Alcoholic Isolation in “Mr. Flood’s Party”
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things, the old man paces away in the reflected light; extends his hand — a nice,
dramatic gesture; transforms the roadway into a stage — as an intoxicant, he would
love stages and a dramatic sense of things; and begins to talk to himself. The bird
of time “is on the wing,” the old man says. No doubt, he would know The Rubaiyat
well. It would be a favorite poem for anyone who feels maudlin, bibacious, and
scornful of consequences and the capriciousness of fate. Eben is all too aware of
the carpe diem perspective in Fitzgerald’s masterpiece, and he is aware also of its
very direct reference to his own condition and his prospects for the future. Indeed,
he seems to exhibit very little concern about consequences and all his tomorrows,
except that, from his perspective, the only thing that can be held up to any kind of
guiding light is his jug; and, as for his future days, they lead invariably and unre
lentingly to loneliness and emptiness and death. That is not a pretty picture; and,
that, apparently, is reason enough to drink — at least for o