There was a novelist who wanted to write a song. He wanted it to be a beautiful song like “Summertime” or “La Vie en Rose,” a song for the ages, as the saying goes. The novelist had a decent singing voice, knew hundreds of songs by heart, had only to think of a lyric in order to hear it sung in his head, but he was not a musician, he was not even a poet. He wanted to write his song in prose, and his prose did not sing, it was harsh, satiric, and bitter. The best reviewers and critics, praising his novels, used words like brutal, fierce, and merciless, but the novelist hated every sentence he wrote. He completed many novels over the years, he had a coterie of devoted fans, but most people judged his books too harsh and bitter, and he lived out his life in poverty and died of a disease that like his prose was merciless and brutal. In his final weeks, when the pain was enormous and unrelenting, he refused the drugs the doctors urged upon him. He was a strong man without faith of any kind, and true to his life and art he was determined to greet death with a clear mind and eyes wide open. His last hours arrived, the friends and followers who had been keeping a deathwatch gathered at his bedside, shadowy forms that he could only dimly perceive. A gauzy film clouded his vision. He tried to rub it from his eyes but was not able to lift his hand. He closed his eyes. He could not hear the voices of those still trying to reach him, he saw only blackness. For what seemed to him hours he heard only the hollow sound of his own labored breathing. And then came the song, a single long intricate sentence of unspeakable beauty, the pain melted away, and a great happiness filled him. He opened his eyes wide, and staring at the faces by his bed, recited the song in a loud, strong voice, he said it over and over, it was so beautiful, he was handing it to them, his friends, his family, this precious thing, this great beauty. His voice was weak. He was breathing his very last breaths. The sitters came closer, they leaned over him, they strained to make out the words. His voice quavered, it was hoarse and less than a whisper, it rose and fell back and rose again, as if reaching for some final ineffable syllable, but it formed no words that any of them could understand.