“Ariel who?”

The name seemed unfamiliar when mispronounced by my secretary. Ariel G-------. I had met him a few days back outside Edgware Road Station and had asked him to ring me at the office so that I could arrange to take him to an exhibition of my company's work at the National Gallery. He had been in a rarely communicative mood, giving me an entrée into his life which he had previously withheld. Hitherto, our acquaintance had been confined to the casual, ultra-casual, level of bar talk. A companionship of some ten years standing, but one which was totally lacking in substance. After all that time, I am surprised that I still know so little about him, but during this chance encounter he had been really excited and wanted to convey that to me. He had previously told me that he was writing a novel which brought together what he had learnt from the work of Jung and a study of the I Ching. I knew that much, but had dismissed the communication out of hand. People constantly tell me that they are doing this, that and the other, and being that sort of person myself, I view their claims with some scepticism. I was intrigued by Ariel's putative novel, however, especially since it coincided with my own interests, but I doubted whether he possessed the sustaining effort and discipline required to make it work; whether he could withstand the isolation of being an artist, of standing apart.

Ariel told me that he is a solicitor, but even that is something that I did not automatically accept.

In that vein, I almost took the view that anything he says is bound to be hyperbole. On the station platform he told me, for instance, that he is about to appear in a film and was going to trek over to California. “With a name like that,” I thought, “he ought to be an actor.” It sounds plausible. I can almost accept that.