diff --git a/TropicOfCancer-HenryMiller.txt.otp b/TropicOfCancer-HenryMiller.txt.otp new file mode 100644 index 0000000..47604ce Binary files /dev/null and b/TropicOfCancer-HenryMiller.txt.otp differ diff --git a/otp.c b/otp.c index 6e89da8..1af3ce8 100644 --- a/otp.c +++ b/otp.c @@ -151,6 +151,14 @@ int interactive_mode(void) { } int command_line_mode(int argc, char* argv[]) { + // Check for help flags first + if (strcmp(argv[1], "-h") == 0 || strcmp(argv[1], "--h") == 0 || + strcmp(argv[1], "-help") == 0 || strcmp(argv[1], "--help") == 0 || + strcmp(argv[1], "help") == 0) { + print_usage(argv[0]); + return 0; + } + if (strcmp(argv[1], "generate") == 0 || strcmp(argv[1], "-g") == 0) { if (argc != 3) { printf("Usage: %s generate|-g \n", argv[0]); @@ -374,44 +382,45 @@ char* find_pad_by_prefix(const char* prefix) { char* matches[100]; // Store up to 100 matches int match_count = 0; - // Check if it's a number (for interactive menu selection) - // Only treat as number if it's a single digit (1-9) to avoid conflicts with hex prefixes - char* endptr; - int selection = strtol(prefix, &endptr, 10); - if (*endptr == '\0' && selection > 0 && selection <= 9 && strlen(prefix) == 1) { - // It's a number, find the nth pad - int current = 0; - rewinddir(dir); - while ((entry = readdir(dir)) != NULL && match_count == 0) { - // Skip . and .. entries, and only process .pad files - if (entry->d_name[0] == '.') continue; - if (!strstr(entry->d_name, ".pad")) continue; - if (strlen(entry->d_name) != 68) continue; // 64 char chksum + ".pad" - - current++; - if (current == selection) { - matches[match_count] = malloc(65); - strncpy(matches[match_count], entry->d_name, 64); - matches[match_count][64] = '\0'; - match_count = 1; - break; - } + // Always try hex prefix matching first + size_t prefix_len = strlen(prefix); + while ((entry = readdir(dir)) != NULL && match_count < 100) { + // Skip . and .. entries, and only process .pad files + if (entry->d_name[0] == '.') continue; + if (!strstr(entry->d_name, ".pad")) continue; + if (strlen(entry->d_name) != 68) continue; // 64 char chksum + ".pad" + + // Compare prefix with the filename (checksum part) + if (strncmp(entry->d_name, prefix, prefix_len) == 0) { + matches[match_count] = malloc(65); + strncpy(matches[match_count], entry->d_name, 64); + matches[match_count][64] = '\0'; + match_count++; } - } else { - // Find pads that start with the prefix - size_t prefix_len = strlen(prefix); - while ((entry = readdir(dir)) != NULL && match_count < 100) { - // Skip . and .. entries, and only process .pad files - if (entry->d_name[0] == '.') continue; - if (!strstr(entry->d_name, ".pad")) continue; - if (strlen(entry->d_name) != 68) continue; // 64 char chksum + ".pad" - - // Compare prefix with the filename (checksum part) - if (strncmp(entry->d_name, prefix, prefix_len) == 0) { - matches[match_count] = malloc(65); - strncpy(matches[match_count], entry->d_name, 64); - matches[match_count][64] = '\0'; - match_count++; + } + + // If no hex prefix matches and it looks like a small number, try number selection + if (match_count == 0) { + char* endptr; + int selection = strtol(prefix, &endptr, 10); + if (*endptr == '\0' && selection > 0 && selection <= 100) { + // It's a number, find the nth pad + int current = 0; + rewinddir(dir); + while ((entry = readdir(dir)) != NULL) { + // Skip . and .. entries, and only process .pad files + if (entry->d_name[0] == '.') continue; + if (!strstr(entry->d_name, ".pad")) continue; + if (strlen(entry->d_name) != 68) continue; // 64 char chksum + ".pad" + + current++; + if (current == selection) { + matches[match_count] = malloc(65); + strncpy(matches[match_count], entry->d_name, 64); + matches[match_count][64] = '\0'; + match_count = 1; + break; + } } } } diff --git a/toc.txt b/toc.txt new file mode 100755 index 0000000..4039adb --- /dev/null +++ b/toc.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8898 @@ + I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, +nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead. + +Last night Boris discovered that he was lousy. I had to shave his armpits +and even then the itching did not stop. How can one get lousy in a beautiful +place like this? But no matter. We might never have known each other so +intimately, Boris and I, had it not been for the lice. + +Boris has just given me a summary of his views. He is a weather prophet. The +weather will continue bad, he says. There will be more calamities, more +death, more despair. Not the slightest indication of a change anywhere. The +cancer of time is eating us away. Our heroes have killed themselves, or are +killing themselves. The hero, then, is not Time, but Timelessness. We must +get in step, a lock step, toward the prison of death. There is no escape. +The weather will not change. + +It is now the fall of my second year in Paris. I was sent here for a reason +I have not yet been able to fathom. + +I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A +year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist. I no longer think +about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. +There are no more books to be written, thank God. + +This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of +character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is +a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to +God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty ... what you will. I am going to sing +for you, a little off key perhaps but I will sing. I will sing while you +croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse.... + +To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs, and a +little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a +guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. +I am singing. + +It is to you, Tania, that I am singing. I wish that I could sing better, +more melodiously, but then perhaps you would never have consented to listen +to me. You have heard the others sing and they have left you cold. They sang +too beautifully, or not beautifully enough. + +It is the twenty-somethingth of October. I no longer keep track of the date. +Would you say -- my dream of the 14th November last? There are intervals, but +they are between dreams, and there is no consciousness of them left. The +world around me is dissolving, leaving here and there spots of time. The +world is a cancer eating itself away.... I am thinking that when the great +silence descends upon all and everywhere music will at last triumph. When +into the womb of time everything is again withdrawn chaos will be restored +and chaos is the score upon which reality is written. You, Tania, are my +chaos. It is why I sing. It is not even I, it is the world dying. shedding +the skin of time. I am still alive, kicking in your womb, a reality to write +upon. + +Dozing off. The physiology of love. The whale with his six foot penis, in +repose. The bat -- penis libre. Animals with a bone in the penis. +Hence, a bone on. ... "Happily," says Gourmont, "the bony structure +is lost in man." Happily? Yes, happily. Think of the human race walking +around with a bone on. The kangaroo has a double penis -- one for weekdays +and one for holidays. Dozing. A letter from a female asking if I have found +a title for my book. Title? To be sure: "Lovely Lesbians." + +Your anecdotal life! A phrase of M. Borowski's. It is on Wednesdays +that I have lunch with Borowski. His wife, who is a dried-up cow, +officiates. She is studying English now -- her favourite word is "filthy." You +can see immediately what a pain in the ass the Borowskis are. But wait. ... + +Borowski wears corduroy suits and plays the accordion. An invincible +combination, especially when you consider that he is not a bad artist. He +puts on that he is a Pole, but he is not, of course. He is a Jew, Borowski, +and his father was a philatelist. In