"Seriously, Mr.
Levinsky, I am often out of sorts with myself for hanging around
this caf?. This is the gathering-place of talent, not of business
agents."
"Why? Why?" I tried to console him. "I am sure you have more
talent than all of them put together. Do you think anybody in this
caf? could write verse or prose like yours?"
He looked down, his features hardening into a frown. "Anyhow, I
cannot afford the time. While I loiter here I am liable to miss a
customer. I must give myself entirely to my business, entirely,
entirely--every bit of myself. I must forget I ever did any
scribbling." "You are taking it too hard, Mr. Tevkin. One can
attend to business and yet find time for writing."
All at once he brightened up bashfully and took to reciting a
Hebrew poem.
Here is the essence of it: "Since the destruction of the Temple
instrumental music has been forbidden in the synagogues. The
Children of Israel are in mourning. They are in exile and in
mourning. Silent is their harp. So is mine. I am in exile. I am in a
strange land.
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