The Trick of It

Morris is on his death bed, in the moribund tidal sweep of dream and momentary wakefulness. He has some hours back acknowledged he is now booked on a one-way passage out of this world and into whatever awaits. There is nothing for it but for him to wait out the details, the slow, inexorable shutting down for good of a system that propelled him these many years. But now a smell reaches him, lures him to alertness. He cocks a finger at the nurse, who leans in to hear his whisper. "Is it my imagination," he asks, "is it merely the delirium of a dying man, or do I smell my wife's splendid lemon poppy seed cake?"

The nurse sniffs, nods. "No," she says, "you are not imagining. I smell it, too."

Morris sighs. "Such a delight, that cake. Such ecstasy. I could go truly happy with a few bites of that wonderful cake. Would you mind terribly, going downstairs and asking my wife for a tiny slice?"

The nurse fluffs his pillow then departs for the kitchen, returning moments later with Rose, Morris' wife, behind him.

Seeing them, he raises up in anticipation. "Wonderful," he says. "The cake. Now I can die truly happy."

"What's the matter with you?" Rose says, shaking her head. "That's for after."


It is true that the three-act play of modern drama has retreated back into history but in its form remains the sturdy ghost of story structure. The set-up. The complication. The payoff, which is the unthinkable, come to pass.

If Morris gets his slice of cake, there is no story, only event.

In our search for story, we are often distracted by event, one pearl too many on a string; one note too many in a song; one syllable too many in a poem.

We live by event and wish for the intervention of story so that our life might be more dramatic.

There are formulas for stories and philosophies for order. In our search for these formulas and feng shuis of the mind, we are unknowingly setting things in our path that we will surely trip over in the dark.