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librarian, and he shakes his head vigorously no. “Please leave me alone,” he says. <strong>The</strong> best th<strong>in</strong>g I can do is<br />
not help him. Help is a k<strong>in</strong>d of relationship. Next th<strong>in</strong>g you know I’ll be ask<strong>in</strong>g to be his friend, and he<br />
doesn’t want to be my friend. “I’m not go<strong>in</strong>g to miss you at all,” he adds.<br />
He is a connoisseur of <strong>the</strong> arc of <strong>the</strong> seasons and <strong>the</strong> scent of <strong>the</strong> w<strong>in</strong>d, but he can’t really see anyone else.<br />
I’ve told him a little about my family and my pastimes, and he didn’t even bo<strong>the</strong>r to feign much <strong>in</strong>terest. He<br />
doesn’t know what to do with <strong>the</strong> <strong>in</strong>formation, what questions to ask. He knows people only peripherally, by<br />
<strong>the</strong> food <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong>ir pantry and <strong>the</strong> decorations on <strong>the</strong>ir walls. His only real relationship was between him and<br />
<strong>the</strong> forest.<br />
Knight th<strong>in</strong>ks of himself both as a common crim<strong>in</strong>al and as a Nietzschean Übermensch—a superman,<br />
subject to no one else’s rules, a master of self-discipl<strong>in</strong>e capable of transcend<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> vapidity of life. He has<br />
told me his story and asked for noth<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> return, but he admits that he wonders which version of him I will<br />
portray. “I’m worried about hav<strong>in</strong>g my identity applied by someone else,” he says. “I don’t particularly trust<br />
you. I don’t distrust you, ei<strong>the</strong>r. I’m tak<strong>in</strong>g measure of <strong>the</strong> man. <strong>The</strong>re are certa<strong>in</strong> threadbare spots <strong>in</strong> your<br />
measure. You have <strong>the</strong> ability to do harm or good. Do what you th<strong>in</strong>k is right.”<br />
He really only had a s<strong>in</strong>gle curiosity about me: What books were on my shelves? He asks me to take a<br />
video of <strong>the</strong>m and send it to him. He says he’ll f<strong>in</strong>d a way to get <strong>the</strong> technology to work. Make <strong>the</strong> video, he<br />
says, but mail no more books or letters, and certa<strong>in</strong>ly do not pay a visit to his home. “Once I get out of here,<br />
you’re off my dance card. I can’t afford <strong>the</strong> <strong>in</strong>dulgence that is you; I deny you my magnificent presence. Did<br />
you get my dance-card reference, or do I have to update my references? Did you read Little Women?”<br />
He especially detests my aggressiveness, my com<strong>in</strong>g to speak with him so many times. “You get a bee <strong>in</strong><br />
your bonnet, and <strong>the</strong>re’s no stopp<strong>in</strong>g you.” He says that he regrets writ<strong>in</strong>g back to me. <strong>The</strong>n he backpedals.<br />
He fears, he adds, that he is be<strong>in</strong>g too hostile. He did get someth<strong>in</strong>g out of <strong>the</strong> visits: “Some stress release.”<br />
But he has grown weary of talk<strong>in</strong>g about himself.<br />
Mostly what he wants me to do is just slow down and let time pass. “Don’t be a pest,” he says. “I’ll speak<br />
to you when <strong>the</strong> lilacs bloom. And maybe not even <strong>the</strong>n.” I ask him if by lilacs bloom<strong>in</strong>g he means next<br />
year, and he says, “Yes, <strong>in</strong> spr<strong>in</strong>g. I don’t use years yet.”<br />
Knight is no longer able to disappear <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> wild, not without risk<strong>in</strong>g seven years <strong>in</strong> prison, so he wishes<br />
to melt <strong>in</strong>to <strong>the</strong> world. A guard comes to escort him away, and I thank him for speak<strong>in</strong>g with me, for<br />
shar<strong>in</strong>g his ideas. For <strong>the</strong> lyricism of his language. I tell him I like <strong>the</strong> way his m<strong>in</strong>d works. “Good-bye,<br />
Chris,” I say. “Good luck.”<br />
<strong>The</strong>re is time for Knight to express a last thought. He does not. <strong>The</strong>re’s no wave, no nod. He stands up,<br />
turns his back on me, and walks out of <strong>the</strong> visit<strong>in</strong>g booth and down a corridor of <strong>the</strong> jail.