Henry Fool Page #3

-Yeah.

Simon, mom's right about you.

A poem's supposed to be a small,

delicate thing. Feminine, gentle.

Look at this.

You made a f***ing telephone book.

I was caught.

Yes. I was caught once.

In flagrante delictum screwing

a 13 year old girl named Susan.

She was an ugly

and mean-spirited kid.

But she knew how to play

upon my weaknesses...

which, I admit...

are deep and many.

You appear shocked.

It was a pathetic little conspiracy.

A transparently desperate attempt...

to discredit me and my ideas.

To label me a mere pedophile. As if

I'd be ashamed of such a thing.

As if Socrates himself hadn't

been taken out of circulation...

for corrupting

the youth of Athens.

Seven years.

Seven years for one afternoon

of blissful transgression.

But, what of it?

Who cares?

Prison is not so bad.

Particularly if one's free from the

conventional horror of sodomy.

They were not lost years.

I put them to good use.

I began my major

work, my Opus!

Believe me, Simon.

This incident with the girl...

prison...

pales to insignificance in the

wider context of my career.

Nothing in comparison to the day

my confession is unleashed.

We are told not to judge.

But to forgive.

Not to look into our neighbor's eyes

and find the bad. But the good.

This is difficult, I admit.

But having a good friend

isn't always easy.

Yes, I see.

But...

I mean...

do you ever think that...

that Henry is...

dangerous?

He needs help.

Our help.

Yours, especially.

The best parts of himself surface

when he's helping others learn.

Let yourself be taught. Show

your appreciation for his guidance.

In this way, perhaps...

Well...

there's hope for everyone.

Even Henry.

The greats all say

the same thing.

Little. And, what little

there is to be said, is immense.

In other words, follow your

own genius, to where it leads...

without regard for the apparent

needs of the world at large...

which has no needs of such,

but just moments of exhaustion...

in which it is

incapable of prejudice.

We can only hope to collide with

moments of unselfconsciousness...

...this divine fatigue, this...

-Push over!

As I tried to

make right in Paris:

"We know we have fallen,

because we know who we are."

-When were you in Paris?

-That's beside the point.

But did they listen to me?

Of course not.

-You okay, Fay?

-No, I'm not okay.

Your poem brought my period

on a week and a half early.

So, just shut up.

Everybody, just shut up!

-Simon, can I have your autograph?

-Never let yourself be flattered.

-What of your friend, the publisher?

-Who?

-Angus James.

-How about sending the poem to him?

Because it's not done yet.

When is it gonna

be done, Simon?

-I don't know.

-You ought to be home writing.

-Instead of hanging with groupies.

-I'm not a groupie.

-Pardon me. Is this your laptop?

-The thing to do is to send...

parts of it to different magazines

and literary channels first.

-You know, substantiate it.

-What scatological mean?

A preoccupation with excrement.

Why?

That's what the Board of Education

called Simon's poem yesterday.

-Hello.

-Yeah. I'm listening.

I'm Edna Rodriguez and I write for

the "Queens County Examiner."

I was just wondering if I can

have a word with Simon Grim?

Simon!

You can't talk too long with him,

because he writes all day.

That's all he does. Can you believe

that? Simon, get down here!

Simon, Edna.

She's from the newspaper.

The parent's association is

calling your poem pornography.

The teachers are defending

the students' rights to exercise...

critical taste and sensibility. The

county agrees with the church and...

considers the poem emblematic of

modern society's moral...

disintegration. How do you feel

about these reactions to your poem?

Simon, answer the woman.

-I need my prescription pills.

-Mom, Edna. Edna, mom.

Mrs. Grim, what was Simon

like as a child?

-We all thought he was retarded.

-Everyone did.

-Never said a word.

-Masturbated constantly.

-Had no friends.

-Till he met Henry.

"Dear Mr. Grim:

we here at the magazine consider

ourselves open-minded...

and consistently print the work

of the most brilliant young talent.

Every week we are forced to return

writing which we cannot publish...

and include a brief

but polite refusal.

But this tract you sent us demands

a response as violent...

as the effect your words

have had upon us.

Drop dead.

Keep your day job.

Sincerely, the editors."

"De gustibus non disputandum est."

"You can't argue with taste?"

About taste. You can't argue about

taste. My God, Simon...

The other 25 are almost as bad.

I don't know why I bothered.

What do you mean, you

don't know why you bothered?

You bother because you

know the poem is excellent.

Do I?

Of course you do.

I'm not so sure sometimes.

Can you sit there, look me in the

eye and tell me it's not great?

That it is not a work

of great lyrical beauty...

and ethical depth?

That it is not a profound meditation

on the miracle of existence?

-I...

-Can you?

No.

-I can't.

-So you see? You have no choice.

Can you recommend it to your

friend, the publisher, Henry?

Can you recommend

the poem to him?

-That might not be easy.

-Why?

It's been a long time. My name might

not carry as much weight as it did.

-But he's your friend, right?

-We were close at one time.

You said he

respected your opinion.

Look, Simon.

Opinions come and go.

To be honest,

my ideas, my writing...

they've not always

been received well...

or even calmly.

They're upsetting.

I'm a controversial man.

You see, what I'm

doing is too radical.

Too uncompromising.

It'll take time

for people to see its value.

It's ahead of its time, perhaps,

or maybe just...

a recommendation from me might

do you as much harm as it does good.

Henry, why can't

I read the confession?

Because certain works need to be

experienced all at once...

for one to appreciate

the full force of its character.

Simon, wake up.

The guy's in the dream world.

He's afraid that his reputation will

not allow my work an honest chance.

-His reputation as what?

-As a writer.

-Give me a break.

-He's kind of like in exile...

marginalized

on account of his ideas.

If he's such a genius, why doesn't

he write books like you do?

He has. He's been working on it for

years. It's just not published.

Yeah, I bet.

It's probably disgusting.

It's quite serious and difficult

piece of work, apparently.

Have you read it?

No. Not yet. Soon.

Certain work needs to be

experienced all at once...

in order for one to appreciate

the full force of its character.

Yeah, well. Whatever.

Listen, Simon. Forget Henry.

Go to this Angus James yourself

and get him to read the poem.

I'm going to fight for a job at the

photo store and another at the bank.

Make sure mom

takes the pills.

See ya.

Please, don't stop.

That was nice.

Yes, it was nice.

But it was unremarkable.

Does that matter?

Yes...

it does.

Hi, I'll take that.

Aren't you the messenger?

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