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together to still the fears that had overcome him. The Sons of the Bird real, real and horrible and
potent. He felt that he knew now the sort of race of which Hoag spoke. From Cynthia s tense and
horrified face sheknew, also and there would never again be peace for either of them. In the Beginning
there was the Bird
Hoag looked at him with eyes free of malice but without pity. No, he said serenely, there was never
the Bird. They who call themselves Sons of the Bird there are. But they are stupid and arrogant. Their
sacred story is so much superstition. But in their way and by the rules of this world they are powerful.
The things, Edward, that you thought you saw you did see.
You mean that
Wait, let me finish. I must hasten. You saw what you thought you saw, with one exception. Until today
you have seenme only in your apartment, or mine. The creatures you shadowed, the creature that
frightened Cynthia Sons of the Bird, all of them. Stoles and his friends.
The teacher did not approve of the Sons of the Bird and suggested certain improvements in the
creation. But the Artist was hasty or careless; instead of removing them entirely He merely painted over
them, made them appear to be some of the new creations with which He peopled His world.
All of which might not have mattered if the work had not been selected for judging. Inevitably the critics
noticed them; they were bad art, and they disfigured the final work. There was some doubt in their
minds as to whether or not the creation was worth preserving. That is why I am here.
He stopped, as if there were no more to say. Cynthia looked at him fearfully. Are you . . . are you
He smiled at her. No, Cynthia, I am not the Creator of your world. You asked me my profession once.
I am an art critic.
Randall would like to have disbelieved. It was impossible for him to do so; the truth rang in his ears and
would not be denied. Hoag continued, I said to you that I would have to speak to you in terms you use.
You must know that to judge a creation such as this, your world, is not like walking up to a painting and
looking at it. This world is peopled withmen; it must be looked at through the eyes of men. I am a man.
Cynthia looked still more troubled. I don t understand. You act through the body of a man?
Iam a man. Scattered around through the human race are the Critics men. Each is the projection of a
Critic, but each is a man in every way a man, not knowing that he is also a Critic.
Randall seized on the discrepancy as if his reason depended on it which, perhaps, it did. Butyou
know or say you do. It s a contradiction.
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Hoag nodded, undisturbed. Until today, when Cynthia s questioning made it inconvenient to continue as
I was and for other reasons thispersona he tapped his chest had no idea of why he was here.
He was a man, and no more. Even now, I have extended my presentpersona only as far as is necessary
for my purpose. There are questions which I could not answer as Jonathan Hoag.
Jonathan Hoag came into being as a man, for the purpose of examining,savoring, certain of the artistic
aspects of this world. In the course of that it became convenient to use him to smell out some of the
activities of those discarded and painted-over creatures that call themselves the Sons of the Bird. You
two happened to be drawn into the activity innocent and unknowing, like the pigeons used by armies.
But it so happened that I observed something else of artistic worth while in contact with you, which is
why we are taking the trouble for these explanations.
What do you mean?
Let me speak first of the matters I observed as a critic. Your world has several pleasures. There is
eating. He reached out and pulled off from its bunch a muscat grape, fat and sugar-sweet, and ate it
appreciatively. An odd one, that. And very remarkable. No one ever before thought of making an art of
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