—It’s garaged at your, at the place of the accident I can’t find the, what kind of car is it.

—Sosumi.

—I’m being quite serious Mister Crease.

—So am I! It’s a Japanese car, a Sosumi.

—Oh. Oh dear, yes I’m sorry, it’s so hard to keep track of them all nowdays. We had a whole family killed last week in an Isuyu and I made a similar error. I think we’ve covered all the preliminaries Mister Crease, I don’t want to tire you. You’ll hear from us promptly, I don’t think there should be any problem about your hospital bills here and I may even be able to squeeze in your television rental without anybody noticing, no sir. Our only problem now is getting you the very best care, if you’ll just sign this right here at the bottom and we’ll have you up in no time ready to go out and, here’s a pen . . .

In reaching these conclusions, the court acts from the conviction that risk of ridicule, of attracting defamatory attentions from his colleagues and even raucous demonstrations by an outraged public have ever been and remain the foreseeable lot of the serious artist, recalling among the most egregious examples Ruskin accusing Whistler of throwing a paint pot in the public’s face, the initial scorn showered upon the impressionists and, once they were digested, upon the Cubists, the derision greeting Bizet’s musical innovations credited with bringing about his death of a broken heart, the public riots occasioned by the first performance of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring, and from the day Aristophanes labeled Euripides ‘a maker of ragamuffin mannequins’ the avalanche of disdain heaped upon writers: the press sending the author of Ode on a Grecian Urn ‘back to plasters, pills, and ointment boxes,’ finding Ibsen’s Ghosts ‘a loathsome sore unbandaged, a dirty act done publicly’ and Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina ‘sentimental rubbish,’ and in our own land the contempt accorded each succeeding work of Herman Melville, culminating in Moby Dick as ‘a huge dose of hyperbolical slang, maudlin sentimentalism and tragic-comic bubble and squeak,’ and since Melville’s time upon writers too numerous to mention. All this must most arguably in deed and intent affect the sales of their books and the reputations whereon rest their hopes of advances and future royalties, yet to the court’s knowledge none of this opprobrium however enviously and maliciously conceived and however stupid, careless, and ill informed in its publication has ever yet proved grounds for a successful action resulting in recovery from the marplot. In short, the artist is fair game and his cause is turmoil. To echo the words of Horace, Pictoribus atque poetis quidlibet audendi semper fuit aequa potestas, in this daring invention the artist comes among us not as the bearer of idées reçues embracing art as decoration or of the comfort of churchly beliefs enshrined in greeting card sentiments but rather in the aesthetic equivalent of one who comes on earth ‘not to send peace, but a sword.’

—No stop it Christina, that wasn’t it at all and you know it. If you think it wasn’t serious do you know they even came in and asked if I wanted a summary of what was going to happen on If the World Turns and the rest of these idiotic soap operas, will kindly old Apple Annie die of a brain tumor? will Gary the star halfback test positive for AIDS? They have those, they provide them confidentially to terminal patients who don’t want to leave without knowing whether friendly Frank really stole that money or if beautiful Jessica will have that abortion, if that’s the . . .

—You want to sue them for damages, that’s money isn’t it?

—Because that’s the only damn language they understand! Isn’t that what you just said? But stealing a whole world somebody’s created and turning it into a hogpen just because there’s money in hogs? Steal poetry what do you sue them for, poetry? and the court sentences Kiester to two hundred hours of community service? Two hundred hours teaching Yeats to the fourth grade? Expect me to pay your legal bill with Maid Quiet?

—Because it’s never been performed that’s how come! Nobody’s ever seen it performed, a serious play of ideas like this one you expect to see it in lights on Broadway? All Broadway wants is tits and ass, a chorus line of stupid self indulgent idiots cavorting around the stage singing about tits and ass and the whole loud vulgar, tickets bought on company expense accounts to entertain your out of town buyer you think he wants to sit through something that requires one grain of intelligence?

—You been to the theatre lately Mister Crease?

—Me? God no. Wad up your coat and jam it under the seat you’ve paid sixty dollars for where you can see exactly half the stage, hot as blazes and you can’t cross your knees, the curtain goes up on a torrent of obscenity or some burntout star who’s decided a revival of an old chestnut like your O’Neill there’s his vehicle for immortality the minute he staggers onstage the audience explodes in applause and goes to sleep till intermission for the cigarette in the alley and that watery five dollar orange drink. End of the limited engagement the investors grab their tax breaks and status as patrons of the arts one thing you can be sure of, they’re having a better time up there on the stage than you are. Whether it’s spouting tits and ass or your O’Neill chestnut they’re all just having a good time at your expense.

[...] Where plaintiff further alleges that these impediments to its removal were swept away by the appeals court decision reversing this major provision in Szyrk, supra, defendant’s disclaimer on grounds of the lack of a demolition permit required by municipal ordinance for such a procedure which, in the usual course of events would be issued by and to itself, has provoked the further charge of conspiracy wherein plaintiff cites the prominent presence on the Village Board of one Mel Kandino-poulis as chief obstacle to such issuance, submitting in evidence the expanding premises of Mel’s Kandy Kitchen in the form of a sunny new dining area overlooking Cyclone Seven and a printer’s dummy of a projected new menu offering quiche Lorraine, caesar salad with arugula, sangria and similar enticements to the sophisticated palates of prosperous out of town visitors where hoagies and a Bud by local custom had hitherto prevailed. [...]

[...] Among the dozen arrests that evening, that of Billy Pinks, thirty-two, an unemployed auto body worker charged with assault was later reduced to statutory rape on his plea that the ‘provocative message on her T shirt got his juices going’ and the admission by the twelve-year-old victim that she had deceitfully led him to believe she was fourteen. [...]

—My God Harry what do you want him to do, just forget the whole thing?

—Might not be a bad idea Christina, he fought the good fight didn’t he? That’s the important thing, fought the good fight and lost no disgrace in that is there? Might even be able to take a good tax loss on the . . .

—Harry look at him! Does he look like he needs a good tax loss? [...]

—My God Harry what do you want him to do, just forget the whole thing?

—Might not be a bad idea Christina, he fought the good fight didn’t he? That’s the important thing, fought the good fight and lost no disgrace in that is there? Might even be able to take a good tax loss on the . . .

—Harry look at him! Does he look like he needs a good tax loss? [...]

—I’ve looked! All I’ve been doing I’ve been looking it’s taken me this long to finally see what I’m looking at hush things up, keep out of the papers, fight the good fight and lose there’s no disgrace in that is there? Your great Code of what was it you just told us? of professional responsibility and every profession’s a conspiracy against the public who told me that. Who told me that! Your self regulating profession no reason you and Sam can’t work something out what about us?

—It’s, look Christina.

—You look! I said what about us Harry, a conspiracy against the public my God we’re your family! Protecting yourself, protecting your friend Sam, protecting Swyne & Dour and your whole ridiculous self regulating white shoe conspiracy against your own family?