The Maltese Manuscript (LSD, #6)

4. In The End

In The End

"I'm reading your bundle «Precious Poetry», and I like it. I don't like everything, and I don't understand everything either, but there are quite a lot of poems that... How do I say this...? Your words make me think. You make me feel different. Your poetry makes me realise there's more to life than paying taxes."

I expect Malik to be happy with my little compliment. Every writer should like it when she gets positive feedback from a reader, but his frown shows the opposite: "Critically, what's the part you don't like? What part don't you understand?"

I feel attacked and try to defend my opinion, my amateur opinion against a professional writer who dominates the language so much better than I do: "It starts with this rhyme, I don't know why, and it doesn't really matter how hard I try, but... I just can't figure it out. Listen:

The time that they give us is a valuable thing.
Watch how it flies as the pendulum swings.
Watch it count down to the end of your day.
The clock ticks your life away.

» What do you try to say with this text?"

At the back of the limousine, Malik gets angry: "Cynically, keep in mind, I designed that rhyme. I composed that rhythm. The prosody is perfect, the—"

"The prosody is crippled, Malik. The first three sentences have four accents, but the last one only has three. It doesn't sound perfect at all. Don't you hear the prancing pony at the beginning of the first line? I would change that into «Time that's been given is a valuable thing». It would not only avoid my question about who those «they» are who give us that time, but it also makes the rhythm match with the second and the third line, like a rap, starting and ending with a strong, accented word, with two other accented words in the middle. Your first line sounds like crappy writing to me.

» But my question wasn't about the rhythm; it was about the meaning. You start saying time is valuable, but you end with the clock, ticking life away, a clear image of wasted time. What's the conclusion? How can we feel better about the time given to us? That's why I read, Malik: I like to get emotions and I want to find information. You don't give answers. You just raise questions."

Malik is truly hurt: "Crappy writing? Controversially, I spent seven years, working on that first line. Who do you think you are? You don't give answers either. You promised me the answers to the six Big Questions of life, but all you give me is some crappy writing. Are you a professional critic from the New Joke Times? No. Distinctively, you're just an amateur who knows NOTHING about poetry!"

I close the book and take a deep breath. Talking with Malik is complicated. He's an artist and, of course, convinced that his poetry is precious, but he shouldn't neglect his reader's opinion: "Criticism is meant to learn from, Malik. Okay. I'll answer your remarks about criticism first: yes, you're right, I promised you the answers to the Big Questions, and I have all these answers for you, but... you're not ready for them yet.

» Did you read A Christmas Carol in Prose, by Charles Dickens? Scrooge needed those three ghosts before he was ready to accept the answer he was searching for. You also need to fight a few ghosts first. I gave you one answer to start with: the egg was first and the chicken came later. So that question is now solved forever. When the time is ripe, I'll answer the other five Big Questions for you: «Truth or Dare?» «Does God Exist?» «Poetry or Prose?» «Is There Life After Death?», and, of course, the answer to humanity's biggest enigma: «What's The Meaning of Life?», which is the most difficult one."

Malik's stubbornness shows exactly what he doesn't understand: "Diabolically, which are the ghosts I have to fight before I can understand the answer to Truth or Dare?"