The Glister by John Burnside Page A

liked him from that moment on. It was John, after all, who made me go back and read Herman Melville. I'd consumed some kids' version of Moby-Dick they had in the junior library, but not the real book. For some reason, the powers that be decided many years ago that Moby-Dick is some sort of kids' book, and they put it out in all kinds of weird editions, all abridged and illustrated and gutted to the bare bones of an “adventure.” Worse still, they had Melville down as a one-book wonder, so I didn't even know about The Confidence-Man, or Bartleby the Scrivener or Billy Budd, until John came along. Nobody should ever forget the debt of eternal gratitude they owe to whoever it was who first got them to read Herman Melville properly. According to John, the real version of Moby-Dick was a page-turner, too—and he was right about that, just as he was right about Proust and all those others. The definition of a page-turner really ought to be that this page is so good, you can't bear to leave it behind, but then the next page is there and it might be just as amazing as this one. Or something like that. Of course, as right as he was about all things literary, John was wrong about pretty much everything else.
    After that first meeting, I spent as much time as I could in the library. Before John arrived, I'd just gone in, browsed the shelves, picked four books, got them checked out, and ran home. Some woman my dad's age, with the same gray skin as his, only upright and walking about all by herself, would stamp them for me, looking like she'd rather call the police than let me borrow these particular fucking books. Once, she'd stopped midway and looked me in the face, possibly for the first time ever.
    “Do you actually like Henry James?” she said.
    I nodded. “Can't get enough of him,” I said.
    “You know, we've got some great books for teenagers in the Young Adults section,” she said.
    I shook my head. “Not really my kind of thing,” I said.
    She frowned then and stamped my copy of The Turn of the Screw. “I hope you enjoy it,” she said. “Henry James may be just a bit old for you.”
    I smiled happily. “Well,” I said, “I only read him for the sex scenes.”
    I thought she'd crack a smile then, but she didn't.
    So I was pretty happy when the old cow suddenly retired and John showed up. I tried to imagine his life: where he lived, what he did. I thought maybe he wrote books in his spare time. If he did, I can't imagine they were any good. He liked books too much. Though I sometimes wondered what he liked them for. There was one night, for example: I was in late, and John was sitting at the desk, reading a book with a bright, gaudy-looking cover. It was quiet, and he was completely absorbed in whatever it was he was reading. That made me curious, so I went over and tried to sneak a closer peek at the cover, to see what the title was. But as soon as he saw me, John laid the book flat on the desk and started reading out loud.
    “When engaged in hand-to-hand combat” he said, “your life is always at stake. There is only one purpose in combat, and that is to kill your enemy. Never face an enemy with the idea of knocking him out. The chances are extremely good that he will kill you instead. When a weapon is not available, one must resort to the full use of his natural weapons. The natural weapons are —” He looked up at me. “What are the natural weapons, Leonard?” he said.
    I shook my head. I didn't want to interrupt the reading.
    John shook his head likewise and went on. “One” he said. “The knife-edge of your hand. Two: Fingers folded at the second joint or knuckle. Three: The protruding knuckle of your second finger. Four: The heel of your hand. ” He gave me an amazed-and-happy look. “Isn't it great, Leonard? This is a book that actually tells you how to kill people with your bare hands.”
    “What the fuck is it?” I said.
    “The Anarchist Cookbook” he said. “Listen.” He went back to