Read Online The Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne Carson
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interviewed for the science project had to admit they did not hear
the cries of the roses
being burned alive in the noonday sun.
Like horses,
Geryon would say helpfully,
like horses in war.
No, they shook their heads.
Why is grass called blades?
he asked them.
Isn’t it because of the clicking?
They stared at him.
You should be
interviewing roses not people,
said the science teacher. Geryon liked this idea.
The last page of his project
was a photograph of his mother’s rosebush under the kitchen window.
Four of the roses were on fire.
They stood up straight and pure on the stalk, gripping the dark like prophets
and howling colossal intimacies
from the back of their fused throats.
Didn’t your mother mind
—
Signor!
Something solid landed
against his back. Geryon had come to a dead halt in the middle of a sidewalk
in Buenos Aires
with people flooding around his big overcoat on every side. People, thought Geryon,
for whom life
is a marvelous adventure. He moved off into the tragicomedy of the crowd.
XXVIII. SKEPTICISM
Click here for original version
A paste of blue cloud untangled itself on the red sky over the harbor.
————
Buenos Aires was blurring into dawn. Geryon had been walking for an hour
on the sweaty black cobblestones
of the city waiting for night’s end. Traffic crashed past him. He covered his mouth
and nose with his hand as five old buses
came tilting around the corner of the street and halted one behind the other,
belching soot. Passengers streamed
on board like insects into lighted boxes and the experiment roared off down the street.
Pulling his body after him
like a soggy mattress Geryon trudged on uphill. Café Mitwelt was crowded.
He found a corner table
and was writing a postcard to his mother:
Die Angst offenbart das Nichts
There are many Germans in
Buenos Aires they are all
cigarette girls the weather
is lov—
when he felt a sharp tap on his boot propped against the chair opposite.
Mind if I join you?
The yellowbeard had already taken hold of the chair. Geryon moved his boot.
Pretty busy in here today,
said the yellowbeard turning to signal a waiter—
Por favor hombre!
Geryon went back to his postcard.
Sending postcards to your girlfriends?
In the midst of his yellow beard
was a pink mouth small as a nipple.
No.
You sound American am I right? You from the States?
No.
The waiter arrived with bread and jam to which the yellowbeard bent himself.
You here for the conference? No.
Big conference this weekend at the university. Philosophy. Skepticism.
Ancient or modern?
Geryon
could not resist asking.
Well now,
said the yellowbeard looking up,
there’s some ancient people here
and some modern people here. Flew me in from Irvine. My talk’s at three.
What’s your topic?
said Geryon
trying not to stare at the nipple.
Emotionlessness.
The nipple puckered.
That is to say, what the ancients called
ataraxia.
Absence of disturbance,
said Geryon.
Precisely. You know ancient Greek?
No but I have read the skeptics. So you
teach at Irvine. That’s in California? Yes southern California—actually I’ve got
a grant next year to do research at MIT.
Geryon watched a small red tongue clean jam off the nipple.
I want to study the erotics
of doubt. Why?
Geryon asked.
The yellowbeard was pushing back his chair—
As a precondition
—and saluting
the waiters across the room—
of the proper search for truth. Provided you can renounce
—he stood—
that
rather fundamental human trait
—
he raised both arms as if to alert a ship
the cries of the roses
being burned alive in the noonday sun.
Like horses,
Geryon would say helpfully,
like horses in war.
No, they shook their heads.
Why is grass called blades?
he asked them.
Isn’t it because of the clicking?
They stared at him.
You should be
interviewing roses not people,
said the science teacher. Geryon liked this idea.
The last page of his project
was a photograph of his mother’s rosebush under the kitchen window.
Four of the roses were on fire.
They stood up straight and pure on the stalk, gripping the dark like prophets
and howling colossal intimacies
from the back of their fused throats.
Didn’t your mother mind
—
Signor!
Something solid landed
against his back. Geryon had come to a dead halt in the middle of a sidewalk
in Buenos Aires
with people flooding around his big overcoat on every side. People, thought Geryon,
for whom life
is a marvelous adventure. He moved off into the tragicomedy of the crowd.
XXVIII. SKEPTICISM
Click here for original version
A paste of blue cloud untangled itself on the red sky over the harbor.
————
Buenos Aires was blurring into dawn. Geryon had been walking for an hour
on the sweaty black cobblestones
of the city waiting for night’s end. Traffic crashed past him. He covered his mouth
and nose with his hand as five old buses
came tilting around the corner of the street and halted one behind the other,
belching soot. Passengers streamed
on board like insects into lighted boxes and the experiment roared off down the street.
Pulling his body after him
like a soggy mattress Geryon trudged on uphill. Café Mitwelt was crowded.
He found a corner table
and was writing a postcard to his mother:
Die Angst offenbart das Nichts
There are many Germans in
Buenos Aires they are all
cigarette girls the weather
is lov—
when he felt a sharp tap on his boot propped against the chair opposite.
Mind if I join you?
The yellowbeard had already taken hold of the chair. Geryon moved his boot.
Pretty busy in here today,
said the yellowbeard turning to signal a waiter—
Por favor hombre!
Geryon went back to his postcard.
Sending postcards to your girlfriends?
In the midst of his yellow beard
was a pink mouth small as a nipple.
No.
You sound American am I right? You from the States?
No.
The waiter arrived with bread and jam to which the yellowbeard bent himself.
You here for the conference? No.
Big conference this weekend at the university. Philosophy. Skepticism.
Ancient or modern?
Geryon
could not resist asking.
Well now,
said the yellowbeard looking up,
there’s some ancient people here
and some modern people here. Flew me in from Irvine. My talk’s at three.
What’s your topic?
said Geryon
trying not to stare at the nipple.
Emotionlessness.
The nipple puckered.
That is to say, what the ancients called
ataraxia.
Absence of disturbance,
said Geryon.
Precisely. You know ancient Greek?
No but I have read the skeptics. So you
teach at Irvine. That’s in California? Yes southern California—actually I’ve got
a grant next year to do research at MIT.
Geryon watched a small red tongue clean jam off the nipple.
I want to study the erotics
of doubt. Why?
Geryon asked.
The yellowbeard was pushing back his chair—
As a precondition
—and saluting
the waiters across the room—
of the proper search for truth. Provided you can renounce
—he stood—
that
rather fundamental human trait
—
he raised both arms as if to alert a ship
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