After Scott submitted his monograph on Franciszek Bohomolec, he turned back quickly to an unfinished essay. He was not sure about his first sentences: “Once you own something, it is worth nothing to the world. It is yours to keep or discard. All value resides with you. That is a depressing fact and a crushing responsibility, both at once.” He was not sure about his last sentences: “And that is why I am burning my collection of sketches, the one of young Levi-Strauss, the one of old Rothko, the newborn Marie Curie, the Jane Goodall of indeterminate middle age, burning them with the same hand that made them, an old hand now, tired, shamed.” He was sure only of the title: “Time, the Notorious Serial Killer.” That was a corker. He loved it so much he said it over and over again on nights he couldn’t sleep. His husband Howard loved it slightly less, and begged him to shut up, for the love of a god that neither of them believed in, or else Scott would see who the real serial killer was! He was pretty sure Howard was joking, but why stand so close to the knife block?
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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