Lew Levenson

“ Ken turned to Mr. Lowell and said: "Makes one sure feel sorta wobbly, this going away from home."
"Ken," said Mr. Lowell, "home is where you love. In California you will learn to love a new home, a gloriously beautiful home. My boy, I'm a born Texan. I shall always come back to these barren acres because here did the seed of me sprout. And in the bitter future, I shall be borne back to Texas soil and here shall I eternally rest. But, Kenneth, I am taking you into the great world. This summer, we shall live in Southern California. ”

“ When they returned to the suite, Ken told Joe to oust quietly all who did not belong.
"Belong to what?"
"To the other world," Ken heard Frankie say.
"The what?" Ken asked.
"The other world," Frankie repeated. "They are different, aren't they?"
"Our world—the other world—" Ken repeated the words to himself. They were significantly simple. The world sharply divided, a line of cleavage between. The others, aliens, invaders, easily recognized. Just look into eyes. In our world, mild eyes, amused eyes, suggestive eyes, perhaps perverse eyes, yet always friendly eyes of those who love life. ”

“ He was just a kid, nothing wrong with him at all. She would watch over him like a mother, share his joys and his disappointments like a true sister and slowly, ever so slowly, develop into a priceless friend. Nature would provide that they should become lovers. Inevitably he would lose his shyness; probably just as soon as they got away from screwy Hollywood. When the time came, she would cry: "I love you, Ken. I'll always love you." They would rush off to the license bureau, get married and live forever after in a mad delirium of happiness. ”

“ Ken's spirit was gone. He had lost the incentive to do his best. No magnet of ambition lifted him to his feet; no lovable friend stood in the wings, watching him, applauding him. This audience was stolid and unappreciative. Beyond the theatre wall lay an alien city. He was anxious to get the show over with, to find some other outlet for emotions and energy which were clashing within him. Rising before him as he danced was the figure of Howard, Howard whom he had sent alone to Europe. Howard had been New York and New York had been Howard. ”

“ In Selma, he had met no one like Anita. Her complete independence, the carefree attitude she assumed, her not infrequent stories of her old life in various parts of the west, made it difficult for Ken to judge her. If she had been younger and simpler he might have wondered whether her interest in him was wholly that of the artist who chooses a dancing partner only because he is talented. That a woman of twenty-eight should care to be loved by a boy of seventeen was quite beyond Ken's comprehension. ”

“ The lean narrow face of Zarah the mind reader rose mistily before Ken's eyes.
"You are thinking of life and love," boomed Zarah's rich resonant voice. His eyes were piercingly black and his skin sallow. Even on this noonday street, he wore his morning dress and his turban.
"I see you walking," he said. "I like to talk to you, young man. You dance so beautifully and you are always so serious."
"You liked my dance?"
"I think you are magnificent." His voice lowered, his lips close to Ken's ear: "In costume, you must be so beautiful." ”

“ Into Ken's life, glamor, long absent, was returning. The bracing air of a New York winter stung him, quickened him as fresh snow flaked against his face. Doors and windows were hung with holiday holly, the theatre audiences gay, women clad in the pelts of a thousand little furry animals, men so polished in their blacks and whites that they seemed less men than cleverly fabricated animate laughing dolls.
In the theatre, life settled slowly. Rosemary Rose hired Vernon Gale, blond, Virginian and virginal, as her chauffeur. ”

“ Face to face with this truth, Ken winced. It was easy enough to lose one's self in liquor, to perform astonishing feats of self-degradation, but in cold sober factual day, to know the truth was like meeting blundering bitterness, akin to despair.
"I'm making the Farraguts wait. I'm humiliating them."
"And yourself ..."
"No. Nothing is truer than my wish that you should be happy—"
"Nice words," Ken mocked.
"Madman," gently chided Howard, "let me keep you sane." ”

“ Murrell came elegant young women, rising stars of Broadway, the beauty of their bodies, the slim perfection of them was both a source of pride and of fear. Were they growing old? Had they been indiscreet? How could they avoid the consequences of love? How destroy its after-effects?
Men, thoughtless, willful men, came, too, to the doctor, whose narrow eyes and firm lips could open in full robust laughter at a topical jest. He knew these men so well. He had been their sort, lusty, strong in passion, careless of consequences.
He studied Ken. "You're a finely poised individual," he said. ”

“ Ken stipulated that he was not to be considered a guest. But it was difficult not to be a guest of the ever-thoughtful Howard, who had always lived in a faultless world, a patient, silent servant at his elbow; a well oiled, wealthy world where the coffee was always hot. Ken, who now recalled with disgust the ostentatious grandeur of Star-ridge, was unaware of Howard's instructions to Rutgers that he be served with all the deference due a guest. ”

“ And yet, as time passed heavily, as the loathesome appearance of the disease became noticeable, as he avoided even the casual glance of the hall boy, the newsman, the soda jerker at the corner drug store, as his face, pale in the half light of his apartment, was encrusted with a hard powdery film, he felt the insistent desire rise. Life was empty as an old egg shell and as brittle. Time, jerkily moving forward, sleepless nights, sober days succeeding one another in the dragging pace of a funeral procession, was the enemy. ”

