'I used to want to be you.' Why would you ever, why would you ever. 'You,' whoever that is, back to that question and wondering whether he'd ever been that person, himself, thinking it isn't the case. Because of course the you in question is only an image, an empty but serviceable display crafted to accompany his name. Not even his own name, exactly.
It had begun as a way of re-creating himself, a way of ripping some path out of the benign malignancy of a dead-end existence. He'd learned how to thrive by packaging his particular skills in the guise of a man who could only be called enigmatic. (It was a way of selling himself, though of course he hadn't thought of it that way; at one time, it had almost seemed an admirable struggle, the classic tale of the self-made mad.) A man whose very silence suggested that he held answers, who garnered attention and a perhaps-grudging respect precisely because he kept himself distant. The more removed he'd been, the harder it had been for anyone to attack, and the stronger his image became.
Until it was all that anyone knew of him (almost anyone, but the one who'd really known is gone now, and those who had begun to know have been driven away). Until he fell to believing it himself and lived for a time as that self-crafted shadow, hardly realizing that by severing from everything and holding only to this image, he'd lost contact with the ground. When he'd awakened from belief in the image, he'd found himself disorientated. Nothing to go back to. Nothing to believe. Hardly anything he knew about himself, and nowhere he wanted to go.
In any case, it's the image that Ginsberg has referenced - it must be - and this isn't the first time Don has heard the sentiment. Craft an effective mask, present yourself as a worldly success, and others will clamor to echo your image. That someone as outwardly (and, yes, inwardly, but it's the exterior that counts) chaotic as Ginsberg should even think of emulating Don Draper seems almost laughable, but wishfulness and actuality rarely align, and there's no way of telling exactly what Ginsberg had seen in Don. Even if Ginsberg hadn't seen down to the bottom, he might have held a different view of the image; Ginsberg has always seemed too acute for his own good.
Isn't that what's going on here? Ginsberg sees too far and with too much intensity. It's probably a part of what fires and distinguishes Ginsberg's creative work - and Ginsberg's work is better than good, speaks with an agile, heavy-hitting resonance that had at one time seemed threatening (and maybe still does, in moments) - but it's also left him here, curled against a break room cabinet in a show of vulnerability that almost (almost?) hurts to see.
Don doesn't know what to do about this. He wishes Ginsberg would pull himself together, shake it off, and go back to his office (that sounds absurd, too simple, and Don knows it). What do you do when an employee - and an employee with whom you don't have a particularly positive history - starts falling apart like this? Don won't leave him. He wants to, mostly, but he won't.
He just wants to talk. Whatever that means - it's a plea, there isn't any hiding that it's a plea, and how did Ginsberg reach this point? - he just wants to talk. And he is, at least, being more reasonable about subject matter. (Had he been especially unreasonable? Of course. Of course, Don's life isn't any of his business. Nothing gave him the right to ask.)
Something about Ginsberg's talk of what it means to be a natural, something about the unfinished sentence('now I'm') leaves Don uneasy, though he doesn't want to venture into that mire. Don has finally gotten Ginsberg away from prying at his life; inviting Ginsberg to expand on his half-sentence seems a sure way of bringing Ginsberg right back to prodding at Don's life. So Don lets it go without remark, those he can't shake it from his head.
Now you're what?
There's a price for everything. Never mind.
When he speaks, his voice is gentler than it had been. "Ginsberg, I don't think you're crazy."
Ginsberg's idiosyncrasies and impulses are particularly - sometimes painfully - noticeable, but in the end, he probably isn't crazier than anyone else around the office. He just doesn't know how to hide, or doesn't bother doing so... Though maybe that isn't quite true. Maybe that's what he's been doing since his return, maybe that's why he's supposedly been so quiet. Jesus, is this what happens when Ginsberg tries to mute himself?
"I also don't think spending the night in a deserted office is the best way of avoiding silence."
Don takes a step forward before lowering himself to crouch near Ginsberg. Somehow, this is easier than looking down on him; that distance makes Ginsberg look more exposed, more lost in the space of the half-lit break room. Ginsberg doesn't look especially great up close, but this proximity is better than that sense of loss.
"You can talk about the war. You can talk about your own life all you want." That's a dangerous door to open, and Don hopes that Ginsberg will leave it shut. He thinks he will; Ginsberg has seemed more interested in discussing Don's affairs than his own. It should be safe.
