‘‘The first reader the writer called on was the widow who wore the little felt hat. The writer had weighed this matter several times and decided that he would make a good start at her place, because women, and especially old women, were all good, softhearted people who couldn’t stand to see a young person’s promising future ruined. When someone seeking help called on them, they would offer it warmly and give advice: some would even come out in the open on your behalf. Starting from their maternal instincts and also their women’s intuition (upon coming into contact with young men, they always suddenly recaptured their passionate youth and would give the supplicant everything he hoped for), they were generous to a fault and didn’t ask to be repaid. Embracing this hope, the writer walked that slippery slope and entered the old widow’s home. It was midnight: there was no Hght on in the house, and the door was unlocked. To the right of the entry was a bed. The writer knew the widow wasn’t asleep, because he heard groans and the sounds of tossing and turning. He felt his way to the bed, intending to sit on the side of it. Unexpectedly, the widow kicked him hard, and he almost fell. ‘You can sit on the floor.’ The widow said resolutely, ‘It’s as though a fire is burning in my heart. I am a very direct person.’ The writer sat down gingerly on something that was like a pile of coal ashes. He didn’t make a sound, intending to listen respectfully to what she had to teach him. The old woman was silent a long time and then finally let out an agonized sigh and began talking: ‘Tonight, when I heard your document being read, my heart seemed to ignite. So many words written in a dirty notebook, and even a few inky fingerprints on the cover. You are too profligate, overindulging in trivia. I heard that while you’re writing, you sit on the floor like this and never wash your hands. I can imagine that you also touch your saliva with your black fingers as you turn the pages. At first, I didn’t care about whatever it was you wrote, because at the time I was dozing off. But when the one reading your document suddenly roared, I fell off my chair at once. After I got home, I couldn’t get to sleep, because I kept wondering whether you were attacking through innuendo. Otherwise, how could that person shout so loud as to scare a person? I’m in a bad mood tonight. Maybe, because I’m downhearted, I won’t want to help you. That shout was just too frightening. How can you reproduce that shout in your document? I planned to take part in the work of annotating your text along with everyone else. I think you are talented, but what was that shout all about? No, no. This contradicts my tastes and sentiments. Maybe you intended to show your superiority. You certainly make me seem very depraved. I’d rather stay away from doing the annotations. I’m so confused inside.’ She made a few
‘‘The writer humbly begged her to take his hand to show that she still wanted to be one of his readers, because otherwise ‘he would go crazy.’ No other gesture could have suited her fine character and grace more in revealing the beauty of her soul. The writer’s hand was at the edge of the bed: did she feel it? She need only shift a little to touch it.
