Margaret Atwood and Nadine Gordimer concurred, and gently chided Mailer. He responded, "You are all middle-cla.s.s women, as I am a middle-cla.s.s man. And in the middle-cla.s.s, the center of activity is obligatory excellence."

Whatever Mailer was trying to say-and his point was unclear-several of the women regarded his remark as an insult. He made things worse by insisting that not many women were "intellectuals first, poets and novelists second," and this meant there was a limited number of female panelists who could partic.i.p.ate.

Thus the week ended.

Karen Kennerly remains bitter at the thought of the women's protest. Like Doctorow, none of the critics helped to plan the International Congress. Before raising their voices, they did not seek to understand the organizing process. "I was very angry over the charge that women were underrepresented at the conference," Kennerly says. "We had invited a lot of women, but many had turned us down for one reason or another. And you have to let delegates from the countries pick whom they want to represent them.

"Later, Margaret Atwood was at a P.E.N. event in Europe. She was the only only woman at that one, and she didn't say anything about it. And Betty Friedan-what did she ever have to do with PEN? At one point, in a crowd, she was trying to shout out a statement. She started, 'Now, now...' and a bunch of people said, 'No, Betty, it's not NOW, it's PEN, PEN!' " woman at that one, and she didn't say anything about it. And Betty Friedan-what did she ever have to do with PEN? At one point, in a crowd, she was trying to shout out a statement. She started, 'Now, now...' and a bunch of people said, 'No, Betty, it's not NOW, it's PEN, PEN!' "

Don and Paley's "sad political parting," as Paley put it, had begun early in the week, when she opposed George Shultz's appearance. Don was no fan of George Shultz, but he felt that his old pal had made too much of the issue. "He considered his position long-term, overriding that year's key speaker," Paley said. By week's end, when she had embarra.s.sed the conference organizers over their treatment of women, Don was furious with her. Like Kennerly, he felt that every effort had been made to include female panelists-it was simply the case that many women, citing other commitments, had turned them down. All Paley would have had to do was ask him, and he would have told her this. Instead, she had gone public, hastily, with a hue and cry. "He thought me disloyal and was angry," she said. "I was never angry at him, partly because political opposition is more natural to me."

For the next year, the two old friends barely spoke to each other.

56.

PARADISE....

In 1975, Don had claimed that writing The Dead Father The Dead Father taught him how to write his next novel. He was too optimistic. taught him how to write his next novel. He was too optimistic. Paradise Paradise didn't appear for another eleven years. But at least one failure along the way indicates that the secret of didn't appear for another eleven years. But at least one failure along the way indicates that the secret of how how was the extended-dialogue form. was the extended-dialogue form.

He once said that "The Emerald," a story published in 1980, was meant to be a novel, but he couldn't sustain it. "The Emerald" begins: Hey buddy what's your name?My name is Tope. What's your name?My name is Sallywag. You after the emerald?Yeah I'm after the emerald you after the emerald too?I am. What are you going to do with it if you get it?Cut it up into little emeralds. What are you going to do with it?I was thinking of solid emerald armchairs. For the rich.

Eventually, the emerald is revealed to be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child (it pees and talks) born of the moon's union with a witch named Moll. Moll and her jewel manage to evade the kidnappers and live in peace.

It's unclear why this material wound up as salvage for a story. Don's tendency to shave chips from bigger blocks of writing suggests that he didn't distinguish story form from that of the novel-except in one regard: "The Emerald" and his subsequent novels indicate that he'd come to equate long fiction with almost pure dialogue.

In extended dialogue, Don-essentially a nonnarrative writer-had discovered a loose, playful structure, which was suitable for his interests and gifts. It also had a natural narrative drive. Surprising juxtapositions are possible-perhaps even inevitable-whenever characters speak, and the narrative flow is automatic. Further, dialogue is the form of Socratic give-and-take (uncertainty, investigation, open-endedness) and the questing, reflexive consciousness.

At bottom, all written dialogues are questionnaires. The questioner or dominant conversational partner sets the tone, subject, direction, and push; push; the responder adds counterweights, textures, incidentals. This inherent tension powers the prose. the responder adds counterweights, textures, incidentals. This inherent tension powers the prose.