fact, almost all Montparnasse is +Jewish, or half Jewish, which is worse. There's Carl and Paula, and +Cronstadt and Boris, and Tania and Sylvester, and Moldorf and Lucille. All +except Fillmore. Henry Jordan Oswald turned out to be a Jew also. Louis +Nichols is a Jew. Even Van Norden and Cherie are Jewish. Frances Blake is a +Jew, or a Jewess. Titus is a Jew. The Jews then are snowing me under. I am +writing this for my friend Carl whose father is a Jew. All this is important +to understand. + +Of them all the loveliest Jew is Tania, and for her sake I too would become +a Jew. Why not? I already speak like a Jew. And I am as ugly as a Jew. +Besides, who hates the Jews more than the Jew? + +Twilight hour. Indian blue water of glass, trees glistening and liquescent. +The rails fall away into the canal at Jaures. The long caterpillar with +lacquered sides dips like a roller-coaster. It is not Paris. It is not Coney +Island. It is a crepuscular melange of all the cities of Europe and Central +America. The railroad yards below me, the tracks black, webby, not ordered +by the engineer but cataclysmic in design, like those gaunt fissures in the +polar ice which the camera registers in degrees of black. + +Food is one of the things I enjoy tremendously. And in this beautiful Villa +Borghese there is scarcely ever any evidence of food. It is positively +appalling at times. I have asked Boris time and again to order bread for +breakfast, but he always forgets. He goes out for breakfast, it seems. And +when he comes back he is picking his teeth and there is a little egg hanging +from his goatee. He eats in the restaurant, out of consideration for me. He +says it hurts to eat a big meal and have me watch him. + +I like Van Norden but I do not share his opinion of himself. I do not agree, +for instance, that he is a philosopher, or a thinker. He is cunt-struck, +that's all. And he will never be a writer. Nor will Sylvester ever be a +writer, though his name blaze in 50,000 candle power red lights. The only +writers about me for whom I have any respect, at present, arc Carl and +Boris. They are possessed. They glow inwardly with a white name. They are +mad and tone deaf. They are sufferers. + +Moldorf, on the other hand, who suffers too in his peculiar way, is not +mad. Moldorf is word drunk. He has no veins or blood-vessels, no heart or +kidneys. He is a portable trunk filled with innumerable drawers and in the +drawers are labels written out in white ink, brown ink, red ink, blue ink, +vermilion, saffron, mauve, sienna, apricot, turquoise, onyx, Anjou, +herring. Corona, verdigris, gorgonzola... . + +I have moved the typewriter into the next room where I can see myself in the +mirror as I write. + +Tania is like Irene. She expects fat letters. But there is another Tania, a +Tania like a big seed, who scatters pollen everywhere -- or, let us say, a +little bit of Tolstoi, a stable scene in which the foetus is dug up. Tania +is a fever. too -- les votes urinaires. Cafe de la Liberte, Place des +Vosges, bright neckties on the Boulevard Montparnasse, dark bathrooms, Porto +Sec, Abdullah cigarettes, the adagio sonata pathetique, aural +amplificators, anecdotal seances, burnt sienna breasts, heavy garters, what +time is it, golden pheasants stuffed with chestnuts, taffeta fingers, +vaporish twilights turning to ilex, acromegaly, cancer and delirium, warm +veils, poker chips, carpets of blood and soft thighs. Tania says so that +every one may hear: "I love him!" And while Boris scalds himself with whisky +she says: "Sit down here! O Boris ... Russia ... what'll I do? I'm +bursting with it!" + +At night when I look at Boris' goatee lying on the pillow I get hysterical. +O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, +those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I +will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send +you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned +inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know +how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your +ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels +something, does he? He feels +the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider, I have +ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, +drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You +can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am +fucking you, Tania, so that you'll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of +being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs +from your cunt and paste them on Boris' chin. I will bite into your clitoris +and spit out two franc pieces.... + +Indigo sky swept clear of fleecy clouds, gaunt trees infinitely extended, +their black boughs gesticulating like a sleep-walker. Sombre, spectral +trees, their trunks pale as dear ash. A silence supreme and altogether +European. Shutters drawn, shops barred. A red glow here and there to mark a +tryst. Brusque the facades, almost forbidding; immaculate except for the +splotches of shadow cast by the trees. Passing by the Orangerie I am reminded +of another Paris, the Paris of Maugham, of Gauguin, Paris of George Moore. I +think of that terrible Spaniard who was then startling the world with his +acrobatic leaps from style to style. I think of Spengler and of his terrible +pronunciamentos, and I wonder if style, style in the grand manner, is done +for. I say that my mind is occupied with these thoughts, but it is not true; +it is only later, after I have crossed the Seine, after I have put behind me +the carnival of lights, that I allow my mind to play with these ideas. For +the moment I can think of nothing -- except that I am a sentient being +stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world. All +along the banks the trees lean heavily over the tarnished mirror; when the +wind rises and fills them with a rustling murmur they will shed a few tears +and shiver as the water swirls by. I am suffocated by it. No one to whom I +can communicate even a fraction of my feelings.... + +The trouble with Irene is that she has a valise instead of a cunt. She wants +fat letters to shove in her valise. Immense, avec des choses inouies. +Liona now, she had a cunt. I know because she sent us some hairs from down +below. Liona -- a wild ass snuffing pleasure out of the wind. On every high +hill she played the harlot -- and +sometimes in telephone booths and toilets. She bought a bed for King Carol +and a shaving mug with his initials on it. She lay in Tottenham Court Road +with her dress pulled up and fingered herself. She used candles, Roman +candles, and door knobs. Not a prick in the land big enough for her ... +not one. Men went inside her and curled up. She wanted extension +pricks, self-exploding rockets, hot boiling oil made of wax and creosote. +She would cut off your prick and keep it inside her forever, if you gave her +permission. One cunt out of a million, Llona! A laboratory cunt and no +litmus paper that could take her color. She was a liar, too, this Liona. She +never bought a bed for her King Carol. She crowned him with a whiskey bottle +and her tongue was full of lice and tomorrows. Pool Carol, he could only +curl up inside her and die. She drew a breath and he fell out -- like a dead +clam. + +Enormous, fat letters, avec des choses inouies. A valise without +straps. A hole without a key. She had a German mouth, French ears, Russian +ass. Cunt international. When the flag waved it was red all the way back to +the throat. You entered on the Boulevard Jules-Ferry and came out at the +Porte de la Villette. You dropped your sweetbreads into the tumbrils -- red +tumbrils with two wheels, naturally. At the confluence of the Ourcq and +Mame, where the water sluices through the dykes and lies like glass under +the bridges. Liona is lying there now and the canal is