Mrs. Gilbert was a lady in the best meaning of the word. She was stylish and smart. She had a wicked sense of humor and a glint in her eye, particularly when I talked to Mr. Gilbert, Richard, my client. Richard Gilbert is a man of Madison Avenue. Never met a problem without a solution, exuded optimism at every turn, gung-ho to the max. "Now Richard, listen to Janet" was the phrase I came to depend on during the editing of Richard's book MARCHING UP MADISON AVENUE.
Mr. and Mrs Gilbert met me when I was a wet behind the ears agent. They took me to lunch in places I could never hope to afford on my own back then. They believed in me although there was no logical reason to do so. When I signed Richard, I'd sold one book. But that was how they were. They took their measure of you, and trusted you to do right by them. I'm one of hundreds of people who count Richard Gilbert as the first person to give them a professional chance.
And, I did sell the book. And we did celebrate. But I knew the clock was ticking. No one lives forever. When the call came this morning I knew instantly what the bad news was.
The only thing that says exactly what I feel right now is Jane Kenyon's marvelous poem:
Happiness
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.
It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basket maker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.
I am very sad Mrs. Gilbert has left us; but the sadness is tempered by how grateful I am to have known her and counted her as a friend, and ally.
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