A SUICIDE'S HISTORY

By Henry Miller

I walked on, past the house, past more iron negroes with pink watermelon mouths and striped blouses, past more stately mansions, more ivy-covered porches and verandahs. Florida, no less. Why not Cornwall, or Avalon, or the Castle of Carbonek? I began to chant to myself... "There was never knight in all this world so noble, so unselfish..." And then a dreadful thought took hold of me. Marco! Dangling from the ceiling of my my brain was Marco who had hanged himself. A thousand times he had told her, Mona, of his love; a thousand times he had played the fool; a thousand times he dad warned her he would kill himself if he could not find favour in her eyes. And she had laughed at him, ridiculed him, scorned him, humiliated him. No matter what she said or did he continued to abase himself, continued to lavish gifts upon her; the very sight of her, the sound of her mocking laugh, made him cringe and fawn. Yet nothing could kill his love, his adoration. When she dismissed him he would return to his garret to write jokes. (He made his living, poor devil, selling jokes to magazines.) And every penny he earned he turned over to her, and she took it without so much as a thank you. ("Go now, dog!") One morning he was found hanging from a rafter in his miserable garret. No message. Just a body swinging in the gloom and the dust. His last joke.

And when she broke the news to me I said -- "Marco? What's Marco to me?"

She wept bitter, bitter tears. All I could say by way of comforting her was: "He would have done it anyway sooner or later. He was the type."

And she had replied. "You're cruel, you have no heart."

It was true, I was heartless. But there were others whom she was treating equally abominably. In my cruel, heartless way I had reminded her of them, saying -- "What next?" She ran out of the room with hands over ears. Horrible. Too horrible.

Inhalling the fragrance of the syringas, the bougainvillias, the heavy red roses, I thought to myself -- "Maybe that poor devil Marco loved her as I once love Una Gifford. Maybe he believed  that by miracle her scorn and disdain would one day be converted into love, that she would see him for what he was, a great bleeding heart bursting with tenderness and forgiveness. Perhaps each night, when he returned to his room, he had gone down on his knees and prayed. (But no answer.) Did I not groan too each night on climbing into bed? Did I not also pray? And how! It was disgraceful, such praying, such begging, such whimpering! If only a Voice had said: "It is hopeless, you are not the man for her." I might have given up, I might have made way for someone else. Or at least cursed the God who had dealt me such a fate.

Poor Marco! Begging not to be loved but to be permitted to love. And condemned to make jokes! Only now do I realize what you suffered, what you endured, dear Marco. Now you can enjoy her -- From above. You can watch over her day and night. If in life she never saw you as you were, you at least may see her now for what she is. You had too much heart for that frail body. Guinevere herself was unworthy of the great love she inspired. But then a queen steps so lightly, even when crushing a louse...


Taken: Miller, Henry. Nexus. The rosy crucifixion. Panter Book. Great Britain. 1976.