Read Online Erasure by Percival Everett - Free Book Online

as she spoke it, I forgot it. Until she said, “Did you see him?” I stopped her and asked, “See whom?” But she laughed at me for having said
whom
and would not come back to the subject. Then I awoke.

    All propositions are of equal value.

    The following morning, after a walk through the large back room that served as my woodshop, I got around to going through my mail and, as I expected, there was a letter from my agent, whom I had for some time been wondering whether to keep, as he seemed painfully, for me at least, resigned to the fact that my work was not commercial enough to make any real money. This was undoubtedly true, but nonetheless it seemed a part of his job to foster some kind of optimistic delusion on my part. Still, he was willing to take my work for what little return he saw. The letter from him was short, merely introducing the letter that had been sent to him, namely a rejection of my latest novel:
    Dear Yul,
    Thanks for letting me to take a look at T. Ellison’s lastest effort. Who am I kidding? Why did you bother sending it to me? It shows a brilliant intellect, certainly. It’s challenging and masterfully written and constructed, but who wants to read this shit? It’s too difficult for the market. But more, who is he writing to? Does the guy live in a cave somewhere? Come on, a novel in which Aristophanes and Euripides kill a younger, more talented dramatist, then contemplate the death of metaphysics?
    Thanks again.
All Best,
    Hockney Hoover

    There are times when fishing that I feel like a real detective. I study the water, the lay of the land, seine the streambottom and look at the larvae of aquatic insects. I watch, look for hatches and terrestrial activity. I select my fly, one I’ve tied at streamside, plucking a couple of fibers from my sweater to mix with the dubbing to get just the right color. I present the fly while hiding behind a rock or in tall grass and wait patiently. Then there are times when I wrap pocket lint around a hook, splash it into the water while standing on a fat boulder. Both methods have worked and failed. It’s all up to the trout.

    Classes did end as all things must, and right on schedule, and with the welcome news that my promotion to professor had come through. But the news did nothing to erase my depression over the rejection of my novel, now the seventeenth one.
    “The line is, you’re not black enough,” my agent said.
    “What’s that mean, Yul? How do they even know I’m black? Why does it matter?”
    “We’ve been over this before. They know because of the photo on your first book. They know because they’ve seen you. They know because you’re black, for crying out loud.”
    “What, do I have to have my characters comb their afros and be called niggers for these people?”
    “It wouldn’t hurt.”
    I was stunned into silence.
    “Look at that Juanita Mae Jenkins book. It’s sold like crazy. The paperback rights went for five hundred thousand.”
    In my mind, I had the generous thought,
Good for her,
but I didn’t mean it. She was a hack. “She’s a hack,” I said. “She’s not even a hack. A hack can actually write a little bit.”
    “Yeah, it’s shit. I know that, but it sells. This is a business, Thelonious.”
    I didn’t say another word, just set the receiver down in its cradle and stared at the phone.

    While I was staring at the phone, it rang again. It was Lorraine and she was very upset.
    “Is it my mother?” I asked. “Lorraine.”
    “No, it’s Dr. Lisa.”
    ‘What about Lisa?”
    “They shot her.”
    “What?”
    “Dr. Lisa is dead.”
    I put the phone down because I didn’t know what to do. My stomach was cold on the inside. I could feel my heart beating. I struggled to recall my brother’s telephone number and dialed it.
    “Bill, I just got a call from Lorraine.”
    “Yeah, me, too.”
    “See you at the house.”

    Often, I would simply cut wood. The smell of it, the feel of it, the sound of the saws, manual