Don's use of dialogue's push-pull is best displayed in his story "Basil from Her Garden," portions of which later appeared in Paradise Paradise. In the story, the characters, identified familiarly as Q and A, discuss A's adulterous affairs. Q (A's psychiatrist? his conscience?) is genteel, morally rigid, comfortable with his worldview ("Ethics has always been where my heart is"). A is anxious, ethically uncertain.

A's behavior shocks Q, but Q presses him for details. When A does does recount his affairs, Q recoils: "I don't want to question you too closely on this. I don't want to strain your powers of-" recount his affairs, Q recoils: "I don't want to question you too closely on this. I don't want to strain your powers of-"

"Well no," A says. "I don't mind talking about it."

Eventually, Q's squeamishness tips the narrative in A's favor. Q becomes tentative, and no longer runs the conversation.

Don varies the story's pace to maintain rhythmic surprise, inserting monologues by Q and A. Q, vicariously stimulated by A's erotic adventures, admits that he is "content with too little" in life. Once again, the narrative shifts, as the dominant character, the one who has controlled the give-and-take, falters.

By the end, Q's moral position ("Adultery is a sin") feels weak-his ethics have not kept him from feeling depressed, buried in the mundane, while A's confusion, painful as it is, keeps him self-engaged and involved with others. "Transcendence is possible," Q says in one last attempt to a.s.sert his ideals. A agrees.

Q-Is it possible?A-Not out of the question.Q-Is it really possible?A-Yes. Believe me.

In this final exchange, the speakers have traded roles: A is confident, even if he is only pretending for Q's sake, and Q's faith has been shaken. Though Q is still the inquisitor, his tone is pleading. A leads the discussion now. He hasn't changed. Adultery is his chosen form of "transcendence"-s.e.x as novelty to distract him from the humdrum of daily life.

By being aware of the power struggles within even the most casual conversations, Don managed to inject this brief comic piece with a forceful narrative drive.

Paradise is a series of "shards and rag ends" that "tend to adhere to the narrator," said Peter Prescott in his warm review of the novel in is a series of "shards and rag ends" that "tend to adhere to the narrator," said Peter Prescott in his warm review of the novel in Newsweek. Newsweek. The narrator is a middle-aged architect named Simon, on sabbatical in New York City. He comes to share his apartment with three young unemployed women, former fashion models. Textually, they are verbal abstractions-in their vagueness, reminiscent of Willem de Kooning's The narrator is a middle-aged architect named Simon, on sabbatical in New York City. He comes to share his apartment with three young unemployed women, former fashion models. Textually, they are verbal abstractions-in their vagueness, reminiscent of Willem de Kooning's Woman Woman series (Don dedicated the book to Willem's wife, Elaine). They provide the novel's most extended conversations, which, like the women's repartee in series (Don dedicated the book to Willem's wife, Elaine). They provide the novel's most extended conversations, which, like the women's repartee in The Dead Father, The Dead Father, serve as counterpoint to the main narrative: in this case, Simon's thoughts and fears. serve as counterpoint to the main narrative: in this case, Simon's thoughts and fears.

Paradise is no fairy tale. It's a mirror image of is no fairy tale. It's a mirror image of Snow White. Snow White. Instead of a woman living with a gang of men, we see a man sharing s.p.a.ce with several women. Don's first novel was pure fantasy; this one is distinguished by its brutal views of aging, s.e.x, and death. Instead of a woman living with a gang of men, we see a man sharing s.p.a.ce with several women. Don's first novel was pure fantasy; this one is distinguished by its brutal views of aging, s.e.x, and death.

The women's talk coheres more fully than the exchanges between Julie and Emma in The Dead Father, The Dead Father, but there are enough gaps between statements to allow humor, confusion, discovery, and surprise. Here, the group discovers that Simon is sleeping with a fourth woman, a poet. but there are enough gaps between statements to allow humor, confusion, discovery, and surprise. Here, the group discovers that Simon is sleeping with a fourth woman, a poet.

"Well it's just what I thought would happen what I thought would happen and it happened.""He's a free human individual not bound to us.""Maybe we're too much for him maybe he needs more of a one-on-one thing see what I'm saying?""It may be just a temporary aberration that won't last very long like when suddenly you see somebody in a crowded Pizza Hut or something and you think, I could abide that.""But if she's a poet she won't keep him poets burn their candles down to nubs. And then find new candles. That's what they do."