full of glass and +splinters; the mimosas weep, and there is a wet, foggy fart on the +windowpanes. One cunt out of a million Liona! All cunt and a glass ass in +which you can read the history of the Middle Ages. + +It is the caricature of a man which Moldorf first presents. Thyroid eyes. +Michelin lips. Voice like pea-soup. Under his vest he carries a little pear. +However you look at him it is always the same panorama; netsuke snuffbox, +ivory handle, chess piece, fan, temple motif. He has fermented so long now +that he is amorphous. Yeast despoiled of its vitamins. Vase without a +rubber plant. + +The females were sired twice in the 9th century, and again during the +Renaissance. He was carried through the great dispersions under yellow +bellies and white. Long before the Exodus a Tatar spat in his blood. + +His dilemma is that of the dwarf. With his pineal eye he sees in silhouette +projected on a screen of incommensurable size. His voice, synchronized to +the shadow of a pinhead, intoxicates him. He hears a roar where others hear +only a squeak. + +There is his mind. It is an amphitheatre in which the actor gives a protean +performance. Moldorf, multiform and unerring, goes through his roles -- clown, +juggler, contortionist, priest, lecher, mountebank. The amphitheatre is too +small. He puts dynamite to it. The audience is drugged. He scotches it. + +I am trying ineffectually to approach Moldorf. It is like trying to approach +God, for Moldorf is God -- he has never been anything else. I am merely +putting down words.... + +I have had opinions about him which I have discarded; I have had other +opinions which I am revising. I have pinned him down only to find that it +was not a dung-beetle I had in my hands, but a dragonfly. He has offended +me by his coarseness and then overwhelmed me with his delicacy. He has been +voluble to the point of suffocation, then quiet as the Jordan. + +When I see him trotting forward to greet me, his little paws outstretched, +his eyes perspiring, I feel that I am meeting.... No, this is not the way to +go about it! + +"Comme un oeuf dansant sur un jet d'eau." + +He has only one cane -- a mediocre one. In his pocket scraps of paper +containing prescriptions for Weltschmerz. He is cured now, and the little +German girl who washed his feet is breaking her heart. It is like Mr. +Nonentity toting his Gujurati dictionary everywhere. "Inevitable for +every one" -- meaning, no doubt, indispensable. Borowski would find +all this incomprehensible. Borowski has a different cane for each day in +the week, and one for Easter. + +We have so many points in common that it is like looking at myself in a +cracked mirror. + +I have been looking over my manuscripts, pages scrawled with revisions. +Pages of literature. This frightens me a little. It is so much like +Moldorf. Only I am a gentile, and gentiles have a different way of +suffering. They suffer without neuroses and, as Sylvester says, a +man who has never been afflicted with a neurosis does not know the meaning +of suffering. + +I recall distinctly how I enjoyed my suffering. It was like taking a cub to +bed with you. Once in a while he clawed you -- and then you really were +frightened. Ordinarily you had no fear -- you could always turn him loose, or +chop his head off. + +There are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild +beasts and be mangled. They go in even without revolver or whip. Fear makes +them fearless. .. For the Jew the world is a cage filled with wild beasts. +The door is locked and he is there without whip or revolver. His courage is +so great that he does not even smell the dung in the corner. The spectators +applaud but he does not hear. The drama, he thinks, is going on inside the +cage. The cage, he thinks, is the world. Standing there alone and helpless, +the door locked, he finds that the lions do not understand his language. Not +one lion has ever heard of Spinoza. Spinoza? Why they can't even get their +teeth into him. "Give us meat!" they roar, while he stands there petrified, +his ideas frozen, his Weltanschauung a trapeze out of reach. A +single blow of the lion's paw and his cosmogony is smashed. + +The lions, too, are disappointed. They expected blood, bones, gristle, +sinews. They chew and chew, but the words are chicle and chicle is +indigestible. Chicle is a base over which you sprinkle sugar, pepsin, thyme, +licorice. Chicle, when it is gathered by chicleros, is O. K. The chicleros +came over on the ridge of a sunken continent. They brought with them an +algebraic language. In the Arizona desert they met the Mongols of the North, +glazed like eggplants. Time shortly after the earth had taken its gyroscopic +lean -- when the Gulf Stream was parting ways with the Japanese current. In +the heart of the soil they found tufa rock. They embroidered the very bowels +of the earth with their language. They ate one another's entrails and the +forest closed in on them, on their bones and skulls, on their lace tufa. +Their language was lost. Here and there one still finds the remnants of a +menagerie, a brain plate covered with figures. + +x x x + + + +What has all this to do with you, Moldorf? The word in your mouth is +anarchy. Say it, Moldorf, I am waiting for it. Nobody knows, when we shake +hands, the rivers that pour through our sweat Whilst you are framing your +words, your lips half-parted, the saliva gurgling in your cheeks, I have +jumped halfway across Asia. Were I to take your cane, mediocre as it is, +and poke a lime hole in your side, I could collect enough material to fill +the British Museum. We stand on five minutes and devour centuries. You are +the sieve through which my anarchy strains, resolves itself into words. +Behind the word is chaos. Each word a stripe, a bar, but there are not and +never will be enough bars to make the mesh. + +In my absence the window-curtains have been hung. They have the appearance +of Tyrolian tablecloths dipped in lysol. The room sparkles. I sit on the bed +in a daze, thinking about man before his birth. Suddenly bells begin to +toll, a weird, unearthly music, as if I had been translated to the steppes +of Central Asia. Some ring out with a long, lingering roll, some erupt +drunkenly, maudlinly. And now it is quiet again, except for a last note that +barely grazes the silence of the night -- just a faint, high gong snuffed out +like a flame. + +I have made a silent compact with myself not to change a line of what I +write. I am not interested in perfecting my thoughts, nor my actions. +Beside the perfection of Turgeniev I put the perfection of Dostoievski. (Is +there anything more perfect than The Eternal Husband?) Here, then, in +one and the same medium, we have two kinds of perfection. But in Van Gogh's +letters there is a perfection beyond either of these. It is the triumph of +the individual over art. + +There is only one thing which interests me vitally now, and that is the +recording of all that which is omitted in books. Nobody, so far as I can +see, is making use of those elements in the air which give direction and +motivation to our lives. Only the killers seem to be extracting from life +some satisfactory measure of what they are putting into it. The age demands +violence, but we are getting only abortive explosions. Revolutions are +nipped in the bud, or else succeed too quickly. Passion is quickly +exhausted. Men fall back on ideas, comme d'habitude. Nothing is +proposed that can last more than twenty-four hours. We are living a million +lives in the space of a generation. In the study of entomology, or of deep +sea life, or cellular activity, we derive more... . + +The telephone interrupts this thought which I should never have been able to +complete. Some one is coming to rent the apartment... + +It looks as though it were finished, my life at the Villa Borghese. Well, +I'll take up these