The sun rises. Then it sets. Rises and sets. Rises and sets. All oin all, not a lot changes. Sun rises. Sets. Comes back for more. Brave old sun, eh?
In our midst, there are those for whom the endless risng and setting are but commas in another story - one of persistence, growth, betterment and hope. There are those whose path never crosses ours - then again, there are those who path must corss those who live more, for one reason or another.
Quite how these 'people' are remains a mystery, and is in itself surrounded by heresay, but exist they do, move they must, and arrive they will, in our lives or just outside them.Lots of poeple thing they've seen them, be they suddenly 'brilliant' friends or strangers you've met on a train who have suddenly said something cutting or pertinent without knowing the full you - for some reason they've picked something hidden out of your personality that - on at least some sort of basic level - makes sense. Not to say that these pepel are necessarily magical or in posession of guidance from a higher power, but they are, in a wierdly elemental way, ebetter than us and seem to have us sussed. The sun rises, sets, rises and sets. On it goes.
I met one of these people once. It was a hot day, the kind of weather that gets on the news. My train journey was taking longer than usual, but the denouement of The Catcher in the Rye' was taking my mind off the worst of it. After a while, I realised that the guy opposite me - who must have been eighty, giben his shjock of white hair, receding gently at the temples, the quality of the briefcase he was carrying and the depth of the lines on his face - was checking out hte well-thumbed copy I was reading. I thought nothing of this for a good twenty minutes or so, as after all, it's a very popular book. Holden's brush with the hoker with just playing out when a soft, discernably Australian lilt broke my concentration:
"That's a fabulous book - but you'll know that by now."
The moment the first syllable left his lips, I was utterly stunned. Such warmth, directness and, behind it all, insight in the tone and the calm confidence of the way he spoke. It was almost as if he was speaking directly to my subconscious. A deeply odd feeling, and not one I'd felt before.
"It's fabulous", I stammered, trying to make sense of the piercing blue eyes that now fixed on mind from the other side of the pile of dead coffee cups and magazines on the small table that separated us. "I have to say, it's not my favourite, but I can understand its value, I suppose."
The next senence nearly knocked me off my chair:
"If you understood anything about what real travel was, my man, you'd appreciate little fairy tales like that one all the more."
"What do you mean?" Still unnerved by those blue eyes, beautiful in their own way, but empty, too.
"That book's changed many a life, son. You'd do well to understand it - brilliant prose often reveals certain things to all of us."
I was more than a little stunned by this. I've loved the Catcher since my teens, for one reason and another, but never really given it much thought. Interested by the old duffer's take on it, I persisted:
"What do you mean?" Quite blunt. Waiting.
"It's yours," he continued, warming to his theme. "That and every book you've ever read will give you the story you've been looking for."
A strange kind of silence broke over the carriage.
"I don't really understand", I said.
"It's yours to find, young man. Understanding is not something I care about or can help you with. Belief, on the other hand, is a different matter. Anyway, this next one's my stop, so I'd better be off. I trust you'll have a good day, and a good life, full of good moments and interesting interludes such as this one. And if you're ever in Australia, I recommend you visit the Gold Coast. There's some great places to see there, if ever you find yourself back there."
"Thanks, I'll bear that in mind", I said, wondering what the old man was on at this point, but oddly transfixed nonetheless.
As he left the train, and my journey continued, I found it increasingly difficult to forget the face, the voice and the strange manner of the man who had introduced himself. As the train finally pulled into my stop and I collected my things, I realised he'd left an old, leather-bound volume behind. Roughly the size of a bible and clearly very old, it was locked shut at the spine in the style of a diary or notebook, and bore the monogram 'PL' on the front cover in small, exquisite script. I looked at the book for a couple of seconds, and put it in my case without clearly understanding why. Perhaps I could trace the man and return it to him?
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