iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第13章

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is　not　desire。　It　is　fear。　He　looks　like　a　wolf　that　has　seen　a　tiger。〃
　Paul　stops；　staring　at　the　words。　Curry　has　repeated　the　last　phrase　to　him　many　times。　Even　I　recognize　it。　A　wolf　that　has　seen　a　tiger。
　The　cover　folds　shut　in　Paul's　hands；　the　tough　black　seed　in　its　husk　of　cloths。　A　salty　smell　has　thickened　the　air。
　〃Boys；〃　es　a　voice　from　nowhere。　〃Your　time　is　up。〃
　〃ing；　Mrs。　Lockhart。〃　Paul　starts　into　motion；　pulling　the　cloths　over　the　book　and　wrapping　it　tight。
　〃What　now？〃　I　ask。
　〃We've　got　to　show　this　to　Richard；〃　he　says；　putting　the　little　bundle　beneath　the　shirt　Katie　lent　him。
　〃Tonight？〃　I　say。
　As　we　find　our　way　out；　Mrs。　Lockhart　mumbles；　but　doesn't　look　up。
　〃Richard　needs　to　know　Bill　found　it；〃　Paul　says；　glancing　at　his　watch。
　〃Where　is　he？〃
　〃At　the　museum。　There's　an　event　tonight　for　museum　trustees。〃
　I　hesitate。　I'd　assumed　Richard　Curry　was　in　town　to　celebrate　the　pletion　of　Paul's　thesis。
　〃We're　celebrating　tomorrow；〃　he　says；　reading　my　expression。
　The　diary　peeks　out　from　under　his　shirt；　a　wink　of　black　leather　in　bandages。　From　above　us　es　an　echoing　voice；　almost　the　sound　of　laughter。
　〃Weh！　Steck　ich　in　dem　Kerker　noch？　Verfluchtes　dumpfes　Mauerloch；　Wo　selbst　das　liebe　Himmelslicht　Trüb　durch　gemalte　Scheiben　bricht！〃
　〃Goethe；〃　Paul　says　to　me。　〃She　always　closes　up　with　Faust。〃　Holding　the　door　on　the　way　out；　he　calls　back；　〃Good　night；　Mrs。　Lockhart。〃
　Her　voice　es　curling　through　the　mouth　of　the　library。
　〃Yes；〃　she　says。　〃A　good　night。〃
　
　Chapter　6
　
　From　what　I　pieced　together　between　my　father　and　Paul；　Vincent　Taft　and　Richard　Curry　met　in　New　York　in　their　twenties；　turning　up　at　the　same　party　one　night　in　uptown　Manhattan。　Taft　was　a　young　professor　at　Columbia；　a　thinner　version　of　his　later　self；　but　with　the　same　fire　in　his　belly　and　the　same　bearish　disposition。　The　author　of　two　books　in　the　brief　eighteen　months　since　he'd　finished　his　dissertation；　he　was　the　critics'　darling；　a　fashionable　intellectual　making　his　rounds　in　the　social　circles　of　choice。　Curry；　on　the　other　hand；　who'd　been　exempted　from　the　draft　for　a　heart　murmur；　was　just　beginning　his　career　in　the　art　world。　According　to　Paul；　he　was　cobbling　together　the　right　friendships；　slowly　building　a　reputation　in　the　fast　Manhattan　scene。
　Their　first　encounter　came　late　in　the　party　when　Taft；　who'd　grown　tipsy；　spilled　a　cocktail　on　the　athletic…looking　fellow　beside　him。　It　was　a　typical　accident；　Paul　told　me；　since　Taft　was　also　known　as　a　drunk　at　the　time。　At　first　Curry　took　little　offense…until　he　realized　Taft　didn't　intend　to　apologize。　Following　him　to　the　door；　Curry　began　to　demand　satisfaction；　but　Taft；　stumbling　toward　the　elevator；　ignored　him。　As　the　two　men　descended　ten　stories　it　was　Taft　who　did　the　talking；　hurling　a　barrage　of　insults　at　the　handsome　young　man；　bellowing；　as　he　staggered　toward　the　street　exit；　that　his　victim　was　〃poor；　nasty；　brutish；　and　short。〃
　To　his　imaginable　surprise；　the　young　man　smiled。
　〃Leviathan；〃　said　Curry；　who'd　written　a　junior　paper　on　Hobbes　while　at　Princeton。　〃And　you've　forgotten　solitary。　'The　life　of　man　is　solitary；　poor；　nasty；　brutish；　and　short。'　〃
　〃No；〃　replied　Taft　with　a　burbling　grin；　just　before　collapsing　onto　a　streetlight；　〃I　did　not　forget　it。　I　simply　reserve　solitary　for　myself。　Poor；　nasty；　brutish；　and　short；　however；　are　all　yours。〃
　And　with　that；　Paul　said；　Curry　hailed　a　cab；　ushered　Taft　into　it；　and　returned　to　his　own　apartment　where；　for　the　next　twelve　hours；　Taft　remained　in　a　deep　and　crapulent　stupor。
　The　story　goes　that　when　he　awoke；　confused　and　embarrassed；　the　two　men　struck　up　a　clumsy　conversation。　Curry　explained　his　line　of　work；　as　did　Taft；　and　it　seemed　the　awkwardness　of　the　situation　might　undo　the　meeting；　when；　in　a　moment　of　inspiration；　Curry　mentioned　the　Hypnerotomachia；　a　book　he'd　studied　under　a　popular　Princeton　professor　named　McBee。
