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went on dancing around me and urging me on, but I was paralyzed. A few minutes earlier I was the center of attention, and now I just hoped no one would recognize me—certainly not a colleague or student from the university. I didn’t fear death, but I was deathly afraid of being embarrassed. God, I was sicker than I thought.
    I was usually discreet, reserved and spoke in measured tones, at least when I wasn’t annoyed. I never showed joy in public. I was infected with the virus of most intellectuals: a stiff formality. The crowd waited for me to let loose, but I was paralyzed by my shyness. Suddenly, another surprise. The penniless drunk, Bartholomew, hooked his arm in mine and spun me into a dance.
    The man had awful breath and, still drunk, he could barely stay on his feet, much less dance. I had to hold him up. Seeing how stiff I was, he stopped dancing, looked at me—and planted a kiss on my left cheek. “Lighten up, man. The leader of the E.T.s saved you. This party’s for you!”
    My pridefulness took a direct hit. Seldom had I seen orheard so much liveliness and spontaneity in so few words. And I started to understand. I thought of the parable of Jesus Christ and the lost sheep. I had read it once, years ago, through the eyes of a scientist and thought it ridiculous to abandon ninety-nine sheep to go looking for a lost one. Socialists sacrificed millions of people for an ideal, but Christ took it a step further. He was wild with grief at losing one soul, and wild with joy when he found it.
    I had criticized how Christ romanticized that moment, but now the dreamseller was showing the same joy. Only after the loopy drunk kissed me did I realize the dreamseller was celebrating for me. The drunk was more sober than I was. I was thunderstruck; I had never thought it possible for a stranger to place so much importance on someone he didn’t know. I was lost then found, “dead” then brought back to life. What more could I want? Shouldn’t I celebrate, too? I tossed aside my status as an “intellectual.”
    I was “normal,” and like many normals my madness was hidden, disguised; I needed to be spontaneous. I let go. The dreamseller had emphasized that the heart needs no reason to beat. The greatest reason for staying alive is life itself. At the university, I had forgotten that the great philosophers often discussed the meaning of life, the pursuit of happiness and the art of beauty. It was the first time I had ever danced without a head full of whiskey. It had been years since I’d felt this good.
    The “normals” were so starved for joy that when this dreamseller gave them permission, they frolicked like children. Everyone was dancing. Men in ties. Women in long dresses and miniskirts. Children and teenagers joined in.
    A little old lady danced by with her cane. It was the same woman Bartholomew had fallen on. Her name was Jurema. She had lived eighty good years. Anyone who thought she should be hobbling around at her age was in for a surprise. She wasin better shape than me, though she showed a slight shiver of Parkinson’s. But she could dance like a star. The dreamseller liked her immediately. They danced together, and I rubbed my eyes to see if it was all real.
    Suddenly, she broke loose from the dreamseller’s arms and bumped into Bartholomew at the center of the circle. She tapped him on the head with her cane, and joked sweetly, “You pervert.” I couldn’t hold back. I rolled on the ground with laughter. She did what I’d have liked to do when he gave me that smelly kiss on the cheek.
    The dreamseller turned to the old woman and said, “You’re a thing of beauty.” Then, taking her by the waist, he spun her around and she danced like a twenty-year-old.
    For a moment, I thought the dreamseller had been patronizing here. But then I thought, “Who’s to say she isn’t beautiful? What does it really mean to be beautiful, anyway?” Just then, Bartholomew sidled up to the woman and started