"As far as the office goes, you probably know as much as I do. Joan's started the search for a new office manager. Peggy's taking Ken to Indianapolis to scope out Mallory Batteries." There had been rumors of fractures in the relationship with their current ad agency, though no one is especially hopeful, and it wouldn't be a major account. "And Harry Crane is doing everything in his power to convince us that we need to expand the television department."
no subject
It had begun as a way of re-creating himself, a way of ripping some path out of the benign malignancy of a dead-end existence. He'd learned how to thrive by packaging his particular skills in the guise of a man who could only be called enigmatic. (It was a way of selling himself, though of course he hadn't thought of it that way; at one time, it had almost seemed an admirable struggle, the classic tale of the self-made mad.) A man whose very silence suggested that he held answers, who garnered attention and a perhaps-grudging respect precisely because he kept himself distant. The more removed he'd been, the harder it had been for anyone to attack, and the stronger his image became.
Until it was all that anyone knew of him (almost anyone, but the one who'd really known is gone now, and those who had begun to know have been driven away). Until he fell to believing it himself and lived for a time as that self-crafted shadow, hardly realizing that by severing from everything and holding only to this image, he'd lost contact with the ground. When he'd awakened from belief in the image, he'd found himself disorientated. Nothing to go back to. Nothing to believe. Hardly anything he knew about himself, and nowhere he wanted to go.
In any case, it's the image that Ginsberg has referenced - it must be - and this isn't the first time Don has heard the sentiment. Craft an effective mask, present yourself as a worldly success, and others will clamor to echo your image. That someone as outwardly (and, yes, inwardly, but it's the exterior that counts) chaotic as Ginsberg should even think of emulating Don Draper seems almost laughable, but wishfulness and actuality rarely align, and there's no way of telling exactly what Ginsberg had seen in Don. Even if Ginsberg hadn't seen down to the bottom, he might have held a different view of the image; Ginsberg has always seemed too acute for his own good.
Isn't that what's going on here? Ginsberg sees too far and with too much intensity. It's probably a part of what fires and distinguishes Ginsberg's creative work - and Ginsberg's work is better than good, speaks with an agile, heavy-hitting resonance that had at one time seemed threatening (and maybe still does, in moments) - but it's also left him here, curled against a break room cabinet in a show of vulnerability that almost (almost?) hurts to see.
Don doesn't know what to do about this. He wishes Ginsberg would pull himself together, shake it off, and go back to his office (that sounds absurd, too simple, and Don knows it). What do you do when an employee - and an employee with whom you don't have a particularly positive history - starts falling apart like this? Don won't leave him. He wants to, mostly, but he won't.
He just wants to talk. Whatever that means - it's a plea, there isn't any hiding that it's a plea, and how did Ginsberg reach this point? - he just wants to talk. And he is, at least, being more reasonable about subject matter. (Had he been especially unreasonable? Of course. Of course, Don's life isn't any of his business. Nothing gave him the right to ask.)
Something about Ginsberg's talk of what it means to be a natural, something about the unfinished sentence('now I'm') leaves Don uneasy, though he doesn't want to venture into that mire. Don has finally gotten Ginsberg away from prying at his life; inviting Ginsberg to expand on his half-sentence seems a sure way of bringing Ginsberg right back to prodding at Don's life. So Don lets it go without remark, those he can't shake it from his head.
Now you're what?
There's a price for everything. Never mind.
When he speaks, his voice is gentler than it had been. "Ginsberg, I don't think you're crazy."
Ginsberg's idiosyncrasies and impulses are particularly - sometimes painfully - noticeable, but in the end, he probably isn't crazier than anyone else around the office. He just doesn't know how to hide, or doesn't bother doing so... Though maybe that isn't quite true. Maybe that's what he's been doing since his return, maybe that's why he's supposedly been so quiet. Jesus, is this what happens when Ginsberg tries to mute himself?
"I also don't think spending the night in a deserted office is the best way of avoiding silence."
Don takes a step forward before lowering himself to crouch near Ginsberg. Somehow, this is easier than looking down on him; that distance makes Ginsberg look more exposed, more lost in the space of the half-lit break room. Ginsberg doesn't look especially great up close, but this proximity is better than that sense of loss.
"You can talk about the war. You can talk about your own life all you want." That's a dangerous door to open, and Don hopes that Ginsberg will leave it shut. He thinks he will; Ginsberg has seemed more interested in discussing Don's affairs than his own. It should be safe.
"As far as the office goes, you probably know as much as I do. Joan's started the search for a new office manager. Peggy's taking Ken to Indianapolis to scope out Mallory Batteries." There had been rumors of fractures in the relationship with their current ad agency, though no one is especially hopeful, and it wouldn't be a major account. "And Harry Crane is doing everything in his power to convince us that we need to expand the television department."