　I　can　only　imagine　Taft's　response。　Not　only　had　he　heard　of　the　mystery　surrounding　the　book；　but　he　must've　noticed　the　spark　it　created　in　Curry's　eyes。　According　to　my　father；　the　two　men　began　to　discuss　the　circumstances　of　their　lives；　quickly　realizing　what　they　had　in　mon。　Taft　despised　other　academics；　finding　their　work　shortsighted　and　trivial；　while　Curry　saw　his　workaday　colleagues　as　papery　characters；　dull　and　one…dimensional。　Both　detected　an　absence　of　full…bloodedness　in　others；　an　absence　of　purpose。　And　maybe　that　explained　the　lengths　to　which　they　went　to　overe　their　differences。
　For　there　were　differences；　and　not　small　ones。　Taft　was　a　mercurial　creature；　hard　to　know　and　harder　to　love。　He　drank　heavily　in　pany；　and　just　as　much　when　he　was　alone。　His　intelligence　was　relentless　and　wild；　a　fire　even　he　couldn't　control。　It　swallowed　entire　books　at　a　sitting；　finding　flaws　in　arguments；　gaps　in　evidence；　errors　in　interpretation；　in　subjects　far　from　his　own。　Paul　said　that　it　wasn't　a　destructive　personality　Taft　had；　but　a　destructive　mind。　The　fire　grew　the　more　he　fed　it；　leaving　nothing　behind。　When　it　had　burned　everything　in　its　path；　there　was　only　one　thing　left　for　it　to　do。　In　time；　it　would　turn　on　itself。
　Curry；　by　contrast；　was　a　creator；　not　a　destroyer…a　man　of　possibilities　rather　than　facts。　Borrowing　from　Michelangelo；　he　would　say　that　life　was　like　sculpture：　a　matter　of　seeing　what　others　couldn't；　then　chiseling　away　the　rest。　To　him　the　old　book　was　just　a　block　of　stone　waiting　to　be　carved。　If　no　one　in　five　hundred　years　had　understood　it；　then　the　time　had　e　for　new　eyes　and　fresh　hands；　and　the　bones　of　the　past　be　damned。
　For　all　these　differences；　then；　it　wasn't　long　before　Taft　and　Curry　found　their　mon　ground。　Besides　the　ancient　book；　what　they　shared　was　a　deep　investment　in　abstractions。　They　believed　in　the　notion　of　greatness…greatness　of　spirit；　destiny；　grand　design。　Like　twin　mirrors　placed　face…to…face；　their　reflections　doubling　back；　they　had　seen　themselves　in　earnest　for　the　first　time；　and　a　thousand　strong。　It　was　the　strange　but　predictable　consequence　of　their　friendship　that　it　left　them　more　solitary　than　when　they　began。　The　rich　human　backdrop　of　Taft's　and　Curry's　worlds…their　colleagues　and　college　friends；　their　sisters　and　mothers　and　former　flames…darkened　into　an　empty　stage　with　a　single　spotlight。　To　be　sure；　their　careers　flourished。　It　wasn't　long　before　Taft　was　a　historian　of　great　renown；　and　Curry　the　proprietor　of　a　gallery　that　would　make　his　name。
　But　then；　madness　in　great　ones　must　not　unwatched　go。　The　two　men　led　a　slavish　existence。　Their　only　source　of　relief　came　in　the　form　of　weekly　meetings　on　Saturday　nights；　when　they　would　regroup　at　one　or　the　other's　apartment；　or　at　an　empty　diner；　and　transform　the　one　interest　they　had　in　mon　into　a　shared　diversion：　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Winter　had　fallen　that　year　when　Richard　Curry　finally　introduced　Taft　to　the　one　friend　of　his　who'd　never　fallen　out　of　touch…the　one　Curry　had　met　long　ago　in　Professor　McBee's　class　at　Princeton；　who　harbored　his　own　interest　in　the　Hypnerotomachia。
　Imagining　my　father　in　those　days　is　difficult　for　me。　The　man　I　see　is　already　married；　marking　the　heights　of　his　three　children　on　the　office　wall；　wondering　when　his　only　son　will　start　to　grow；　fussing　over　old　books　in　dead　languages　as　the　world　pitches　and　turns　around　him。　But　that's　the　man　we　made　him　into；　my　mother　and　sisters　and　I；　not　the　one　Richard　Curry　knew。　My　father；　Patrick　Sullivan；　had　been　Curry's　best　friend　at　Princeton。　The　two　considered　themselves　the　kings　of　campus；　and　I　imagine　they　shared　the　kind　of　friendship　that　made　it　seem　that　way。　My　father　played　a　season　of　junior　varsity　basketball；　every　minute　of　it　on　the　bench；　until　Curry；　as　captain　of　the　lightweight　football　team；　recruited　him　onto　the　gridiron；　where　my　father　acquitted　himself　better　than　anyone　expected。　The　two　roomed　together　the　following　year；　sharing　almost　every　meal；　as　juniors；　they　even　double…dated　twin　sisters　from　Vassar　named　Molly　and　Martha　Roberts。　The　relationship；　which　my　father　once　pared　to　a　hallucinat