pages and move on. Things will happen elsewhere. Things +are always happening. It seems wherever I go there is drama. People are +like lice -- they get under your skin and bury themselves there. You scratch +and scratch until the blood comes, but you can't get permanently deloused. +Everywhere I go people are making a mess of their lives. Everyone has his +private tragedy. It's in the blood now -- misfortune, ennui, grief, suicide. +The atmosphere is saturated with disaster, frustration, futility. Scratch +and scratch -- until there's no skin left. However, the effect upon me is +exhilarating. Instead of being discouraged, or depressed, I enjoy it. I am +crying for more and more disasters, for bigger calamities, for grander +failures. I want the whole world to be out of whack, I want every one to +scratch himself to death. + +So fast and furiously am I compelled to live now that there is scarcely time +to record even these fragmentary notes. After the telephone call, a +gentleman and his wife arrived. I went upstairs to lie down during the +transaction. Lay there wondering what my next move would be. Surely not to +go back to the fairy's bed and toss about all night flicking bread crumbs +with my toes. That puking little bastard! If there's anything worse than +being a fairy it's being a miser. A timid, quaking little bugger who lived +in constant fear of going broke some day -- the 18th of March perhaps, or the +25th of May precisely. Coffee without milk or sugar. Bread without butter. +Meat without gravy, or no meat at all. Without this and without that! The +dirty little miser! Open the bureau drawer one day and find money hidden +away in a sock. Over two thousand francs -- and checks that he hadn't even +cashed. Even that I wouldn't have minded so much if there weren't always +coffee grounds in my beret and garbage on the floor, to say nothing of the +cold cream jars and the greasy towels and the sink always stopped up. I tell +you, the little bastard he smelled bad -- except when he doused himself with +cologne. His ears were dirty, his eyes were dirty, his ass was dirty. He was +double-jointed, asthmatic, lousy, picayune, morbid. I could have forgiven him +everything if only he had handed me a decent breakfast! But a man who has two +thousand francs hidden away in a dirty sock and refuses to wear a clean shirt +or smear a little butter over his bread, such a man is not just a fairy, nor +even just a miser -- he's an imbecile! + +But that's neither here nor mere, about the fairy. I'm keeping an ear open +as to what's going on downstairs. It's a Mr. Wren and his wife who have +called to look at the apartment. They're talking about taking it. Only +talking about it, thank God. Mrs. Wren has a loose laugh -- +complications ahead. Now Mister Wren is talking. His voice is +raucous, scraping, booming, a heavy blunt weapon that wedges its way through +flesh and bone and cartilage. + +Boris calls me down to be introduced. He is rubbing his hands, like a +pawnbroker. They are talking about a story Mr. Wren wrote, a story about a +spavined horse. + +"But I thought Mr. Wren was a painter?" + +"To be sure," says Boris, with a twinkle in his eye, "but in the wintertime +he writes. And he writes well ... remarkably well." + +I try to induce Mr. Wren to talk, to say something, anything, to talk about +the spavined horse, if necessary. But Mr. Wren is almost inarticulate. When +he essays to speak of those dreary months with the pen he becomes +unintelligible. Months and months he spends before setting a word to paper. +(And there are only three months of winter!) What does he cogitate all those +months and months of winter? So help me God, I can't see this guy as a +writer. Yet Mrs. Wren says that when he sits down to it the stuff just +pours out. + +The talk drifts. It is difficult to follow Mr. Wren's mind because he says +nothing. He thinks as he goes along -- so Mrs. Wren puts it. Mrs. Wren +puts everything about Mr. Wren in the loveliest light. "He thinks as he goes +along" -- very charming, charming indeed, as Borowski would say, but really +very painful, particularly when the thinker is nothing but a spavined horse. + +Boris hands me money to buy liquor. Going for the liquor I am already +intoxicated. I know just how I'll begin when I get back to the house. +Walking down the street it commences, the grand speech inside me that's +gurgling like Mrs. Wren's loose laugh. Seems to me she had a slight edge on +already. Listens beautifully when she's tight. Coming out of the wine-shop I +hear the urinal gurgling. Everything is loose and splashy. I want Mrs. Wren +to listen ... + +Boris is rubbing his hands again. Mr. Wren is still stuttering and +spluttering. I have a bottle between my legs and I'm shoving the corkscrew +in. Mrs. Wren has her mouth parted expectantly. The wine is splashing +between my legs, the sun is splashing through the bay window, and inside my +veins there is a bubble and splash of a thousand crazy things that commence +to gush out of me now pell-mell. I'm telling them everything that comes to +mind, everything that was bottled up inside me and which Mrs. Wren's loose +laugh has somehow released. With that bottle between my legs and the sun +splashing through the window I experience once again the splendor of those +miserable days when I first arrived in Paris, a bewildered, poverty-stricken +individual who haunted the streets like a ghost at a banquet. Everything +comes back to me in a rush -- the toilets that wouldn't work, the prince who +shined my shoes, the Cinema Splendide where I slept on the patron's +overcoat, the bars in the window, the feeling of suffocation, the fat +cockroaches, the drinking and carousing that went on between times. Rose +Cannaque and Naples dying in the sunlight. Dancing the streets on an empty +belly and now and then calling on strange people -- Madame Delorme, for +instance. How I ever got to Madame Delorme's, I can't imagine any more. But +I got there, got inside somehow, past the butler, past the maid with her +little white apron, got right inside the palace with my corduroy trousers +and my hunting jacket -- and not a button on my fly. Even now I can taste +again the golden ambiance of that room where Madame Delorme sat upon a +throne in her mannish rig, the goldfish in the bowls, the maps of the ancient +world, the beautifully bound books; I can feel again her heavy hand resting +upon my shoulder, frightening me a little with her heavy Lesbian air. More +comfortable down below in that thick stew pouring into the Gare St. Lazare, +the whores in the doorways, seltzer bottles on every table; a thick tide of +semen flooding the gutters. Nothing better, between five and seven than to be +pushed around in that throng, to follow a leg or a beautiful bust, to move +along with the tide and everything whirling in your brain. A weird sort of +contentment in those days. No appointments, no invitations for dinner, no +program, no dough. The golden period, when I had not a single friend. Each +morning the dreary walk to the American Express, and each morning the +inevitable answer from the clerk. Dashing here and there like a bedbug, +gathering butts now and then, sometimes furtively, sometimes brazenly; +sitting down on a bench and squeezing my guts to stop the gnawing, or walking +through the Jardin des Tuileries and getting an erection looking at the dumb +statues. Or wandering along the Seine at night, wandering and wandering, and +going mad with the beauty of it, the trees leaning to, the broken images in +the water, the rush of the current under the bloody lights of the bridges, +the women sleeping in doorways, sleeping on newspapers, sleeping in the rain; +everywhere the musty porches of the cathedrals and beggars and lice and old +hags full of St. Vitus' dance; pushcarts stacked up like wine barrels in the +side streets, the