Not only are the lines unimpeded by identifying tags or physical descriptions; the sentences run together for urgency: brevity at length.

The book's other extended dialogues involve Q and A from "Basil from Her Garden," here more clearly identified as Simon and his doctor. Q and A's discussions (or is it one long discussion, interrupted by memories of the women?) occur after Dore, Anne, and Veronica have said good-bye to Simon. The exchanges establish a poignant tension between past and present in the narrative. The past (Simon's life with the women) is conveyed through present-tense verbs, while the present ("After the women had gone") unfolds in the past tense: Simon's life is all but over. His most vivid and immediate moments remain locked in his past. "Today" feels already lived.

Simon calls his time with the women a "series of conversations." This is also an apt description of The Divine Comedy, The Divine Comedy, and it points us to the novel's subtext. and it points us to the novel's subtext.

Every night, Simon has nightmares-bad dreams sparked by the guilt he feels over the mess he has made of his life (or so his doctor says). He dreams of being trapped in a leper colony. He envisions six-foot boll weevils flirting with one another "with little squirts of Opium behind their ears."

These Inferno Inferno-like horrors are offset by the calm, even the pleasure, Simon experiences on his sabbatical. "I felt blessed," he tells his doctor, remembering the women, his erotic trinity. In limbo, he has an opportunity to reevaluate his life.

Together, the women also review their pasts. One night, they conduct a raucous purifying ritual. "Hit me," Veronica says to her friends when they accuse her of being "bad." In the end (the novel concludes around Easter), the women leave to find work. Simon finds new personal and professional directions for his life.

Early in the book, his estranged wife accuses him of wallowing in triviality. "You worry about the way [people] say things but you don't worry about what [they] mean," she says. "That's not so," Simon replies. His actions bear him out. In his work, he fusses over gel coats and fibergla.s.s (details that might appear appear to be trivial), but his projects have a rigorous consistency: a school in a "rundown area," a church in a "not-good area." "The more time you put into a job, the less money you make," Simon says. It's no surprise he can't stay solvent. to be trivial), but his projects have a rigorous consistency: a school in a "rundown area," a church in a "not-good area." "The more time you put into a job, the less money you make," Simon says. It's no surprise he can't stay solvent.

Ultimately, he rejects standard American business practices and their shoddy shortcuts. He branches out on his own, taking as much time as he needs to design office s.p.a.ce for a charity organization. When he is not speaking to the women, he helps a cop on the street, an injured drunk in the vestibule of his apartment building, and a homeless man in his neighborhood.

As Simon's life unfolds, from his dreams of punishment to his expurgation to his recommitment to his art and rebirth as an independent man, we see that, like Dante, he "loves righteousness," however secularly and unsentimentally he defines it in Manhattan, in 1986.

Paradise received a mixed response. Michiko Kakutani groaned about its "very tired theme of the male midlife crisis" and said the female characters were "ciphers-vaguely unpleasant cartoony people." The author's efforts, she said, were "halfhearted and perfunctory." received a mixed response. Michiko Kakutani groaned about its "very tired theme of the male midlife crisis" and said the female characters were "ciphers-vaguely unpleasant cartoony people." The author's efforts, she said, were "halfhearted and perfunctory."

Conversely, Peter Prescott found the book "charming." Richard Burgin applauded Don's "poignant awareness" of time and the "problem of aging"-an awareness, treated comically, that made the novel the "most moving of [Barthelme's] many brilliant books."

Don himself never warmed to the novel. He simply seemed relieved to have finished it. When Phillip Lopate congratulated him on the book's appearance, Don said he thought it was "pretty weak." Grace Paley wrote to say it was the "cleanest dirty book [she] had ever read...it doesn't give up its purity or delicacy despite the nice natural grossness of f.u.c.king and sucking. It's as though genitals could dream...."

She closed with a plea: "So-write me a letter, because even though you still think I'm wrong [about PEN] and I still think you're wrong, we do love each other. Right?" Don responded with fondness, but the friendship never quite regained its former footing.

Ed Hirsch says, "I don't find a falling off in Donald's work after he came back to Houston. I like the late work. It's true that the postmodern fireworks can't be found much in the later writing. If what you value most is innovation, then the early work will draw you. But there is a wistfulness and a melancholy in the late stories that I find beautiful. And they're deceptively personal."

