“I never thought I would live to see it. It is intelligent of
me to hide from the Order here, in the episcopal entourage. And it is intelligent
of me to hide from the Order here in this hurricane. So much intelligence! So little
of God’s grace!”
SELF-REGARD is rooted in breakfast. When you have had it, then lunch seems to follow
naturally, as if you owned not only the fruits but the means of production in a large, faux-naïf country. This is doubted only by eccentrics, and on the present occasion their views
need not be taken into account. That country in which you are loved for yourself is
expanding now with the further development of books, a new kind capable of satisfying
the tactile wishes even of old people. Our engineers are at a loss to understand what
their engineers have done. Still, insofar as they are trying to sketch future trends,
even the most rigid empiricists among them are obliged to make projections, and then
plans. Such is the impact of technology upon the fabric of inherited social institutions
that breakfast is almost forgotten, in some countries; they paint pictures instead.
I read Dampfboot’s novel although he had nothing to say. It wasn’t rave, that volume;
we regretted that. And it was hard to read, dry, breadlike pages that turned, and
then fell, like a car burned by rioters and resting, wrong side up, at the edge of
the picture plane with its tires smoking. Fragments kept flying off the screen into
the audience, fragments of rain and ethics. Hubert wanted to go back to the dog races.
But we made him read his part, the outer part where the author is praised and the
pricequoted. We like books that have a lot of dreck in them, matter which presents itself as not wholly relevant (or indeed, at all relevant)
but which, carefully attended to, can supply a kind of “sense” of what is going on.
This “sense” is not to be obtained by reading between the lines (for there is nothing
there, in those white spaces) but by reading the lines themselves—looking at them
and so arriving at a feeling not of satisfaction exactly, that is too much to expect,
but of having read them, of having “completed” them. “Please don’t talk,” Snow White
said. “Say nothing. We can begin now. Take off the pajamas.” Snow White took off her
pajamas. Henry took off his pajamas. Kevin took off his pajamas. Hubert took off his
pajamas. Clem took off his pajamas. Dan took off his pajamas. Edward took off his
pajamas. Bill refused to take off his pajamas. “Take off your pajamas Bill,” Snow
White said. Everyone looked at Bill’s pajamas. “No, I won’t,” Bill said. “I will not
take off my pajamas.” “Take off your pajamas Bill,” everyone said. “No. I will not.”
Everyone looked again at Bill’s pajamas. Bill’s pajamas filled the room, in a sense.
Those yellow crêpe-paper pajamas.
“WHAT is that apelike hand I see reaching into my mailbox?” “That’s nothing. Think
nothing of it. It’s nothing. It’s just one of my familiars mother. Don’t think about
it. It’s just an ape that’s all. Just an ordinary ape. Don’t give it another thought.
That’s all there is to it.” “I think you dismiss these things too easily Jane. I’m
sure it means more than that. It’s unusual. It means something.” “No mother. It doesn’t
mean more than that. Than I have said it means.” “I’m sure it means more than that
Jane.” “No mother it does not mean more than that. Don’t go reading things into things
mother. Leave things alone. It means what it means. Content yourself with that mother.”
“I’m certain it means more than that.” “No mother.”
SNOW WHITE received the following note from Fred, tossed over the wall:
Madonna ,
My men have left me now. They have gone I suspect to the union hall to institute proceedings
against me. But I don’t care. There is nothing in life for me except being
me to hide from the Order here, in the episcopal entourage. And it is intelligent
of me to hide from the Order here in this hurricane. So much intelligence! So little
of God’s grace!”
SELF-REGARD is rooted in breakfast. When you have had it, then lunch seems to follow
naturally, as if you owned not only the fruits but the means of production in a large, faux-naïf country. This is doubted only by eccentrics, and on the present occasion their views
need not be taken into account. That country in which you are loved for yourself is
expanding now with the further development of books, a new kind capable of satisfying
the tactile wishes even of old people. Our engineers are at a loss to understand what
their engineers have done. Still, insofar as they are trying to sketch future trends,
even the most rigid empiricists among them are obliged to make projections, and then
plans. Such is the impact of technology upon the fabric of inherited social institutions
that breakfast is almost forgotten, in some countries; they paint pictures instead.
I read Dampfboot’s novel although he had nothing to say. It wasn’t rave, that volume;
we regretted that. And it was hard to read, dry, breadlike pages that turned, and
then fell, like a car burned by rioters and resting, wrong side up, at the edge of
the picture plane with its tires smoking. Fragments kept flying off the screen into
the audience, fragments of rain and ethics. Hubert wanted to go back to the dog races.
But we made him read his part, the outer part where the author is praised and the
pricequoted. We like books that have a lot of dreck in them, matter which presents itself as not wholly relevant (or indeed, at all relevant)
but which, carefully attended to, can supply a kind of “sense” of what is going on.
This “sense” is not to be obtained by reading between the lines (for there is nothing
there, in those white spaces) but by reading the lines themselves—looking at them
and so arriving at a feeling not of satisfaction exactly, that is too much to expect,
but of having read them, of having “completed” them. “Please don’t talk,” Snow White
said. “Say nothing. We can begin now. Take off the pajamas.” Snow White took off her
pajamas. Henry took off his pajamas. Kevin took off his pajamas. Hubert took off his
pajamas. Clem took off his pajamas. Dan took off his pajamas. Edward took off his
pajamas. Bill refused to take off his pajamas. “Take off your pajamas Bill,” Snow
White said. Everyone looked at Bill’s pajamas. “No, I won’t,” Bill said. “I will not
take off my pajamas.” “Take off your pajamas Bill,” everyone said. “No. I will not.”
Everyone looked again at Bill’s pajamas. Bill’s pajamas filled the room, in a sense.
Those yellow crêpe-paper pajamas.
“WHAT is that apelike hand I see reaching into my mailbox?” “That’s nothing. Think
nothing of it. It’s nothing. It’s just one of my familiars mother. Don’t think about
it. It’s just an ape that’s all. Just an ordinary ape. Don’t give it another thought.
That’s all there is to it.” “I think you dismiss these things too easily Jane. I’m
sure it means more than that. It’s unusual. It means something.” “No mother. It doesn’t
mean more than that. Than I have said it means.” “I’m sure it means more than that
Jane.” “No mother it does not mean more than that. Don’t go reading things into things
mother. Leave things alone. It means what it means. Content yourself with that mother.”
“I’m certain it means more than that.” “No mother.”
SNOW WHITE received the following note from Fred, tossed over the wall:
Madonna ,
My men have left me now. They have gone I suspect to the union hall to institute proceedings
against me. But I don’t care. There is nothing in life for me except being
Similar Books
