eyes. For ten years I have tasted the sensitive preceptionsof a great critic of the drama, and he has never knownit He has come close—his mind is agile, his imaginationvivid—but his classically trained intellect is too strong,his familiarity with psychopathology too intimate to permit that final leap from logic to intuition, and an admission of my existence. At times, before he drops off tosleep, he toys with the thought of attempting communication, but the next morning he always rejects it—which iswell. What could we possibly have to say to one another?

—Now that inchoate scream from the dawn of time,and Oedipus stalks the stage in murky terror!How exquisitelI wish that I could know the other half. Devers says there are two things in a complete experience—a movingtoward, called pity, and a moving away from, calledterror. It is the latter which I feel, which I have alwayssought; I do not understand the other, even when my host quivers and his vision goes moistly dim.

I should like very much to cultivate the total response. Unfortunately, my time here is limited. I havehounded beauty through a thousand stellar cells, and hereI learned mat a man named Aristotle defined it. It isunfortunate that I must leave without knowing the entire experience.

But I am the last. The others have gone. The stars move still, time runs, and the clock will strike ...

The ovation is enormous. The resurrected Jocasta bowsbeside her red—socketted king, smiling. Hand in hand,they dine upon our applause—but even pale Tiresiasdoes not see what I have seen. It is very unfortunate.

And now the taxi home. What time is it in Thebes?

Devers is mixing us a strong drink, which he generallydoes oot do. I shall appreciate these final moments all themore, seen through the prism of his soaring fancy.

His mood is a strange one. It is almost as if he knowswhat is to occur at one o'clock—almost as if he knows