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Authors: Rick Whitaker
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exile and cunning.
But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same tattered streamer of star-dust as of yore. That is the truly devastating message of this book. That is how the past exists, phantasmagoric weskits, stray words, random things recorded. It is too late to be yourself. Writing is no longer possible.
Too late.
Of all the vices there are, there is one we cannot permit ourselves, and that is patience.
The light that reveals us to ourselves is always inconvenient.
No man knows what dangers he should avoid from one hour to another.
26.
All my life I have been what is traditionally regarded as an amusing person, and this capacity to be amusing was often the label I displayed to the world or the flag I sailed under. It called for strength, courage, and physical élan, all things that I lacked. The psychologists know all about this. But I’m very peaceful, momentarily, this evening. I don’t want fanfare.
One thing is undeniable. Given how our mouths tend to fill up with other people’s speech, the struggle not to become a mere ventriloquist’s dummy is not only a concern for mediocre writers.
A friend of mine, an English teacher at a local university, says he feels an obligation to point out to his students that the cigars in the canister on the mantelpiece in an Edith Wharton story are phallic symbols. The fairies broke into animated discussion.
Life mirrors art.
This tickles Joe to pieces. “He must have been pontificating like crazy.”
What other point of view could there be? Life in New York was pleasant in those days. “And I want to live a quiet life there,” I said, the blunt tone of my own voice ringing in my ears. My conscience pricked me. I wanted to write enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings, full of detailed descriptions and arresting similes, and also full of purple passages in which words were used partly for the sake of their sound. And I can never really forget that voluptuousness and volition share the same etymological origin.
27.
I must have slept for a long time. David was sitting up, and he immediately fixed his eyes on me. Had they remained still for any length of time his eyes would have been kind; as it was he looked kind of anxious. As he had nothing to do, his idleness intensified his melancholy.
“I suffer every night,” I said, “from amorous dreams which wear me out.” It takes ages.
To which David: “Is that why you are so kind to me?” I think that follows, Socrates. He is tortured by future anguish.
My real type, these days, is a blue-collar closet queen— they’re the best.
Meaning is never monogamous. But in the realm of sex, more than in any other area of human life, shame rules. It hurts.
I don’t know how much more pathetic I can become.
David sighs. “Turn over here and let me look at you,” he ordered softly. He puts on a queer smile. “Maybe you’re ready to ease up on the Demerol.” He lay on a cot next to the open window, and he was naked except for a pink brassiere and a pair of yellow panties. He’s a man who won’t stop talking.
“Go to hell,” I said. This is the punishment, I thought, now you have your reckoning.
To me the most astonishing phenomenon is not the power-man’s desire to dominate but the human craving to believe— if not in Man—in a man. We never release ourselves from him, his voice, his sense—from one moment to the next—of living a life bruised, embittered, ironic, superior, passive, aggressive, punitive, erotic, whimpering.
At any rate, it was definitely thumbs down. I had to get out of there and have sex as quickly as possible.
28.
The cocks are getting ready to say good morning to the sun. It is like the beginning of a beautiful day. Christmas was approaching.
Joe slept on our living-room couch. He hears nothing of what you shout and overhears everything you whisper. This was a habit that exasperated his mother; he knew it and she knew he knew it. Like many people who are
But the Milky Way, it seemed to me, was still the same tattered streamer of star-dust as of yore. That is the truly devastating message of this book. That is how the past exists, phantasmagoric weskits, stray words, random things recorded. It is too late to be yourself. Writing is no longer possible.
Too late.
Of all the vices there are, there is one we cannot permit ourselves, and that is patience.
The light that reveals us to ourselves is always inconvenient.
No man knows what dangers he should avoid from one hour to another.
26.
All my life I have been what is traditionally regarded as an amusing person, and this capacity to be amusing was often the label I displayed to the world or the flag I sailed under. It called for strength, courage, and physical élan, all things that I lacked. The psychologists know all about this. But I’m very peaceful, momentarily, this evening. I don’t want fanfare.
One thing is undeniable. Given how our mouths tend to fill up with other people’s speech, the struggle not to become a mere ventriloquist’s dummy is not only a concern for mediocre writers.
A friend of mine, an English teacher at a local university, says he feels an obligation to point out to his students that the cigars in the canister on the mantelpiece in an Edith Wharton story are phallic symbols. The fairies broke into animated discussion.
Life mirrors art.
This tickles Joe to pieces. “He must have been pontificating like crazy.”
What other point of view could there be? Life in New York was pleasant in those days. “And I want to live a quiet life there,” I said, the blunt tone of my own voice ringing in my ears. My conscience pricked me. I wanted to write enormous naturalistic novels with unhappy endings, full of detailed descriptions and arresting similes, and also full of purple passages in which words were used partly for the sake of their sound. And I can never really forget that voluptuousness and volition share the same etymological origin.
27.
I must have slept for a long time. David was sitting up, and he immediately fixed his eyes on me. Had they remained still for any length of time his eyes would have been kind; as it was he looked kind of anxious. As he had nothing to do, his idleness intensified his melancholy.
“I suffer every night,” I said, “from amorous dreams which wear me out.” It takes ages.
To which David: “Is that why you are so kind to me?” I think that follows, Socrates. He is tortured by future anguish.
My real type, these days, is a blue-collar closet queen— they’re the best.
Meaning is never monogamous. But in the realm of sex, more than in any other area of human life, shame rules. It hurts.
I don’t know how much more pathetic I can become.
David sighs. “Turn over here and let me look at you,” he ordered softly. He puts on a queer smile. “Maybe you’re ready to ease up on the Demerol.” He lay on a cot next to the open window, and he was naked except for a pink brassiere and a pair of yellow panties. He’s a man who won’t stop talking.
“Go to hell,” I said. This is the punishment, I thought, now you have your reckoning.
To me the most astonishing phenomenon is not the power-man’s desire to dominate but the human craving to believe— if not in Man—in a man. We never release ourselves from him, his voice, his sense—from one moment to the next—of living a life bruised, embittered, ironic, superior, passive, aggressive, punitive, erotic, whimpering.
At any rate, it was definitely thumbs down. I had to get out of there and have sex as quickly as possible.
28.
The cocks are getting ready to say good morning to the sun. It is like the beginning of a beautiful day. Christmas was approaching.
Joe slept on our living-room couch. He hears nothing of what you shout and overhears everything you whisper. This was a habit that exasperated his mother; he knew it and she knew he knew it. Like many people who are
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