smell of berries in the market-place and the old church +surrounded with vegetables and blue arc lights, the gutters slippery with +garbage and women in satin pumps staggering through the filth and vermin at +the end of an all-night souse. The Place St. Sulpice, so quiet and deserted, +where toward midnight there came every night the woman with the busted +umbrella and the crazy veil; every night she slept there on a bench under her +torn umbrella, the ribs hanging down, her dress turning green, her bony +fingers and the odor of decay oozing from her body; and in the morning I'd be +sitting there myself, taking a quiet snooze in the sunshine, cursing the +goddamned pigeons gathering up the crumbs everywhere. St. Sulpice! The fat +belfries, the garish posters over the door, the candles flaming inside. The +Square so beloved of Anatole France, with that drone and buzz from the altar, +the splash of the fountain, the pigeons cooing, the crumbs disappearing like +magic and only a dull rumbling in the hollow of the guts. Here I would sit +day after day thinking of Germaine and that dirty little street near the +Bastille where she lived, and that buzz-buzz going on behind the altar, the +buses whizzing by, the sun beating down into the asphalt and the asphalt +working into me and Germaine, into the asphalt and all Paris in the big fat +belfries. + +And it was down the Rue Bonaparte that only a year before Mona and I used to +walk every night, after we had taken leave of Borowski. St. Sulpice not +meaning much to me then, nor anything in Paris. Washed out with talk. Sick +of faces. Fed up with cathedrals and squares and menageries and what not. +Picking up a book in the red bedroom and the cane chair uncomfortable; tired +of sitting on my ass all day long, tired of red wallpaper, tired of seeing so +many people jabbering away about nothing. The red bedroom and the trunk +always open; her gowns lying about in a delirium of disorder. The red bedroom +with my goloshes and canes, the notebooks I never touched, the manuscripts +lying cold and dead. Paris! Meaning the Cafe Select, the D6me, the Flea +Market, the American Express. Paris! Meaning Borowski's canes, Borowski's +hats, Borowski's gouaches, Borowski's prehistoric fish -- and prehistoric +jokes. In that Paris of '28 only one night stands out in my memory -- the +night before sailing for America. A rare night, with Borowski slightly +pickled and a little disgusted with me because I'm dancing with every slut in +the place. But we're leaving in the morning! That's what I tell every cunt I +grab hold of -- leaving in the morning! That's what I'm telling the +blonde with agate-colored eyes. And while I'm telling her she takes my hand +and sqeeezes it between her legs. In the lavatory I stand before the bowl +with a tremendous erection; it seems light and heavy at the same time, like a +piece of lead with wings on it. And while I'm standing there like that two +cunts sail in -- Americans. I greet them cordially, prick in hand. They give +me a wink and pass on. In the vestibule, as I'm buttoning my fly, I notice +one of them waiting for her friend to come out of the can. The music +is still playing and maybe Mona'll be coming to fetch me, or Borowski +with his gold-knobbed cane, but I'm in her arms now and she has hold of me +and I don't care who comes or what happens. We wriggle into the cabinet and +there I stand her up, slap up against the wall, and I try to get it into her +but it won't work and so we sit down on the seat and try it that way but it +won't work either. No matter how we try it it won't work. And all the while +she's got hold of my prick, she's clutching it like a life-saver, but it's no +use, we're too hot, too eager. The music is still playing and so we waltz out +of the cabinet into the vestibule again and as we're dancing there in the +shit-house I come all over her beautiful gown and she's sore as hell about +it. I stumble back to the table and there's Borowski with his ruddy face and +Mona with her disapproving eye. And Borowski says "Let's all go to Brussels +tomorrow," and we agree, and when we get back to the hotel I vomit all over +the place, in the bed, in the washbowl, over the suits and gowns and the +goloshes and canes and the notebooks I never touched and the manuscripts +lying cold and dead. + +A few months later. The same hotel, the same room. We look out on the +courtyard where the bicycles are parked, and there is the little room up +above, under the attic, where some smart young Alee played the phonograph +all day long and repeated clever little things at the top of his voice. I +say "we" but I'm getting ahead of myself, because Mona has been away a long +time and it's just today that I'm meeting her at the Gare St. Lazare. Toward +evening I'm standing there with my face squeezed between the bars, but +there's no Mona, and I read the cable over again but it doesn't help any. I +go back to the Quarter and just the same I put away a hearty meal. Strolling +past the D6me and a little later suddenly I see a pale, heavy face and +burning eyes -- and the little velvet suit that I always adored because under +the soft velvet there were always her warm breasts, the marble legs, cool, +firm, muscular. She rises up out of a sea of faces and embraces me, +embraces me passionately -- a thousand eyes, noses, fingers, legs, bottles, +windows, purses, saucers all glaring at us and we in each other's arms +oblivious. I sit down beside her and she talks -- a flood of talk. Wild +consumptive notes of histeria, perversion, leprosy. I hear not a word because +she is beautiful and I love her and now I am happy and willing to die. + +We walk down the Rue du Chateau, looking for Eugene. Walk over the railroad +bridge where I used to watch the trains pulling out and feel all sick inside +wondering where the hell she could be. Everything soft and enchanting as we +walk over the bridge. Smoke coming up between our legs, the tracks +creaking, semaphores in our blood. I feel her body close to mine -- all mine +now -- and I stop to rub my hands over the warm velvet. Everything around us +is crumbling, crumbling and the warm body under the warm velvet is aching +for me ... + +Back in the very same room and fifty francs to the good, thanks to Eugene/ I +look out on the court but the phonograph is silent. The trunk is open and +her things are lying around everywhere just as before. She lies down on the +bed with her clothes on. Once, twice, three times, four times ... I'm afraid +she'll go mad ... in bed, under the blankets, how good to feel her body +again! But for how long? Will it last this time? Already I have a +presentiment that it won't. + +She talks to me so feverishly -- as if there will be no tomorrow. "Be quiet, +Mona! Just look at me ... don't talk!" Finally she drops off and I +pull my arm from under her. My eyes close. Her body is there beside me ... +it will be there till morning surely ... It was in February I pulled out of +the harbor in a blinding snowstorm. The last glimpse I had of her was in the +window waving good-bye to me. A man standing on the other side of the +street, at the corner, his hat pulled down over his eyes, his jowls resting +on his lapels. A foetus watching me. A foetus with a cigar in its mouth. +Mona at the window waving goodbye. White heavy face, hair streaming wild. +And now it is a heavy bedroom, breathing regularly through the gills, sap +still oozing from between her legs, a warm feline odor and her hair in my +mouth. My eyes are closed. We breathe warmly into each other's mouth. Close +together, America three thousand miles away. I never want to see it again. +To have her here in bed with me, breathing on me, her hair in my mouth -- I +count that something of a miracle. Nothing can happen now till morning ... +I wake from a deep slumber to look at her. A pale light is