"Yes, it's very dark here on this side of the river, and the wind blows cold and chills to the bone, and it seems like the rain will never stop, and that this thicket of thorns will never end and the wailing and gnashing of teeth will never cease, and, yes, it's very dark here on this side of the river, very, very dark, and oh so very lonely.
"So you can see it has made me very happy that you should stop by and talk with me awhile ... I'm sorry, I don't smoke ... no, no, you go right ahead ... It makes me so very glad you could stop by and talk with me, you just can't imagine how glad ... but then again, perhaps you could, you being who you are and all, and I'm so glad to have you here, to have someone who can understand me, not like the rest of them out there away from us, wandering in this wilderness, this darkness ... Can't you hear them, wailing in their torment, searching, forever searching and never finding, never a moment's rest ... and so sad it is, so very sad that one can scarce find words to describe it ... the wailing and gnashing of teeth being so much more eloquent ... and 'tis even sadder to think that most of them can't see the darkness or hear the wailing or feel 'the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,' indeed, think themselves safe at home, resting quietly in a cozy bed, company never more than a whisper away, dreaming what they call 'only dreams,' confident of waking to sunlight and a new day, never suspecting what Hell this really is or how close to Heaven they really are...."Oh and again I want to thank you for stopping to listen ... it breaks the monotony of being just like them ... and I hope you don't have to run off right away and get back to your side of the river, oh I do hope you can stay, I do ... But tell me, is it true what they say about the other side of the river, that instead of cold wind and cruel rain is gentle, perfumed breezes and instead of a thicket of thorns is a mansion of many rooms and instead of the wailing and gnashing of teeth is the singing of the Song of Songs ... Is it true what they say about the other side of the river, it is true? and if it is, what keeps us here in this unending wilderness of pain, what keeps us from killing one another in order to plunge in and cross that river ... Oh is it true and why ... Oh, I see, you can't talk to me, it must not be allowed, well, forgive me for speaking so boldly before, I didn't mean to drive you away and it doesn't really matter ... to me, at least ... what's on the other side of the river, it's enough, I suppose, that you know, even if you aren't telling, but please, please stay with me, I'm so glad you're here to listen to me, to understand, please don't go, now that you're here I couldn't bear it if you left, oh thank you, thank you...."
Norman looked up from his writing to see it was nearly five o'clock. The sun would be rising soon. He was seated at his writer's desk in his little room with his books and magazines. It was still raining outside. With a finger-tip he pushed his glasses back against his forehead, then stood and stretched, roused now completely from his writer's trance.
"I must be mad, I must," he said to himself. "Why else would I be writing what no one would ever want to read? I must be mad. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to write anything but these endless monologues of souls in torment. I must be mad. No time, no place, no characters doing anything more than talking, endlessly talking, to themselves, to the walls, to anyone who'll listen. I must be mad...."
And so on and so on. Norman talked to himself as he stretched, threw his pencil down, scratched his head, went to the window to pull back the curtain to see if there was any sign of the sun yet. No, only the rain.
He'd had no sleep this night nor any other for as long as he could remember. But once day came, sun or no, he'd crawl into bed to hide away, dreading the fear of day that made him do this, dreading the sleep that would come to take himself away from himself, dreading the moment of awakening to another empty day or what was left of day, empty and waiting to be filled from fountains he knew not the sources of. "I must be mad," he repeated.
He couldn't keep his thoughts off what he'd written. He'd given it no thought at the time. It just came, as it always did, from nowhere, seemed like it would never cease, then gone back to where it came from. Perhaps, going over it again, he might be able to make something of it.
First of all, who was the speaker? Who was she? And how did he know that 'she' was 'she'? And who as she talking to? And what was that place, that river with the two sides 'she' thought were so different? Did anything happen there? Could anything happen there?
It was useless. She might be the Muse herself and Norman still wouldn't know what to do with her. But perhaps, if he tried ... if he tried to get her from one side of the river to the other, perhaps then....
Perhaps it didn't matter. Not for her, not for Norman. For after all, she was just a symbol in the scribblings of his notebook and her author felt himself to be just as imaginary as she was. But, deep down, he knew what he had written and it scared him and fascinated him and he hoped that he could keep writing about her and never, never....