buttoned his shirt, and walked toward the center of Bern, looking for an open bakery.
CHAPTER 5
PAMELA WAS PUBLISHED IN 1740, Tristram Shandy in 1759. Such infinite progress in nineteen short years! Pamela, as we already know, is an embarrassment, a bore, and a model for Justine, regularly forced on students of English literature for its historic significance. Tristram, on the other hand, is held to be a âbawdyâ and âribaldâ work like those catalogs of âconqueredâ âstrumpets,â Tom Jones et al., and routinely ignored. How I loathe, in retrospect, the old-maidenly prissiness, worthy of Samuel Richardson himself, that could perceive soft-core porn in Tristram Shandy, effectively discouraging me from opening the book until well into my thirty-third year of life.
On reading it, I discovered, of course, that it is a mildly adult version of The Pickwick Papers. Uncle Toby Shandy, a retired army officer given to pet obsessions, spends his days reconstructing famous battles in miniature with the help of a witty and loyal servant. A groin injury has made Uncle Toby hopelessly benign, gentle, and patient, winning him the undying love of the widow next door who is, however, eager to know the exact nature of the injury.
The same professors who knew just enough to label TristramShandy âbawdyâ and âribaldâ were eager to teach from Naked Lunch, if only they could have gotten permission. Meanwhile, they taught Faulkner, the same as in high school. I.e., the problem with Tristram wasnât its being too grown up; it was too juvenile. They didnât want to listen to us giggle about the groin injuryâtheyâd rather send us down to Yoknapatawpha County to watch the inbred morons accidentally drilling holes in their dead motherâs face. Naked Lunch was more Faulkner, with a bigger drill. And the ineffable, unforgettable saintly sweetness of Uncle Toby Shandy, later transferred so successfully to Mr. Pickwick, became a forgotten relic, something no one alive today thinks English literature ever possessed, except me.
Mr. Chips, Mrs. Miniver, Lassie, Seymour Glassâthese later types of ghastly saccharine horror have nothing to do with the mature and truly humble generosity of Mr. Pickwick, who does his best to organize worthwhile club outings for the entertainment of his friends while endlessly tolerating the same poor parasites (he doesnât work for his money, after all) and supporting the same poor drunks (he likes drinking too). After reading The Pickwick Papers, I accepted Mr. Pickwick into my heart as my personal lord and savior, and I never pass a wino without giving him two dollars. When people ask me for loans I just hand them the money, saying, âIf Iâm ever so down and out that I need three hundred dollars, Iâll know who to call.â
But I knew better than to mention Mr. Pickwick to Zohar when I left Philadelphia and had a sort of potlatch, dispensing thousands of dollarsâ worth of electronics, my bicycle, drums, guitars, amplifiers, and so on to my friends. I let him think what he wanted. Mr. Pickwick is the Israeli Antichrist,the original and supreme freier (sucker). A specter is haunting Israelâthe specter of Mr. Pickwick. . . .
Yigal was a little tight, dirty, and looking for a bakery at 7:30 P.M. on a Sunday night in Bern. The odds were 5 to 1 against him (there was an open Konditorei, but on a street heâd probably miss), and around 9:00 he was looking for a ride out of town. Two hours after that he was being turned away from the youth hostel. If not for the Rastafarian junkies at the bear pits, he would have slept in the park. He woke up on an uneven wooden floor. It was early morning, almost dark, but he walked out into the village street and found a bakery, bright and warm, with thick cream for the coffee and loaves of bread as big as cases of beer. He ate onion pie and two poppy seed pinwheels.
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CHAPTER 5
PAMELA WAS PUBLISHED IN 1740, Tristram Shandy in 1759. Such infinite progress in nineteen short years! Pamela, as we already know, is an embarrassment, a bore, and a model for Justine, regularly forced on students of English literature for its historic significance. Tristram, on the other hand, is held to be a âbawdyâ and âribaldâ work like those catalogs of âconqueredâ âstrumpets,â Tom Jones et al., and routinely ignored. How I loathe, in retrospect, the old-maidenly prissiness, worthy of Samuel Richardson himself, that could perceive soft-core porn in Tristram Shandy, effectively discouraging me from opening the book until well into my thirty-third year of life.
On reading it, I discovered, of course, that it is a mildly adult version of The Pickwick Papers. Uncle Toby Shandy, a retired army officer given to pet obsessions, spends his days reconstructing famous battles in miniature with the help of a witty and loyal servant. A groin injury has made Uncle Toby hopelessly benign, gentle, and patient, winning him the undying love of the widow next door who is, however, eager to know the exact nature of the injury.
The same professors who knew just enough to label TristramShandy âbawdyâ and âribaldâ were eager to teach from Naked Lunch, if only they could have gotten permission. Meanwhile, they taught Faulkner, the same as in high school. I.e., the problem with Tristram wasnât its being too grown up; it was too juvenile. They didnât want to listen to us giggle about the groin injuryâtheyâd rather send us down to Yoknapatawpha County to watch the inbred morons accidentally drilling holes in their dead motherâs face. Naked Lunch was more Faulkner, with a bigger drill. And the ineffable, unforgettable saintly sweetness of Uncle Toby Shandy, later transferred so successfully to Mr. Pickwick, became a forgotten relic, something no one alive today thinks English literature ever possessed, except me.
Mr. Chips, Mrs. Miniver, Lassie, Seymour Glassâthese later types of ghastly saccharine horror have nothing to do with the mature and truly humble generosity of Mr. Pickwick, who does his best to organize worthwhile club outings for the entertainment of his friends while endlessly tolerating the same poor parasites (he doesnât work for his money, after all) and supporting the same poor drunks (he likes drinking too). After reading The Pickwick Papers, I accepted Mr. Pickwick into my heart as my personal lord and savior, and I never pass a wino without giving him two dollars. When people ask me for loans I just hand them the money, saying, âIf Iâm ever so down and out that I need three hundred dollars, Iâll know who to call.â
But I knew better than to mention Mr. Pickwick to Zohar when I left Philadelphia and had a sort of potlatch, dispensing thousands of dollarsâ worth of electronics, my bicycle, drums, guitars, amplifiers, and so on to my friends. I let him think what he wanted. Mr. Pickwick is the Israeli Antichrist,the original and supreme freier (sucker). A specter is haunting Israelâthe specter of Mr. Pickwick. . . .
Yigal was a little tight, dirty, and looking for a bakery at 7:30 P.M. on a Sunday night in Bern. The odds were 5 to 1 against him (there was an open Konditorei, but on a street heâd probably miss), and around 9:00 he was looking for a ride out of town. Two hours after that he was being turned away from the youth hostel. If not for the Rastafarian junkies at the bear pits, he would have slept in the park. He woke up on an uneven wooden floor. It was early morning, almost dark, but he walked out into the village street and found a bakery, bright and warm, with thick cream for the coffee and loaves of bread as big as cases of beer. He ate onion pie and two poppy seed pinwheels.
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