In his melancholy, Don sought solace in his friendships with Hirsch and others-like Beverly Lowry, who recalls a car trip with Don and Marion to San Antonio and a "long night in Helen's Majestic Bar [there], listening to Don and [the writer] John Graves swap stories about Spain as the jukebox played 'If I Said You Had a Beautiful Body Would You Hold It Against Me?' Don kept the quarters coming."

On the way back to Houston, "the ladies talked about the rump of a noted poet," Don wrote in "Overnight to Many Distant Cities," in a pa.s.sage he once admitted was strictly autobiographical. " 'Too big,' they said, 'too big too big too big.' 'Can you imagine going to bed with him?' they said...and laughed and laughed....

"I offered to get out and run alongside the car, if that would allow them to converse more freely."

Such trips and other distractions-romping with Kate on the playground at the Edgar Allan Poe school-along with his work, kept Don comfortable, if not wholly content, in Houston. "I think it suited Donald to have one foot in Houston and one in New York," Hirsch says. "There is a gap between the reality of Houston and the way many people perceive it. When we were all there together, it didn't feel like the far margins of anything. It felt like literary life."

Yet New York kept tugging at him. On the one hand, he was loyal to UH's writing program. On the other hand, The New Yorker The New Yorker was his home, and increasingly was his home, and increasingly The New Yorker The New Yorker came under siege. came under siege.

William Shawn was in his late seventies now. He had not named an editor to succeed him. The crepuscular tone of his control, combined with the recent deaths of so many regular contributors (Harold Rosenberg, Hannah Arendt, Janet Flanner, John Cheever, S. J. Perelman) had sent the magazine into a funk. To make matters worse, its readership and its advertising revenue had dropped.

In 1985, Samuel I. Newhouse, Jr., bought The New Yorker The New Yorker from the magazine's owner, Peter Fleischmann. Fleischmann's health was poor and he had lost patience with Shawn's inability to appoint a younger, more vigorous editor. He was also concerned about estate taxes, so he sold off his stock for two hundred dollars a share. In the end, Newhouse paid about $170 million for the magazine. from the magazine's owner, Peter Fleischmann. Fleischmann's health was poor and he had lost patience with Shawn's inability to appoint a younger, more vigorous editor. He was also concerned about estate taxes, so he sold off his stock for two hundred dollars a share. In the end, Newhouse paid about $170 million for the magazine.

Newhouse ran a media conglomerate called Advance Publications, which included the Conde Nast group of magazines (The New Yorker had once called him a "rag-picker of second-cla.s.s newspapers"). Under his guidance, had once called him a "rag-picker of second-cla.s.s newspapers"). Under his guidance, Vanity Fair, Vanity Fair, one of Conde Nast's most venerable publications, had become a gossipy, photo-filled celebrity mag edited by Tina Brown. To allay the fears of one of Conde Nast's most venerable publications, had become a gossipy, photo-filled celebrity mag edited by Tina Brown. To allay the fears of New Yorker New Yorker readers and staffers, Newhouse released a press statement saying he had no plans to "seek control of the readers and staffers, Newhouse released a press statement saying he had no plans to "seek control of the New Yorker New Yorker or to influence its management"-welcome, if implausible, news. or to influence its management"-welcome, if implausible, news.

At first, little changed. Shawn finally appeared to be moving-at his own glacial pace-toward naming Charles McGrath as his successor. Then, on January 13, 1987, the magazine staff received a memo from Newhouse announcing Shawn's retirement, effective March 1. Robert Gottlieb would be the new editor.

In a hastily arranged meeting in the cramped New Yorker New Yorker offices, Shawn, standing in a stairwell so everyone could see him, said he had not agreed to retire, nor had he agreed to Gottlieb's appointment. Outraged, the staff insisted that Roger Angell draft a letter to Gottlieb. The letter should say there was nothing personal here but that the staff of offices, Shawn, standing in a stairwell so everyone could see him, said he had not agreed to retire, nor had he agreed to Gottlieb's appointment. Outraged, the staff insisted that Roger Angell draft a letter to Gottlieb. The letter should say there was nothing personal here but that the staff of The New Yorker The New Yorker would prefer that he not be a party to Newhouse's humiliation of Shawn. He should not accept the job. There were 153 signatories (some names, like Don's, were gathered long-distance). would prefer that he not be a party to Newhouse's humiliation of Shawn. He should not accept the job. There were 153 signatories (some names, like Don's, were gathered long-distance).

