Harry Gold
Flash fiction with a twist… (The key is in the afterward.)
The rule of “nothing unessential” is the first condition of great art. — Andre Gide
After dinner Harry Gold reads us the last two chapters of his La Nuit. The next to last especially seems excellent to us, and Gold reads it very well. Being rich is an occupation in itself, particularly for people who arrive at it via parachute in middle life.
We go out for a walk — William Williams, Gold and myself. Never has it seemed such a long way to the top of this hill. The road with its tossing broken stones stretches on forever into the distance like a life of agony. It is hot as a furnace on the street and we sweat profusely.
I bring up the question of ownership. “Who owns language? Can a man own words? Sentences? The turn of a phrase?”
Gold’s face becomes agitated, defiant. “It’s mine now. No matter what they say, it’s mine.”
It occurs to me that Williams doesn’t like this reply, but there are no others to turn to and we are forced to accept it. Gold feels guilty because his work is heavy with borrowing. Ideas, phrases, sentences, even whole paragraphs have been shamelessly appropriated, pilfered without attribution, plagiarized.