trickling in. I +look at her beautiful wild hair. I feel something crawling down my neck. I +look at her again, closely. Her hair is alive! I pull back the sheet -- more +of them. They are swarming over the pillow. + +It is a little after daybreak. We pack hurriedly and sneak out of the hotel. +The cafes are still closed. We walk, and as we walk we scratch ourselves. +The day opens in milky whiteness, streaks of salmon-pink sky, snails leaving +their shells. Paris. Paris. Everything happens here. Old, crumbling walls +and the pleasant sound of water running in the urinals. Men licking their +moustaches at the bar. Shutters going up with a bang and little streams +purling in the gutters. Amer Picon in huge scarlet letters. +Zigzag. Which way will we go and why or where or what? + +Mona is hungry, her dress is thin. Nothing but evening wraps, bottles of +perfume, barbaric earrings, bracelets, depilatories. We sit down in a +billiard parlor on the Avenue due Maine and order hot coffee. The toilet is +out of order. We shall have to sit some time before we can go to another +hotel. Meanwhile we pick bedbugs out of each other's hair. Nervous. Mona is +losing her temper. Must have a bath. Must have this. Must have that. Must, +must, must ... + +"How much money have you left?" + +Money! Forgot all about that. + +Hotel des Etats-Unis. An ascenseur. We go to bed in broad daylight. +When we get up it is dark and the first thing to do is to raise enough dough +to send a cable to America. A cable to the foetus with the long juicy cigar +in his mouth. Meanwhile there is the Spanish woman on the Boulevard +Raspail -- she's always good for a warm meal. By morning something will +happen. At least we're going to bed together. No more bedbugs now. The rainy +season has commenced. The sheets are immaculate ... + + * * * + +A new life opening up for me at the Villa Borghese. Only ten o'clock and we +have already had breakfast and been out for a walk. We have an Elsa here with +us now. "Step softly for a few days," cautions Boris. + +The day begins gloriously: a bright sky, a fresh wind, the houses newly +washed. On our way to the Post Office Boris and I discussed the book. The +Last Book -- which is going to be written anonymously. + +A new day is beginning. I felt it this morning as we stood before one of +Dufresne's glistening canvases, a sort of dejeuner intime in the 13th +century, sans vin. A fine, fleshy nude, solid, vibrant, pink as a +fingernail, with glistening billows of flesh; all the secondary +characteristics, and a few of the primary. A body that sings, that has the +moisture of dawn. A still life, only nothing is still, nothing dead here. The +table creaks with food; it is so heavy it is sliding out of the frame. A 13th +century repast -- with all the jungle notes that he has memorized so well. A +family of gazelles and zebras nipping the fronds of the palms. + +And now we have Elsa. She was playing for us this morning while we were in +bed. Step softly for a few days ... Good! Elsa is the maid and I am +the guest. And Boris is the big cheese. A new drama is beginning. I'm +laughing to myself as I write this. He knows what is going to happen, that +lynx, Boris. He has a nose for things too. Step softly ... + +Boris is on pins and needles. At any moment now his wife may appear on the +scene. She weighs well over 180 pounds, that wife of his. And Boris is only +a handful. There you have the situation. He tries to explain it to me on our +way home at night. It is so tragic and so ridiculous at the same time that I +am obliged to stop now and then and laugh in his face. "Why do you laugh so?" +he says gently, and then he commences himself, with that whimpering, +hysterical note in his voice, like a helpless wretch who realizes suddenly +that no matter how many frock coats he puts on he will never make a man. He +wants to run away, to take a new name. "She can have everything, that cow, if +only she leaves me alone," he whines. But first the apartment has to be +rented, and the deeds signed, and a thousand other details for which his +frock coat will come in handy. But the size of her! -- that's what really +worries him. If we were to find her suddenly standing on the doorstep when we +arrive he would faint -- that's how much he respects her! + +And so we've got to go easy with Elsa for a while. Elsa is only there to +make breakfast -- and to show the apartment. + +But Elsa is already undermining me. That German blood. Those melancholy +songs. Coming down the stairs this morning, with the fresh coffee in my +nostrils, I was humming softly ... "Es war' so schon gewesen." For +breakfast, that. And in a little while the English boy upstairs with his +Bach. As Elsa says -- "he needs a woman." And Elsa needs something too. I can +feel it. I didn't say anything to Boris about it, but while he was cleaning +his teeth this morning Elsa was giving me an earful about Berlin, about the +women who look so attractive from behind, and when they turn round -- wow, +syphilis! + +It seems to me that Elsa looks at me rather wistfully. Something left over +from the breakfast table. This afternoon we were writing, back to back, in +the studio. She had begun a letter to her lover who is in Italy. The machine +got jammed. Boris had gone to look at a cheap room he will take as soon as +the apartment is rented. There was nothing for it but to make love to Elsa. +She wanted it. And yet I felt a little sorry for her. She had only written +the first line to her lover -- I read it out of the corner of my eye as I +bent over her. But it couldn't be helped. That damned German music, so +melancholy, so sentimental. It undermined me. And then her beady little eyes, +so hot and sorrowful at the same time. + +After it was over I asked her to play something for me. + +She's a musician, Elsa, even though it sounded like broken pots and skulls +clanking. She was weeping, too, as she played. I don't blame her. Everywhere +the same thing, she says. Everywhere a man, and then she has to leave, and +then there's an abortion and then a new job and then another man and nobody +gives a fuck about her except to use her. All this after she's played +Schumann for me -- Schumann, that slobbery, sentimental German bastard! +Somehow I feel sorry as hell for her and yet I don't give a damn. A cunt who +can play as she does ought to have better sense than be tripped up by every +guy with a big putz who happens to come along. But that Schumann gets into +my blood. She's still sniffling, Elsa; but my mind is far away. I'm thinking +of Tania and how she claws away at her adagio. I'm thinking of lots of +things that are gone and buried. Thinking of a summer afternoon in +Greenpoint when the Germans were romping over Belgium and we had not yet +lost enough money to be concerned over the rape of a neutral country. A +time when we were still innocent enough to listen to poets and to sit around +a table in the twilight rapping for departed spirits. All that afternoon and +evening the atmosphere is saturated with German music; the whole +neighborhood is German, more German even than Germany. We were brought up on +Schumann and Hugo Wolf and Sauerkraut and Kummel and potato +dumplings. Toward evening we're sitting around a big table with the curtains +drawn and some fool two-headed wench is rapping for Jesus Christ. We're +holding hands under the table and the dame next to me has two fingers in my +fly. And finally we lie on the floor, behind the piano, while someone sings +a dreary song. The air is stifling and her breath is boozy. The pedal is +moving up and down, stiffly, automatically, a crazy, futile movement, like a +tower of dung that takes twenty-seven years to build but keeps perfect time. +I pull her over me with the sounding board in my ears; the room is dark and +the carpet is sticky with the Kiimmel that has been spilled