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Authors: Margaret Atwood
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her child molester!
“Byron called Keats’s stuff ‘Johnny-wet-your-bed poetry,’ ” he says.
“I know, right?” says Naveena. “I guess he was jealous. Anyway, those sonnets are great! ‘My lady’s mouth on me’ … It’s so simple, it’s so sweet and direct.” She doesn’t seem torealize that the subject is a blowjob. Very different from “My lady’s mouth on mine”: back then, “me” in such a context was a disguised reference to “cock.” The first time Reynolds read that
mouth
line she laughed out loud: no such pure-mindedness in his very own festering lily.
“So you’re working on the ‘Lady’ sonnets,” he says. “Let me know if there are any points you’d like me to elucidate for you. Something from the horse’s mouth, to flesh out your thesis. As it were.”
“Well, it’s not exactly them I’m working on,” she says. “They’ve been done quite a lot.” She looks down at the coffee table; now she’s blushing in earnest. “As a matter of fact, I’m doing my thesis on C. W. Starr. You know, Constance Starr, though I realize that Starr wasn’t her real name – on her Alphinland series, and, well, you knew her at that time. At the Riverboat, and all of that.”
Gavin feels as if cold mercury has been poured through his veins. Who let this creature in? This defacer, this violator! Reynolds, that’s who. Was treacherous Reynolds aware of the harpy’s true mission? If so, he’ll pull out her molars.
But he’s cornered. He can’t pretend this matters to him – to be cast as a mere secondary source in the main action, the main action being Constance. Constance the fluffball, with her idiotic gnome stories. Constance the flake. Constance the bubblehead. To show anger would be to reveal his soft underbelly, to pile more humiliation upon the primary humiliation. “Oh yes.” He laughs indulgently, as if recalling a joke. “
And all of that
is right! So much
all
, and so much
that
! It was
all
and
that
from morning to night! But I had the stamina for it then.”
“Excuse me?” says Naveena. Her eyes are shining: she’s getting some of the blood she came for. But she won’t get all of it.
“My dear child,” says Gavin. “Constance and I
lived
together.We
shacked up
. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. And though that age hadn’t fully dawned, we were very busy all the same. We spent a lot more time taking our clothes off than putting them on. She was … amazing.” He allows himself a reminiscent smile. “But don’t tell me you’re doing serious academic work on Constance! What she wrote wasn’t in any way …”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am,” says Naveena. “It’s an in-depth examination of the function of symbolism versus neo-representationalism in the process of world-building, which can be studied so much more effectively through the fantasy genres than in its more disguised forms in so-called realistic fiction. Wouldn’t you say?”
Reynolds clacks in, carrying a tray. “Here’s our tea!” she announces, in the nick of time. Gavin can feel the blood pounding in his temples. What the fuck was Naveena just saying?
“What kind of cookies?” he says, to put neo-representationalism in its place.
“Chocolate chip,” says Reynolds. “Did Naveena show you the video clips yet? They’re fascinating! She sent them to me in a Dropbox.” She sits down beside him and begins to pour out the tea.
Dropbox. What is it? Nothing comes to mind but an indoor cat-poo station. But he won’t ask.
“This is the first one,” says Naveena. “The Riverboat, around 1965.”
It’s an ambush, it’s a betrayal. However, Gavin cannot choose but look. It’s like being drawn into a time tunnel: the centrifugal force is irresistible.
The film is grainy, black and white; there’s no sound. The camera pans around the room: some amateur starfucker, or was this shot for an early documentary? That must be Sonny Terryand Brownie McGhee onstage,
“Byron called Keats’s stuff ‘Johnny-wet-your-bed poetry,’ ” he says.
“I know, right?” says Naveena. “I guess he was jealous. Anyway, those sonnets are great! ‘My lady’s mouth on me’ … It’s so simple, it’s so sweet and direct.” She doesn’t seem torealize that the subject is a blowjob. Very different from “My lady’s mouth on mine”: back then, “me” in such a context was a disguised reference to “cock.” The first time Reynolds read that
mouth
line she laughed out loud: no such pure-mindedness in his very own festering lily.
“So you’re working on the ‘Lady’ sonnets,” he says. “Let me know if there are any points you’d like me to elucidate for you. Something from the horse’s mouth, to flesh out your thesis. As it were.”
“Well, it’s not exactly them I’m working on,” she says. “They’ve been done quite a lot.” She looks down at the coffee table; now she’s blushing in earnest. “As a matter of fact, I’m doing my thesis on C. W. Starr. You know, Constance Starr, though I realize that Starr wasn’t her real name – on her Alphinland series, and, well, you knew her at that time. At the Riverboat, and all of that.”
Gavin feels as if cold mercury has been poured through his veins. Who let this creature in? This defacer, this violator! Reynolds, that’s who. Was treacherous Reynolds aware of the harpy’s true mission? If so, he’ll pull out her molars.
But he’s cornered. He can’t pretend this matters to him – to be cast as a mere secondary source in the main action, the main action being Constance. Constance the fluffball, with her idiotic gnome stories. Constance the flake. Constance the bubblehead. To show anger would be to reveal his soft underbelly, to pile more humiliation upon the primary humiliation. “Oh yes.” He laughs indulgently, as if recalling a joke. “
And all of that
is right! So much
all
, and so much
that
! It was
all
and
that
from morning to night! But I had the stamina for it then.”
“Excuse me?” says Naveena. Her eyes are shining: she’s getting some of the blood she came for. But she won’t get all of it.
“My dear child,” says Gavin. “Constance and I
lived
together.We
shacked up
. It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. And though that age hadn’t fully dawned, we were very busy all the same. We spent a lot more time taking our clothes off than putting them on. She was … amazing.” He allows himself a reminiscent smile. “But don’t tell me you’re doing serious academic work on Constance! What she wrote wasn’t in any way …”
“Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am,” says Naveena. “It’s an in-depth examination of the function of symbolism versus neo-representationalism in the process of world-building, which can be studied so much more effectively through the fantasy genres than in its more disguised forms in so-called realistic fiction. Wouldn’t you say?”
Reynolds clacks in, carrying a tray. “Here’s our tea!” she announces, in the nick of time. Gavin can feel the blood pounding in his temples. What the fuck was Naveena just saying?
“What kind of cookies?” he says, to put neo-representationalism in its place.
“Chocolate chip,” says Reynolds. “Did Naveena show you the video clips yet? They’re fascinating! She sent them to me in a Dropbox.” She sits down beside him and begins to pour out the tea.
Dropbox. What is it? Nothing comes to mind but an indoor cat-poo station. But he won’t ask.
“This is the first one,” says Naveena. “The Riverboat, around 1965.”
It’s an ambush, it’s a betrayal. However, Gavin cannot choose but look. It’s like being drawn into a time tunnel: the centrifugal force is irresistible.
The film is grainy, black and white; there’s no sound. The camera pans around the room: some amateur starfucker, or was this shot for an early documentary? That must be Sonny Terryand Brownie McGhee onstage,
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