But that commitment was not one-sided. Arthur cashed in one chip right there on Saranac Avenue for my return to Columbia with him. He would have other chips of mine to cash in later. He cashed in one with me when he needed money for his early career in music. He used to send me every record he made, asking for my opinion. He needed my opinion, too, about every breakup with a girlfriend and later about many of his family concerns.
I had always thought that Arthur would be recognized as one of the greatest architects in the world. At Columbia, I had listened to his concepts about how we ought to live as human beings, both spiritually and physically. He knew precisely what environments he would create to achieve this. I had seen him examine the Seagram Building inch by inch, seen him enthralled with Ayn Rand’s monomaniac architect hero Howard Roark, seen him spend endless hours making sketches and drawing plans.
Arthur and I often quoted these lines from Our Town:
Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it—every, every minute?
Stage Manager: “No.”
Pause. “The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.”
It occurred to me then, and has been confirmed ever since, that Arthur is a genuine poet—someone who realizes life “every, every minute.” I believed that, unlike in anyone I had ever met up to that time, his sensibilities had led him to an immediate appreciation of life.
I could hear birds scrambling in the trees as we walked, cars going by. For some reason, there were no other pedestrians out. It was as if this conversation were taking place in the middle of the night, or in the very early morning. I felt myself slipping into an oddly calm frame of mind—the warm feeling when you are about to open a gift from someone you love.
“Sanford, do you remember Sophocles? Do you remember Philoctetes? Here was a guy stranded on an island for years, with an infected leg, a horrific festering sore. The gods had given him a special armamentarium, arrows that could pierce any object, but he didn’t use them, except for survival. He suffered until Odysseus, through an intermediary, asked him to use his enormous talent and skills to help conquer Troy by vanquishing Paris. The request compelled Philoctetes to confront himself. The question tore at his being. His decision, however, was affirmative. So come back with me and conquer Columbia.”
These last simple words, following unexpectedly from that little academic recitation, struck home with such force that I could not speak. I knew he was right. I knew that, at this moment in my confusion, it was this that I needed to hear more than anything else. I could have gone to Rebbe Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the revered Orthodox spiritual leader, or I could have gone to the pope, or even, dare I say it, to the Almighty himself, but none of their words would have mattered to me so much then as these words spoken along Saranac Avenue in Buffalo. This was Arthur speaking to my heart.
So it was that, during that visit to Buffalo, Arthur tore the cover off the subterranean thoughts about returning to Columbia that were struggling to reach the light in my mind. The idea of my returning was, in Buffalo terms, terribly foolish. Arthur, artist and poet, could afford the luxury of crazy ideas. As for me, I did not know what I was any longer. Blind, I had the luxury of…nothing. I could hunker down in Buffalo and be safe. But safe from what? And for what? Arthur seemed to think that the sky was my limit.
We did not speak for many minutes as we continued side by side along the avenue, me stumbling occasionally on cracks in the sidewalk (a hallmark of Buffalo winters and springs). Then, we came to a large open area without tree cover. I recall the sun warming my body.
Since freshman year, Arthur had been my teacher. Now, once again, he was bringing light into my life. How could I not believe him this time? I moved so that I faced him directly and put my hands around his upper arms. “Arthur,” I said hesitantly, “I get it.” Three positive yet noncommittal words. But this is what was in my head: Now I have to go back to school.
For a long time afterward, I wanted to think it was Arthur who made my return possible, and in a sense that is true—but the door swings both ways. I was going back because of him, yes, but also for him; the meaning of that took me years to fully grasp. In taking, the receiver offers an opportunity for the giver to give. The giver is a receiver, and the receiver a giver. I owe my life to that balance.
We said a lot more on that walk down Saranac Avenue. Though it was quiet out, it was noisy inside my head. I started to think about everything I would have to do to return to Columbia. One thing I knew for certain: my decision would outrage just about everyone. I liked that—not outraging my family but shocking the people back at school.
But the walk with Arthur was for me the beginning of the end of gray hopelessness. It lifted me out of the grave. I felt as if I had been reborn. I now had a clearly defined goal—a thrilling one. I knew there would be risks, but the possible reward was redemption. What I did not know then, of course, were the terrifying and amazing experiences ahead of me. How could I? But that
