"Well, at present I am engaged in my fifth re-creation of _Lord Jim_. To do it, I steep myself as thoroughly as possible in the original work. Then I set about rewriting it as Conrad would have written it if he had lived today. It is a labor which calls for extreme diligence, and for the utmost in artistic integrity. A single slip could mar the re-creation. As you can see, it calls for a preliminary mastery of Conrad's vocabulary, themes, plots, characters, mood, approach, and so on. All this goes in, and yet the book cannot be a slavish _repeat_. It must have something new to say, just as Conrad would have said it." "And have you succeeded?" "The critics have been generous, and my publisher gives me every encouragement." "When you have finished your fifth re-creation of _Lord Jim_, what do you plan to do?" "First I shall take a long rest. Then I shall re-create one of Conrad's minor works. _The Planter of Malata_, perhaps." "I see. Is re-creation the rule in all the arts?" "It is the goal of the true aspiring artist, no matter what medium he has chosen to work in. Art is a cruel mistress, I fear." * * * * * (_Citizen Willis Ouerka, age 8, occupation student. A cheerful, black-haired, sun-tanned boy._) "I'm sorry, Mr. Opinioner, my parents aren't home right now." "That's perfectly all right, Willis. Do you mind if I ask you a question or two?" "I don't mind. What's that you got under your jacket, Mister? It bulges." "I'll ask the questions, Willis, if you don't mind.... Now, do you like school?" "It's all right." "What courses do you take?" "Well, there's reading and writing and status appreciation, and courses in art, music, architecture, literature, ballet, and theater. The usual stuff." "I see. That's in the open classes?" "Sure." "Do you also attend a closed class?" "Sure I do. Every day." "Do you mind talking about it?" "I don't mind. Is that bulge a gun? I know what guns are. Some of the big boys were passing around pictures at lunchtime a couple days ago and I peeked. Is it a gun?" "No. My suit doesn't fit very well, that's all. Now then. Would you mind telling me what you do in the closed class?" "I don't mind." "What happens, then?" "I don't remember." "Come now, Willis." "Really, Mr. Opinioner. We all go into this classroom, and we come out two hours later for recess. But that's all. I can't remember anything else. I've talked with the other kids. They can't remember either." "Strange...." "No, sir. If we were supposed to remember, it wouldn't be _closed_." "Perhaps so. Do you remember what the room looks like, or who your teacher is for the closed class?" "No, sir. I really don't remember anything at all about it." "Thank you. Willis." * * * * * (_Citizen Cuchulain Dent, age 37, occupation inventor. A prematurely bald man with ironic, heavy-lidded eyes._)