about. Suddenly +it seems as if the dawn were coming: it is like water purling over ice and +the ice is blue with a rising mist, glaciers sunk in emerald green, chamois +and antelope, golden groupers, sea-cows mouching along and the amber-jack +leaping over the Arctic rim ... + +Elsa is sitting in my lap. Her eyes are like little belly-buttons. I look at +her large mouth, so wet and glistening, and I cover it. She is humming now +... "Es war' so schon gewesen ..." Ah, Elsa, you don't know yet what +that means to me, your Trompeter von Sackingen. German Singing +Societies, Schwaben Hall, the Turnverein ... links um, rechts um ... +and then a whack over the ass with the end of a rope. + +Ah, the Germans! They take you all over like an omnibus. They give you +indigestion. In the same night one cannot visit the morgue, the infirmary, +the zoo, the signs of the zodiac, the limbos of philosophy, the caves of +epistemology, the arcana of Freud and Stekel ... On the merry-go-round one +doesn't get anywhere, whereas with the Germans one can go from Vega to Lope +de Vega, all in one night, and come away as foolish as Parsifal. + +As I say, the day began gloriously. It was only this morning that I became +conscious again of this physical Paris of which I have been unaware for +weeks. Perhaps it is because the book has begun to grow inside me. I am +carrying it around with me everywhere. I walk through the streets big with +child and the cops escort me across the street. Women get up to offer me +their seats. Nobody pushes me rudely any more. I am pregnant. I waddle +awkwardly; my big stomach pressed against the weight of the world. + +It was this morning, on our way to the Post Office, that we gave the book +its final imprimatur. We have evolved a new cosmogony of literature, +Boris and I. It is to be a new Bible -- The Last Book. All those who +have anything to say will say it here -- anonymously. We will exhaust +the age. After us not another book -- not for a generation, at least. +Heretofore we had been digging in the dark, with nothing but instinct to +guide us. Now we shall have a vessel in which to pour the vital fluid, a +bomb which, when we throw it, will set off the world. We shall put into it +enough to give the writers of tomorrow their plots, their dramas, their +poems, their myths, their sciences. The world will be able to feed on it for +a thousand years to come. It is colossal in its pretentiousness. The thought +of it almost shatters us. + +For a hundred years or more the world, our world, has been dying. And +not one man, in these last hundred years or so, has been crazy enough to put +a bomb up the asshole of creation and set it off. The world is +rotting away, dying piecemeal. But it needs the coup de grace, it +needs to be blown to smithereens. Not one of us is intact, and yet we have +in us all the continents and the seas between the continents and the birds +of the air. We are going to put it down -- the evolution of this world which +has died but which has not been buried. We are swimming on the face of time +and all else has drowned, is drowning, or will drown. It will be enormous, +the Book. There will be oceans of space in which to move about, to +perambulate, to sing, to dance, to climb, to bathe, to leap somersaults, to +whine, to rape, to murder. A cathedral, a veritable cathedral, in the +building of which everybody will assist who has lost his identity. There +will be masses for the dead, prayers, confessions, hymns, a moaning and a +chattering, a sort of murderous insouciance; there will be rose windows and +gargoyles and acolytes and pallbearers. You can bring your horses in a +gallop through the aisles. You can butt your head against the walls -- they +won't give. You can pray in any language you choose, or you can curl up +outside and go to sleep. It will last a thousand years, at least, this +cathedral, and there will be no replica, for the builders will be dead and +the formula too. We will have postcards made and organize tours. We will +build a town around it and set up a free commune. We have no need for +genius -- genius is dead. We have need for strong hands, for spirits who are +willing to give up the ghost and put on flesh ... + +The day is moving along at a fine tempo. I am up on the balcony at Tania's +place. The drama is going on down below in the drawing-room. The dramatist +is sick and from above his scalp looks more scabrous than ever. His hair is +made of straw. His ideas are straw. His wife too is straw, though still a +little damp. The whole house is made of straw. Here I am up on the balcony, +waiting for Boris to arrive. My last problem -- breakfast -- is gone. I +have simplified everything. If there are any new problems I can carry them in +my rucksack, along with my dirty wash. I am throwing away all my sous. What +need have I for money? I am a writing machine. The last screw has been added. +The thing flows. Between me and the machine there is no estrangement. I am +the machine ... + +They have not told me yet what the new drama is about, but I can sense it. +They are trying to get rid of me. Yet here I am for my dinner, even a little +earlier than they expected. I have informed them where to sit, what to do. I +ask them politely if I shall be disturbing them, but what I really mean, and +they know it well, is -- will you be disturbing me? No, you blissful +cockroaches, you are not disturbing me. You are nourishing me. I see +you sitting there close together and I know there is a chasm between you. +Your nearness is the nearness of planets. I am the void between you. If I +withdraw there will be no void for you to swim in. + +Tania is in a hostile mood -- I can feel it. She resents my being filled with +anything but herself. She knows by the very calibre of my excitement that +her value is reduced to zero. She knows that I did not come this evening to +fertilize her. She knows there is something germinating inside me which will +destroy her. She is slow to realize, but she is realizing it ... + +Sylvester looks more content. He will embrace her this evening at the dinner +table. Even now he is reading my manuscript, preparing to inflame my ego, to +set my ego against hers. + +It will be a strange gathering this evening. The stage is being set. I hear +the tinkle of the glasses. The wine is being brought out. There will be +bumpers downed and Sylvester who is ill will come out of his illness. + +It was only last night, at Cronstadt's, that we projected this setting. It +was ordained that the women must suffer, that off-stage there should be more +terror and violence, more disasters, more suffering, more woe and misery. + +It is no accident that propels people like us to Paris. Paris is simply an +artificial stage, a revolving stage that permits the spectator to glimpse +all phases of the conflict. Of itself Paris initiates no dramas. They are +begun elsewhere. Paris is simply an obstetrical instrument that tears +the living embryo from the womb and puts it in the incubator. Paris is the +cradle of artificial births. Rocking here in the cradle each one slips back +into his soil: one dreams back to Berlin, New York, Chicago, Vienna, Minsk. +Vienna is never more Vienna than in Paris. Everything is raised to +apotheosis. The cradle gives up its babes and new ones take their places. +You can read here on the walls where Zola lived and Balzac and Dante and +Strindberg and everybody who ever was anything. Everyone has lived here +some time or other. Nobody dies here ... + +They are talking downstairs. Their language is symbolic. The word +"struggle" enters into it. Sylvester, the sick dramatist, is saying: "I am +just reading the Manifesto." And Tania says -- "Whose?" Yes, +Tania, I heard you. I am up here writing about you and you divine it well. +Speak more, that I may record you. For when we go to table I shall +not be able to