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datatime: 2022-11-26 16:29:24 Author:pAxCFSYf

Jeremy Grove and I go way back. We met at Columbia as students many years ago. I went on to the priesthood, and he went to Florence to study art. In those days, we were both-well, I wouldn't call us religious in the usual sense of the word. We were both spirituallyintrigued . We used to argue to all hours of the morning about questions of faith, epistemology, the nature of good and evil, and so forth. I went on to study theology at Mount St. Mary's. We continued our friendship, and a few years later I officiated over Grove's marriage.

As I told the police, the call came to my home at 3:10 in the morning-the answering machine registered the time-but every year I take a two-week retreat here, and so I wasn't home to receive it. I check my messages upon rising-it's a violation of the rules, but I've got an elderly mother. I immediately headed out to Long Island, but, of course, it was too late.

That's a complicated question requiring a long answer.

D'Agosta mumbled his thanks. For the second time that day, he found himself feeling embarrassed. He would have to talk to Pendergast about sounding off about his abortive writing career.

Angels of Purgatoryis his latest.

I'll buy it immediately.

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

Grove felt betrayed by God. He became . . . well, you certainly couldn't call him an atheist or an agnostic. Rather, he picked a fight with God. He deliberately embarked on a life of sin and violence against God, which in reality was a life of violence against his own higher self. He became an art critic. Criticism is a profession which allows one a certain license to be vicious outside the bounds of normal civilized behavior. One would never tell another person in private that his painting was a revolting piece of trash, but the critic thinks nothing of making the same pronouncement to the world as if he were performing a high moral duty. There is no profession more ignoble than that of the critic-except perhaps that of the physician presiding at an execution.

D'Agosta mumbled his thanks. For the second time that day, he found himself feeling embarrassed. He would have to talk to Pendergast about sounding off about his abortive writing career.

Quite all right. I just hope I can be of help. This is a tragic business.

Sergeant D'Agosta is a writer of mysteries, explained Pendergast.

You're right there, said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."

Sergeant D'Agosta is a writer of mysteries, explained Pendergast.

An interesting story, Sergeant. He bought a painting at an auction at Sotheby's that was billed as being by a late follower of Raphael. Grove was able to prove it as the hand of the master himself, turned around and sold it for thirty million dollars to the Met.

Grove felt betrayed by God. He became . . . well, you certainly couldn't call him an atheist or an agnostic. Rather, he picked a fight with God. He deliberately embarked on a life of sin and violence against God, which in reality was a life of violence against his own higher self. He became an art critic. Criticism is a profession which allows one a certain license to be vicious outside the bounds of normal civilized behavior. One would never tell another person in private that his painting was a revolting piece of trash, but the critic thinks nothing of making the same pronouncement to the world as if he were performing a high moral duty. There is no profession more ignoble than that of the critic-except perhaps that of the physician presiding at an execution.

You're right there, said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."

Pendergast nodded.

Why did he call you?

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

D'Agosta cleared his throat. "Where'd he get his money?"

Father Cappi laughed. "Very true, Sergeant D'Agosta."

Pleased to make your acquaintance. The priest crushed his hand in greeting.This is no gentle lamb of God, thought D'Agosta. He eased down in the chair, shifting, trying hard to get comfortable. He failed. The room, despite the sunny day outside, felt cold and damp. God, he would never make a good monk.

Why did he call you?

You're right there, said D'Agosta with feeling. "Those who can't do, teach, and those who can't teach, critique."

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