Gottlieb replied, courteously, that he understood the staff's position but that he intended to take the job. Newhouse moved Gottlieb's starting date up to February 16.

On his last day at the magazine, Shawn posted a letter on the communal bulletin board. It read, in part: "Whatever our individual roles at The New Yorker, The New Yorker, whether on the eighteenth, nineteenth, or twentieth floor, we have built something quite wonderful together. Love has been the controlling emotion, and love is the essential word....I love all of you, and will love you as long as I live." whether on the eighteenth, nineteenth, or twentieth floor, we have built something quite wonderful together. Love has been the controlling emotion, and love is the essential word....I love all of you, and will love you as long as I live."

These swift and painful developments were twice as excruciating for Don, as he felt unable to help his New Yorker New Yorker family from his outpost in Texas. In addition to his anger at the way Shawn had been treated, Don worried about Newhouse's aims. Would there be a place for Don in a glossy new "television" magazine? family from his outpost in Texas. In addition to his anger at the way Shawn had been treated, Don worried about Newhouse's aims. Would there be a place for Don in a glossy new "television" magazine?

In his usual fashion, he "worked through" his distress. He prepared another retrospective collection, Forty Stories Forty Stories-along with Sixty Stories, Sixty Stories, the number amounted to one hundred, summing up his career. This fourth book with Putnam's fulfilled the contract he had signed. Years earlier, Don had promised a second children's book to Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Now, as if responding to some inner symmetry, he published, in collaboration with the artist Seymour Chwast, an ill.u.s.trated book called the number amounted to one hundred, summing up his career. This fourth book with Putnam's fulfilled the contract he had signed. Years earlier, Don had promised a second children's book to Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Now, as if responding to some inner symmetry, he published, in collaboration with the artist Seymour Chwast, an ill.u.s.trated book called Sam's Bar: An American Landscape, Sam's Bar: An American Landscape, in which patrons of a pub say things like, "I'm a second-generation artist. My daddy was a chainsaw artist, made sculptures with his chainsaw. You don't see that so much in the East. I do Hair Art. Like what I'm wearing." in which patrons of a pub say things like, "I'm a second-generation artist. My daddy was a chainsaw artist, made sculptures with his chainsaw. You don't see that so much in the East. I do Hair Art. Like what I'm wearing." Sam's Bar Sam's Bar was a children's book for adults. was a children's book for adults.

Very consciously, Don seemed to be tidying up loose ends.

57.

...AND BEYOND.

In the end, Don did not abandon Houston. Perhaps the city's child-friendly amenities proved too sweet to leave behind. Maybe a steady paycheck could not be pa.s.sed up. Perhaps he simply did not have the energy to pack up and move again.

He relished contradiction-Houston's essential quality. He once wrote that among the places he loved there were the "[M]useum areas, including North and South Boulevards, with their great oaks and generous medians," as well as "Westheimer," an unzoned commercial strip. The museum areas embodied standard beauty, symmetry, and common sense; Westheimer, a ramshackle street dotted with p.o.r.n shops, jazz clubs, palm readers, and funky restaurants heaped together like hurricane remnants, uglied things up.

There was no need to choose Westheimer over the Museum District, or vice versa. The point is, Westheimer's existence posed new possibilities for the meaning meaning of the Museum District (after all, years earlier, Don had planned "The Ugly Show" at the Contemporary Arts Museum). of the Museum District (after all, years earlier, Don had planned "The Ugly Show" at the Contemporary Arts Museum).

In "Return," one of his last stories, an architect leaves Manhattan for Houston. In the course of his time there, he sketches a proposal for a "beautiful stainless steel azalea nine hundred feet high." Someday, he says, "G.o.d and the Gerald D. Hines Interests willing, you'll see this nine-hundred-foot-high stainless steel azalea taking its place with the city's other great and tall monuments in the garden of the creative imagination."

This enormously interesting sentence insists that any city, even Houston, can be a "garden of the creative imagination." Furthermore, it links spirituality, creativity, and business-G.o.d, architecture, and the Gerald D. Hines interests. If we're going to build Paradise, especially in an unlikely spot, it's going to take vision, prayer, money, and spit. But finally, the image implies that, for all our efforts, Paradise will remain elusive. A "nine-hundred-foot stainless steel azalea" is too implausible to exist outside of language.

