The Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag

by Robert A. Heinlein

—the end it is not well. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives forever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. —Swinburne

“Skip it. If it’s the other, it won’t do us any good to try to tail Mr. Hoag. A man with the D. T.’s can’t catch the snakes he thinks he sees and take them to a zoo. He needs a doctor—and maybe we do, too.”

Maybe the whole world held together only when you kept your attention centered on it and believed in it. If you let discrepancies creep in, you began to doubt and it began to go to pieces.

I say ‘art’ advisedly, for art is undefined, undefinable, and without limits. I can use the word without fear of misusing it, for it has no exact meaning. There are as many meanings as there are artists.

judged in the annual showing.” He stopped and said suddenly to Randall, “Are you a religious man? Did it ever occur to you that all this”—he included the whole quietly beautiful countryside in the sweep of his arm—“might have had a Creator? Must have had a Creator?” Randall stared and turned red. “I’m not exactly a churchgoing man,” he blurted, “but—Yes, I suppose I do believe it.” “And you, Cynthia?” She nodded, tense and speechless. “The Artist created this world, after His Own fashion and using postulates which seemed well to Him. His teacher approved on the whole, but—”

“All of which might not have mattered if the work had not been selected for judging. Inevitably the critics noticed them; they were—bad art, and they disfigured the final work. There was some doubt in their minds as to whether or not the creation was worth preserving. That is why I am here.” He stopped, as if there were no more to say. Cynthia looked at him fearfully. “Are you . . . are you—” He smiled at her. “No, Cynthia, I am not the Creator of your world. You asked me my profession once. “I am an art critic.”