The Master

Story by James Gagnon
Photograph by Sarah Aubrey

“I assume you’ve come to me in search of a manifesto,” the old man said as he looked up from a piece of paper lying on his desk.

“Indeed,” I replied.

“Well, I’m of no help to you. You, like the rest are wasting your time. I’m old, my voice is weak, furthermore, my pen only dabbles in Taoist poetry nowadays.”

“Your words are still strong Master. Plus I have no other choice.”

“No other choice? There are thousands of ink scribblers out there, I’m sure you could make due with one of them.”

“I’ve read their books and it’s in earnest that I’ve made this journey to you. Your words are different, they are certain, they breathe, they see, they feel.” I looked at the old man finger a small black pen.

“I no longer write the words that you speak of.”

“But you should, the people need you.”

“Who let you in here anyway? I pay servants to protect my privacy, to protect my ears from ignorant flattery.”

“Your servant Julia is my cousin and I’m far from ignorant.”

“If that be so then you should clearly understand that men change, their passions evolve, their youthful energies transform into elderly wisdoms. To expect a frail man like me to slice open a tired vein and write a new manifesto is only an ignorant plea into old, hairy, deaf ears.”

“But you must, that’s all I’ve come to say, you must write another manifesto,” I looked down at my scuffed shoes.

“As noble as your intentions may be you must understand this: my manifestos of old were written with strong muscular hands, they were crafted with healthy, keen eyes, they were written in hot, angry blood. Look at me, open your eyes boy and see who you’re pleading to!” The Master stared into my soul, “I’m old and my beard is white, I find pleasure in writing poetry that is peaceful, my daily life is far from uncomfortable, I lack nothing. How do you suppose I write another manifesto when I’ve aged and become the man that I once furiously wrote against?”

I hadn’t an answer.

“To me you are like a spring breeze that sneaks through the cracked window. You mess up my piles of paper and you sound like a giggling young school girl. Off with you, be gone! Continue your search elsewhere. If it's a new manifesto you are desperate to find, perhaps you should write your own. I’m certainly through with such.”

My mind raced places, images and words; it found pleas, faces and rank smells, it conjured up emotion and passionate realities. I stood up and my vision went dizzy. All I could do was quote aloud from one of the Master’s manifestos.

“‘And if one is certain, then he is a liar. For only those who understand the nothingness of all things will find hope. In this lies the will to change, in this lies the means necessary to progress.’”

With determined strides I walked out of the door. The bearded man slowly lowered his head and through old, watery eyes looked at his comfortable poetry scattered about his wooden desk.