The repeated statements about Jonas’s general apathy and indifference to living, and the success that is thrust upon him by others through their adulation and support of him. He is made a child. He is a child never grown. He is a caricature of a type of person who hasn’t had to work because he does not desire. Jonas is given success and comes to expect it. Simple entitlement. If there is a syndrome of being an only or favorite child, case in point.
I sense bitterness in this story. The excess of details and sparse dialogue tell it. “Look at this fuckin’ guy! Look at his ridiculous existence and life!”
A holy man is made holy by his followers. They elevate him. They tell him what they learn from him. The pretentiousness of art, sure. But the pretentiousness of man, definitely.
“Some concerned Jonas’s art, while others, far more plentiful, concerned the correspondent, who either wanted to be encouraged in his artistic vocation or else needed advice or financial aid.”
Truest words.
“‘And what about you?’ Rateau said. ‘Do you exist? You never say anything bad about anyone.’ Jonas began to laugh. ‘Oh! I often think bad of them. But then I forget.’ He became serious. ‘No, I’m not sure of existing. But someday I’ll exist, I’m sure.’”
Someday you’ll be a real boy.
Jesus, clutter is a huge part of this.
I think anyone who has tried to make a career or life out of creating things can understand what’s happening here. They extoll your virtues and then turn away just as quickly. It’s a fickle existence. Even more disheartening is the pace with which enthusiasm and the work deteriorates. It’s first an hour lost, then a day, then weeks, and so on. Soon you’re talking about it more than you’re doing it.
The word at the end puzzles me. I’m still thinking on the meanings and which applies more, if not both.
This story left me with an uneasy feeling. There was too much familiarity. I like it.