He turned his mind towards the question posed by Dutch a few minutes previously. It was an interesting proposal; to state who you thought of yourself as from a historical and literary viewpoint. It wasn’t “Who is your favorite Historical or Literary person?â€, but who YOU saw as you then defend that opinion.
It’s a position not very many people think about and because of that it intrigued him. Even if it hadn’t it was a way to take his mind off of the current female guest sitting only a few feet from him dressed only in a towel. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes.
“…people pointed out they were discussing a book, many of those people actually having read that book, or at least a good part…â€
He looked away. Just contemplating the concept of the question was intriguing. After all the person you chose would say a lot about the person you were and thought you were. He could easily say he identified with Michel de Montaigne, for example.
Frank often felt he was watching the decline of the great western European optimism that had forged the world in the last two centuries. Watching it decline into a mess of greedy liberalism, corpulent capitalism, ignorance of youth, and pressing religious worries the rest of western society didn’t seem to want to address.
“In this, I am the subject of my own thoughts.†He thought to himself, and laughed quietly with quazi-plagiarized giddiness. He frowned slightly. He realized that like Montaigne he had retreated from that society with which he was disillusioned. Was this the very thing that Dutch had been trying to provoke him out of? Of course, some of his best work had been done in such isolation, as had Montaigne’s.
Two of Montaigne’s books were in his library. Frank took comfort in the fact that the author’s own skepticism mirrored his own. Likewise, to, Frank wore one face to the public he kept away and another for himself in his privacy. Although Montaigne discussed them as “rooms†rather than faces, Frank pictured his mind as rooms, with the front being reserved for those personal interactions he was forced to endure- the faces kept on a coat hook by the front door. The back room, his personal room, kept all the things he thought about in the quiet dim light of his self.
Like now, for example.
He was pretty sure he didn’t want his friend, Dutch wandering around any of those rooms. Dutch was a tad too quick and perceptive at times for Frank’s liking. Dutch noticed things like a slight movement in the shoulders or eyes, read body language in an instant and caught the tone of the voice better than anyone he’d ever met. Frank wondered if Dutch played poker.
Although they had known each other for almost nine years they really didn’t ‘know’ each other. Mostly they kept to their own side of the Sandhills and communicated via text and computer forums. Dutch would show up out of the blue for a few days and disappear again into the rolling grasslands that surrounded Franks home.
Much like Faust, there were some things that were best not to know.
He did like to think of himself as a sort of Shakespearian character sometimes. Well, to be honest, a sort of mix between Shakespeare himself and his writing, rather than any one of the Bard’s creations. Frank enjoyed the turn of a well-developed phrase immensely. He thought of himself as a good solid writer. Not a literary genius by any measure but having the ability to entertain with his written word.
He often felt the frustration of trying to get his point across to , who Frank were sure were indeed Philistines, the ungrateful audience for which he wrote. He knew that most of the ones he had targeted, including the semi-nude woman laughing at something Dutch had just said, wouldn’t admit that they had even read his work let alone let him know how they felt about it.
He could almost see poor Will, back stage at the Globe, silently screaming as the dumb brutes in the upper seats completely misunderstood the genius in Hamlet’s lines or his own pain poured into Romeo’s anguish.
Movement caught Frank’s attention and he looked to see BB walking back into the house. Dutch’s eyes met his.
“Lost in thought, Frank?†he signed.
“In your question.†He replied.
“It’s a good one.â€
“It is.†He glanced though the front door; a physical one this time, “Where did Alex go?â€
“Inside, obviously. I told her that her nakedness made you nervous.â€
“Did you.â€
Dutch smiled that slight smile, “Oh, yes. I did.â€
