Read Online Red-Dirt Marijuana: And Other Tastes by Terry Southern - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Terry Southern
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before the arrival of his two friends, Dr. Warner had begun the first draft of the book’s final section. He had written:
Life has always been a struggle.
It is tedious to say again, that, through modern science and technology, our material horizons have been broadened, our physical burdens lessened. A badly worn phrase, and it is yet another to point up these gains as having not seriously affected the greater struggle . . . the quest for peace of mind and happiness, the search for security. For it is evident today, perhaps as never before, that we have. . . .
Here, he broke off and put in parentheses just below: “(greed, hate, war, moral and spiritual confusion, etc.)” and then a marginal note to himself, “break with humor-philosophic doldrums (?)” and to the list, “greed, hate, war, etc.,” he added, “crime,” after which he quickly resumed to write, lower on the page:
Let it stand as living testimony to the fiber of our times that a musical idiom characterized by dissonance and atonality, by unpatterned time-change, and impassive distortion of popular themes, has gained wide favor. . . .
He took a second sheet and started at about the middle of the page:
Be-bop, bop, or, more currently, (modern) jazz, has been defined as “variations on a theme which is never wholly stated,” but which theme, it should be added, occurs (concomitant to the execution) in the mind of the performing artist (and the good listener) and which, if expressed at any point, would, in the technical sense, harmonize with the improvization . . .
It is significant that the emotional nihilism, or again, the cold, satiric intent which has come to be identified with these interpretations. . . .
He skipped another space, and wrote:
Yet, beneath this cynical veneer, as beneath the chimera of strife and bitterness in everyday living, pulses a vital substance. . . .
Momentarily discarding this sheet, he went back to the first page, and where he had written, “Let it stand as living testimony to the fiber of our times,” crossed it through, and rewrote, “Let it stand, a living mirror to the fiber of our times,” and immediately below, in the margin, “reflection of, etc.”
“Who’s to say how you’ll react?” Professor Thomas took it up again now. “According to all accounts, there’s no foretelling the effect of drugs. You’d better be careful, Ralph. Damned careful.”
“Ralph,” said George Drew in an almost blatant interruption, “as, well, as an amateur semanticist, I’m very much interested in vocabularies and their physical correlations; that is, if and when they do exist. I mean, of course, in terms of the particular group mentality involved—”
“Careful,” repeated Professor Thomas half aloud. “You’ll have to be very careful.” He was quite serious.
“Oh yes, Tom,” said Dr. Warner, wearily, but added at once, as on an afterthought, and with a smile for them both, “yes, I’m hip that I will.”
Coming up the subway stairs, Dr. Warner touched at his throat with an already damp handkerchief. It was a warm evening. Dressed for the occasion, he was wearing a gray flannel suit and a soft dark shirt, buttoned at the collar. His shoes were suede and had heavy crepe soles. Clean shaven and hatless, his fine head erect, glinting silver beneath changing lights, he could have been an owner of horses, or a California surgeon. Or, he could have been a very proper junky, for his movements were listless, as without direction, and his face was in absolute blank repose, betraying nothing, except indifference and, possibly, a dull and distant contempt for effort. But his mind was still not under control. Why had he said he wouldn’t mainline it? Of course, he would have to mainline it. What had he been thinking of? These weren’t children.
At the top of the stairs he paused and brought the handkerchief to his face again. On the street it seemed even warmer. But he knew this would pass. Once he was moving, once
Life has always been a struggle.
It is tedious to say again, that, through modern science and technology, our material horizons have been broadened, our physical burdens lessened. A badly worn phrase, and it is yet another to point up these gains as having not seriously affected the greater struggle . . . the quest for peace of mind and happiness, the search for security. For it is evident today, perhaps as never before, that we have. . . .
Here, he broke off and put in parentheses just below: “(greed, hate, war, moral and spiritual confusion, etc.)” and then a marginal note to himself, “break with humor-philosophic doldrums (?)” and to the list, “greed, hate, war, etc.,” he added, “crime,” after which he quickly resumed to write, lower on the page:
Let it stand as living testimony to the fiber of our times that a musical idiom characterized by dissonance and atonality, by unpatterned time-change, and impassive distortion of popular themes, has gained wide favor. . . .
He took a second sheet and started at about the middle of the page:
Be-bop, bop, or, more currently, (modern) jazz, has been defined as “variations on a theme which is never wholly stated,” but which theme, it should be added, occurs (concomitant to the execution) in the mind of the performing artist (and the good listener) and which, if expressed at any point, would, in the technical sense, harmonize with the improvization . . .
It is significant that the emotional nihilism, or again, the cold, satiric intent which has come to be identified with these interpretations. . . .
He skipped another space, and wrote:
Yet, beneath this cynical veneer, as beneath the chimera of strife and bitterness in everyday living, pulses a vital substance. . . .
Momentarily discarding this sheet, he went back to the first page, and where he had written, “Let it stand as living testimony to the fiber of our times,” crossed it through, and rewrote, “Let it stand, a living mirror to the fiber of our times,” and immediately below, in the margin, “reflection of, etc.”
“Who’s to say how you’ll react?” Professor Thomas took it up again now. “According to all accounts, there’s no foretelling the effect of drugs. You’d better be careful, Ralph. Damned careful.”
“Ralph,” said George Drew in an almost blatant interruption, “as, well, as an amateur semanticist, I’m very much interested in vocabularies and their physical correlations; that is, if and when they do exist. I mean, of course, in terms of the particular group mentality involved—”
“Careful,” repeated Professor Thomas half aloud. “You’ll have to be very careful.” He was quite serious.
“Oh yes, Tom,” said Dr. Warner, wearily, but added at once, as on an afterthought, and with a smile for them both, “yes, I’m hip that I will.”
Coming up the subway stairs, Dr. Warner touched at his throat with an already damp handkerchief. It was a warm evening. Dressed for the occasion, he was wearing a gray flannel suit and a soft dark shirt, buttoned at the collar. His shoes were suede and had heavy crepe soles. Clean shaven and hatless, his fine head erect, glinting silver beneath changing lights, he could have been an owner of horses, or a California surgeon. Or, he could have been a very proper junky, for his movements were listless, as without direction, and his face was in absolute blank repose, betraying nothing, except indifference and, possibly, a dull and distant contempt for effort. But his mind was still not under control. Why had he said he wouldn’t mainline it? Of course, he would have to mainline it. What had he been thinking of? These weren’t children.
At the top of the stairs he paused and brought the handkerchief to his face again. On the street it seemed even warmer. But he knew this would pass. Once he was moving, once
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