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earthly vigor, so much vigor, and breaks all the strings on the ancient instrument from which now, right now, at this very moment, comes no music at all. But then, then, the auditorium is full of chairs but no people, no one at all, and tugging on the strings of the ancient instrument, with its strings made of gut and wire, Mr. Sweet plays a song, for he is not yet a theorist and he plays a song, a complete song full of harmonies and melodies so simple anyone could sing it, even Heracles just after Mr. Sweet has beheaded him could sing that song. The Beheading of Heracles was a title Mr. Sweet gave to all the music he played on the ancient instrument Then, Sweet Night for Heracles is the name Mr. Sweet gives the music he plays on the ancient instrument Now. And at the end of each suite or sonata, for the young Mr. Sweet plays everything in every way, each kind then was the same, there being no audience to make a distinction, chairs are indifferent, came a deafening silence, applause yes, silence all the same. An immortal to empty chairs was Mr. Sweet then, but he was a boy with all those things hammering against the inside of his head, notes and notes of music, arranging themselves into every known form but never into forms not yet known.
    Oh, and this was the word Mrs. Sweet heard, that poor dear woman, mending socks upstairs. Oh, it was the voice of the monodist, her poor dear Mr. Sweet. Whack, came a sound from Heracles, as he made a putt, a basket, and a score and yet was under par or over par, Mrs. Sweet could never be sure. The boy’s head, free of his body with its entrails, filled up all the empty chairs in the auditorium of Mr. Sweet’s youthful recital. Not that, not that, cried the young Mr. Sweet and he made the chairs empty again. The strings of the harp, gut and wire, broke and he bent down and over to make the instrument well again, so ancient was this instrument. The Shirley Jackson house was not known to him then. Never did he imagine then—his youth was his now—that he would live in such a house, so big, so full of empty spaces that were never used, never filled up even in the imagination, the young Heracles with his endless tasks of hitting balls, large and small, into holes of all sizes; the young Heracles, growing in youth, not growing older, growing in his youth, becoming more perfectly youthful, his many tasks to perform, performing them more perfectly, at first performing them awkwardly, not right at all, but then becoming so good he could place any ball of any size in any hole, no matter its width or depth or height. Thwack, was a sound caused by the quick movement of Heracles’ hand sweeping a ball through the teeming air; whack, was the sound of his head sliced away from his body. Oh, was the sound that came out of the mouth of the monodist, Mr. Sweet, Mr. Sweet, as he saw Heracles pick his head off the floor and replace it on his neck, which was just above his shoulders, with such deftness, as if he were born to do only that, keep his head in that place just above shoulders.
    Young Heracles, his tasks, so many, so many: wash the dishes, put them away, clean the stables, walk the horses, fix the roof, milk the cows, emerge from his mother’s womb in the usual way, slay the monster, cross the river, return again, climb up the mountain, descend on the other side, build a castle on the top of a hill, imprison the innocent in a dungeon, lay waste to whole villages to the surprise of the villagers, trap and then skin the she-fox, eat his green vegetables and his meat too, kill his father, not kill his father, want to kill his father but not kill his father, keep his head on his shoulders, survive the threshold of night, await the dawn, take a pickax to the iris (his eyes, not the flowers growing in his mother’s garden), seize the sun, banish the moon, at every moment his skin so cold, the fire at his back, cross the road by himself, tie his shoelaces, kiss a girl, sleep in his own bed. Ah, gee