“ As Ken watched the city engulf the train, speeding past factory towns, thence into marsh lands of New Jersey, deep beneath the river into the Hudson tube and at last in the long concrete and steel underworld of the terminal, doubt assailed him. New York, his again to conquer. New York, city of false friends, ambush where his enemies lay concealed—why could he not face it alone? The question rose unanswered. Why Tommy? Why anyone? Why not be self-sufficient, conserving money and strength for the coming struggle? Who was Tommy? ”

“ How could she have picked men up from the streets, from theatre audiences? And why?
The scene which had just ended had been so violent, so terrifying in its intensity, that he could not believe it had been. Yet as he sat up, the room told the tale: a chair overturned, the water carafe on the floor, the bed in wild disorder.
Moving slowly, as if afraid to disturb the strange calmness which enveloped him, he entered the bathroom. In the mirror, he saw his slim body, the body he loved.
"We must find some way to be happy!" she had pleaded. ”

“ TOMMY COOK was, Ken thought, heaven-sent. Every man needs a companion. It isn't good to be lonely. Tommy's interest in him was so warm, so obviously sincere, that he could be trusted with confidences. He could help Ken regain lost ambition; he could keep Ken on the straight and narrow path to success. ”

“ Women hate each other. Men are natural enemies of each other. We of the third sex enjoy perfect love, fruitless love. We are not fecund. We create no evil. For us, life is all. No false conception of immortality. No sons to jibe at us. No soul to perish in eternal damnation. No jealous wives hovering over us, no laws barring our free association with each other."
The mild monk—he was, Ken learned, a university professor—did not join in the brutal derision which greeted every mention of "the others." He told Ken to be happy in his youth. ”

“ Kenneth rather liked the poet. He wasn't annoying. He seemed sincere.
"La Lowell is high priestess of a curious cult, Kenneth ... a great man—in his way. He weaves enchantments, casts spells, delivers incantations. One must be very young or very strong to resist him. And never weak. He is a curious mixture—devil and god. No ordinary mortal can combat him."
"You've got me wrong, Gregg," Ken said. "I'm not a weak one."
"I hope not—" Gregg's eyes sparkled. "At least be strong enough to be practical. Let him pay you well, as he has paid many others ... Pierre, for instance." ”

“ Through half-averted eyes they saw Ken.
Because Ken was not a Catholic he felt ill at ease; ashamed because he could not understand the genuflections, could not touch the holy-water to his forehead, nor make obeisance, nor pray.
The priest, venerable, hair snowy white, ascended the altar, faced the Virgin, made the sign of the cross and began to speak very rapidly in Latin. Ken tried to understand. The unexpected cadences of the ritual hummed in his ears. His discomfort vanished. He was no longer ashamed.
Old men, little children were kneeling. Ken wanted to kneel. He could not. ”

“ The news affected Ken not at all. Chicago days were dizzily whirling by. His pace was too great for Frankie. The pink-cheeked chorus boy, a boy no longer, refused to bask in the glow of Ken's greater success. Frankie had grown into a paler and wiser young man. He had stopped drinking. During his stay in Chicago, a rich old man of the West Side was befriending him. Ken saw little of him. Ken's own days and nights were full. His entourage contained new faces. His mind, jangling with new and more curious ideas, was weary of chorus boys and chatter about show business. ”

“ After the theatre he escorted Connie to her apartment. In the cab coming home, he felt a mild sensation of pleasure. This, then, was what going out with a woman meant. Restraint, the inability to express one's self freely ... that on the debit side of the ledger. The profit lay in an inexplicable sensation of gentility. They were male and female clad in their finest feathers. Each movement, the position of a chair at dinner, their entrance into the theatre, the taxi door held open after the play, little touching expressions of the male's regard. Of course, Connie was somewhat unconventional. ”

“ For men, Frank and Jack's was the devil's paradise.
The room glittered. Many-colored streamers floated from the rafters. Behind the bar an artist had sketched a nude figure in crayon and soap. Women laughed shrilly; men roared with pleasure or cursed with hearty disgust. The white-coated bartenders, the sleek croupiers who moved ever so slightly as they drew in the losers' money, the gay dresses of the house girls, the picturesque quality of many of the visitors, provided a constantly shifting picture of gayety, fragile gayety that does not last. ”

“ Ken recognized the pagodas of the Japanese Gardens on the palisade above the coast road. The ocean lay flat as a silken coverlet. Because Anita Rogers was a woman, he felt he could talk to her.
"I'm not having as good a time as you think," he confided. "Did you ever hear of La Lowell?"
"Who's she?"
"He. A rich old man, who's made millions in oil and silver." ”

“ They would drink together. In some curious way a spark would fly from the woman to the man. Without a word being spoken, they would go upstairs together and repeat the wild, unplotted madness of that evening in San Francisco.
On such occasions Anita would plead illness and dance no more that night. Ken, at first limply distraught, would sit at the bar, drink several straight whiskies and then go into the dimly lighted streets. The Mexicans of the town knew him. He dropped into little barrooms, stood shoulder to shoulder with them, learned their language. ”