The
mysterious
man
pondered
for
a
moment
and
then,
without
hesitation,
declared,
"The
whole
conviction
of
my
life
now
rests
upon
the
belief
that
loneliness,
far
from
being
a
rare
and
curious
phenomenon,
peculiar
to
myself
and
to
a
few
other
solitary
men,
is
the
central
and
inevitable
fact
of
human
existence."
In
response,
I
offered,
"Life
is
for
each
man
a
solitary
cell
whose
walls
are
mirrors."
The
man
got
up
from
his
chair
and
said
this:
"Naked
and
alone
we
came
into
exile.
In
her
dark
womb
we
did
not
know
our
mother's
face;
from
the
prison
of
her
flesh
have
we
come
into
the
unspeakable
and
incommunicable
prison
of
this
earth."
And
then
he
left
the
library
room.
I
closed
my
book,
and
I
couldn't
stop
thinking
about
everything
that
the
man
had
said.
So,
I
handed
the
book
to
the
librarian
and
asked,
"Do
you
know
who
the
man
who
just
left
here
is?"
The
librarian
replied,
"Yes,
he
always
comes
here.
He
is
the
author
of
the
book
that
you
were
reading."
Next,
I
ran
after
him
and
reached
him
before
he
got
to
the
street.
I
asked,
"The
librarian
said
you
are
the
writer
who
wrote
that
book
I
was
reading,
is
that
it?"
He
was
silent
for
a
moment.
I
went
on,
"Are
you
the
writer?"
He
nodded
yes.
I
was
like,
"Why
didn't
you
say
who
you
are?"
He
looked
at
me
with
his
sad
eyes
and
said,
"Because
I
love
your
work!
And
any
good
words
said
to
you
would
be
less
than
all
my
feelings."
At
that
moment,
I
thought
about
telling
him
how
much
his
book
meant
to
me,
and
I
did.
He
gave
a
slight
smile,
said
goodbye,
and
went
away.
I
found
my
wife
waiting
for
me
in
front
of
the
New
York
Public
Library,
and
we
went
to
Macy's
to
buy
Christmas
gifts.
While
she
was
choosing
some
gifts,
I
kept
thinking
about
what
a
wonderful
meeting
I
had
with
Mr.
Wolfe,
a
writer
who
is
giving
me
back
in
words
what
I
once
gave
him.
This
moment
just
passed;
it
is
life,
in
which
there
is
no
present
or
future—only
the
past,
happening
over
and
over
again—now.
END
To be continued in the next edition: How Thomas Wolfe Saw This Meeting.
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