Part Three

It was one year after Ophelia’s birth, and Eli Mersault was famous. He had written one book, and after a lengthy search and many refusals, had found a publisher who deemed it exceptional. It was a short book, had a simple name and a simple cover. It had been panned by critics. One man, a longtime art critic of the ever popular Literature Abounds!, wrote a particularly scathing review, calling it “verbal pornography.” He went on to say that “It is a piece of unforgiving brutality. One cannot read this work and expect to find moral enlightenment; one can only read this work and expect to find moral bankruptcy… Mr. Mersault is no longer an author; he is an intellectual sadist.” Upon reading this review, Eli carefully cut it out of the magazine and had it framed.
Many read the book; almost all of them hated it. When discussed among friends and enemies alike, a meaning could not be placed to their hatred. It was there and as intangible as any love for something could be, and while deep down everyone recognized the face of their revilement, none could bring themselves to name it.
He received many letters after publication; some were from people who understood what he had written, what he attempted to put to words, while many were from those who would have him condemned. He received several death threats. He would read them aloud in monotone to Ophelia, and she would sit and listen, drinking in every syllable of violence. He found happiness in these letters, not for the pain they promised, but in the purity of emotion. Late one night, as he lay awake, Ophelia had said: “Eli, it is better that they hate you isn’t it? Hate is the opposite of love…it is a powerful emotion that makes someone feel, to truly live. It is apathy you must fear, apathy towards your existence, towards your work, towards the world. You have given to the world a great gift. You have given them the ability to feel, to be truly alive. You have given them hate, and from that hate, springs love.”

Jacob Wolf was born into great wealth. His mother had inherited a great deal of money from her parents, who had found their wealth in a similarly macabre fashion. His father was a lazy man who hung like a leech upon his mother. Jacob believed it to be a very forced relationship, as if his parents were on a stage, dancing a well rehearsed ballet. They would go through the motions expected by a couple of their stature. Behind the curtain, their façade would crumble and Jacob would witness every china plate thrown, every slap delivered. Jacob would watch with quiet contentment as they attempted to tear each other limb from limb. Around the age of nine he realized that he hated them both passionately. There had been talk of divorce and Jacob had been elated to see that it had remained just talk. Their misery was his sublime pleasure.
Even though Jacob took a great deal of pleasure in the suffering of his parents, he still knew, even from an early age, that he loved his fellow man. He was known as a very kind young man, a young man with great promise, a young man to change the world.
He discovered his love for writing at an early age, and he pursued this passion ambitiously. By the time he enrolled in a prestigious east coast private school he had won three writing awards and had had a story published in the ever prestigious Literature Abounds! His story was well received by critics who found his writing to be “…a saving grace in an otherwise selfish world.” His parents bragged of him at every dinner party they hosted.
He attended the most decorated school in the country and graduated cum laude. A scant four months after graduation he had published his first book, entitled The Glass Man. A week later, Eli Mersault published Sybil. Jacob Wolf read Sybil in one night and hated every word.