And yet...Don's azalea recalls a sculpture that actually exists in the city: a sharp silver palm tree, several feet tall, on the west side of the Contemporary Arts Museum. It is a tiny spot of magic in the dense urban fabric. Drive by it if you're ever in Houston. It will dazzle you.

Ghosts was the working t.i.tle of was the working t.i.tle of Paradise. Paradise. Time-smudged strollers moving too swiftly for the camera to realize: Don's Eden is graced by the lost, the notquite-there, the never-was. Time-smudged strollers moving too swiftly for the camera to realize: Don's Eden is graced by the lost, the notquite-there, the never-was.

Tucked away in Houston, on a pleasant oak-lined boulevard across the street from the Edgar Allan Poe Elementary School, Don moved toward a spare, monastic prose. Like Hans Pfall, Poe's crafty balloonist, he "determined to depart, yet live-to leave the world, yet continue to exist-in short, to drop enigmas."

Late in his life, in a public-television interview with George Plimpton, Don admitted that literary experimentation leads to "dead ends." He said, "I've encountered every one of them and published a few of them." Still, he contended, it was vital to experiment for the "health of the medium."

As the literary thrills of past years dimmed and the medium's health surged and fell, and while a limited strain of "realism" mounted a new attack on American letters, Don withdrew. His personal melancholy deepened, but he understood patience and the usefulness of neglect. He knew that someday historical contingencies would coax new blooms from buried roots, and he had not been unprepared for this sea change. Concealment had always been one of his tools. As the master scoundrel, Vautrin, says in Balzac's Pere Goriot, Pere Goriot, "Set yourself a splendid goal, but don't let anyone see what means you adopt and the steps you take to reach it. Lie in wait, lie in ambush in the world of [the city]...." "Set yourself a splendid goal, but don't let anyone see what means you adopt and the steps you take to reach it. Lie in wait, lie in ambush in the world of [the city]...."

Don remained as splendidly productive as ever-but quietly, out of earshot of New York's "red hot center."

In 1987, he collaborated with his old friend Jim Love on a mixed-media project ent.i.tled The Rook's Progress The Rook's Progress for a show to be held at the Gla.s.sell School of Art in Houston. Don had proposed the show-a series of collaborations between visual artists and writers-and organized the exhibit with Janet Landay of the Gla.s.sell School. They matched a number of local artists and writers based on "temperament and intuition." To give the event a historical perspective, the curators displayed collaborative books by Juan Gris and Pierre Reverdy, Joan Miro and Andre Breton, Max Ernst and Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes, Jasper Johns and Samuel Beckett, along with a special edition of John Ashbery's for a show to be held at the Gla.s.sell School of Art in Houston. Don had proposed the show-a series of collaborations between visual artists and writers-and organized the exhibit with Janet Landay of the Gla.s.sell School. They matched a number of local artists and writers based on "temperament and intuition." To give the event a historical perspective, the curators displayed collaborative books by Juan Gris and Pierre Reverdy, Joan Miro and Andre Breton, Max Ernst and Georges Ribemont-Dessaignes, Jasper Johns and Samuel Beckett, along with a special edition of John Ashbery's Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror, ill.u.s.trated by Richard Avedon, Elaine de Kooning, Willem de Kooning, Jim Dine, Jane Freilicher, Alex Katz, R. B. Kitaj, and Larry Rivers. ill.u.s.trated by Richard Avedon, Elaine de Kooning, Willem de Kooning, Jim Dine, Jane Freilicher, Alex Katz, R. B. Kitaj, and Larry Rivers.

Once again, Don had come full circle, tackling museum work with artist friends. Of working with Love, he said: Jim Love does nothing hastily, except nix a bad idea....But a bad idea is a step on the way toward a better, and gradually a scheme evolved we could both tolerate. We began by writing notes back and forth and ended up in the studio staring at a four-by-eight foot piece of h.o.m.osote on which various elements of the composition were moved around, usually in increments of a quarter inch....I miss the grandiosity of our first conception-the work was to have been forty-eight feet high by one hundred and sixty-three feet wide and have its own army, navy, and emba.s.sies abroad-but one must leave some things to the future.