make any notes ... Suddenly Tania remarks: "There is no +prominent hall in this place." Now what does that mean, if anything? + +They are putting up pictures now. That, too, is to impress me. See, they +wish to say, we are at home here, living the conjugal life. Making the home +attractive. We will even argue a little about the pictures, for your +benefit. And Tania remarks again: "How the eye deceives one!" Ah, Tania, +what things you say! Go on, carry out this farce a little longer. I am here +to get the dinner you promised me; I enjoy this comedy tremendously. And now +Sylvester takes the lead. He is trying to explain one of Borowski's +gouaches. "Come here, do you see? One of them is playing the guitar; +the other is holding a girl in his lap." True, Sylvester. Very true. +Borowski and his guitars! The girls in his lap! Only one never quite knows +what it is he holds in his lap, or whether it is really a man playing the +guitar ... + +Soon Moldorf will be trotting in on all fours and Boris with that helpless +little laugh of his. There will be a golden pheasant for dinner and Anjou +and short fat cigars. And Cronstadt, when he gets the latest news, will +live a little harder, a little brighter, for five minutes; and then he will +subside again into the humus of his ideology +and perhaps a poem will be born, a big golden bell of a poem without a +tongue. + +Had to knock off for an hour or so. Another customer to look at the +apartment. Upstairs the bloody Englishman is practising his Bach. It is +imperative now, when someone comes to look at the apartment, to run +upstairs and ask the pianist to lay off for a while. + +Elsa is telephoning the greengrocer. The plumber is putting a new seat on +the toilet bowl. Whenever the doorbell rings Boris loses his equilibrium. +In the excitement he has dropped his glasses; he is on his hands and knees, +his frock coat is dragging the floor. It is a little like the Grand +Guignol -- the starving poet come to give the butcher's daughter lessons. +Every time the phone rings the poet's mouth waters. Mallarme sounds like a +sirloin steak, Victor Hugo like foie de veau. Elsa is ordering a +delicate little lunch for Boris -- "a nice juicy little pork chop," she says. +I see a whole flock of pink hams lying cold on the marble, wonderful hams +cushioned in white fat. I have a terrific hunger though we've only had +breakfast a few minutes ago -- it's the lunch that I'll have to skip. It's +only Wednesdays that I eat lunch, thanks to Borowski. Elsa is still +telephoning -- she forgot to order a piece of bacon. "Yes, a nice little piece +of bacon, not too fatty," she says ... Zut alors! Throw in some +sweetbreads, throw in some mountain oysters and some psst clams! Throw in +some fried liverwurst while you're at it; I could gobble up the fifteen +hundred plays of Lope de Vega in one sitting. + +It is a beautiful woman who has come to look at the apartment. An American, +of course. I stand at the window with my back to her watching a sparrow +pecking at a fresh turd. Amazing how easily the sparrow is provided for. It +is raining a bit and the drops are very big. I used to think a bird couldn't +fly if its wings got wet. Amazing how these rich dames come to Paris and find +all the swell studios. A little talent and a big purse. If it rains they have +a chance to display their brand new slickers. Food is nothing: sometimes +they're so busy gadding about that they haven't time for lunch. Just a little +sandwich, a wafer, at the Cafe de la Paix or the Ritz Bar. + +"For the daughters of gentlefolk only" -- that's what it says at the old +studio of Puvis de Chavannes. Happened to pass there the other day. Rich +American cunts with paint boxes slung over their shoulders. A little talent +and a fat purse. + +The sparrow is hopping frantically from one cobble-stone to another. Truly +herculean efforts, if you stop to examine closely. Everywhere there is food +lying about -- in the gutter, I mean. The beautiful American woman is +inquiring about the toilet. The toilet! Let me show you, you velvet-snooted +gazelle! The toilet, you say? Par id, Madame. N'oubliez. pas que les +places numerotees sont reservees aux mutiles de la guerre. + +Boris is rubbing his hands -- he is putting the finishing touches to the deal. +The dogs are barking in the courtyard; they bark like wolves. Upstairs Mrs. +Melverness is moving the furniture around. She had nothing to do all day, +she's bored; if she finds a crumb of dirt anywhere she cleans the whole +house. There's a bunch of green grapes on the table and a bottle of +wine -- vin de choix, 10 degrees. "Yes," says Boris, "I could make a +wash-stand for you, just come here, please. Yes, this is the toilet. There +is one upstairs too, of course. Yes, a thousand francs a month. You don't +care much for Utrillo, you say? No, this is it. It needs a new washer, +that's all ..." + +She's going in a minute now. Boris hasn't even introduced me this time. The +son of a bitch! Whenever it's a rich cunt he forgets to introduce me. In a +few minutes I'll be able to sit down again and type. Somehow I don't feel +like it any more today. My spirit is dribbling away. She may come back in an +hour or so and take the chair from under my ass. How the hell can a man +write when he doesn't know where he's going to sit the next half hour? If +this rich bastard takes the place I won't even have a place to sleep. It's +hard to know, when you're in such a jam which is worse -- not having a place +to sleep or not having a place to work. One can sleep almost anywhere, but +one must have a place to work. Even if it's not a masterpiece you're doing. +Even a bad novel requires a chair to sit on and a bit of privacy. These rich +cunts never think of a thing like that. Whenever they want to lower their +soft behinds there's always a chair standing ready for them ... + + +x x x + + + +Last night we left Sylvester and his God sitting together before the +hearth. Sylvester in his pajamas, Moldorf with a cigar between his lips. +Sylvester is peeling an orange. He puts the peel on the couch-cover. +Moldorf draws closer to him. He asks permission to read again that brilliant +parody The Gates of Heaven. We are getting ready to go, Boris and I. +We are too gay for this sick-room atmosphere. Tania is going with us. She is +gay because she is going to escape. Boris is gay because the God in Moldorf +is dead. I am gay because it is another act we are going to put on. + +Moldorf's voice is reverent. "Can I stay with you, Sylvester, until you go +to bed?" He has been staying with him for the last six days, buying +medicine, running errands for Tania, comforting, consoling, guarding the +portals against malevolent intruders like Boris and his scallywags. He is +like a savage who has discovered that his idol was mutilated during the +night. There he sits, at the idol's feet, with breadfruit and grease and +jabber-wocky prayers. His voice goes out unctuously. His limbs are already +paralyzed. + +To Tania he speaks as if she were a priestess who had broken her vows. "You +must make yourself worthy. Sylvester is your God." And while Sylvester is +upstairs suffering (he has a little wheeze in the chest) the priest and the +priestess devour the food. "You are polluting yourself," he says, the gravy +dripping from his lips. He has the capacity for eating and suffering at the +same time. While he fends off the dangerous ones he puts out his fat little +paw and strokes Tania's hair. "I am beginning to fall in love with you. You +are like my Fanny." + +In other respects it has been a fine day for Moldorf. A letter arrived from +America. Moe is getting A's in everything. Murray is learning to ride the +bicycle. The victrola was repaired. You can see from the expression on his +face that there were other things in the letter besides report cards and +velocipedes. You can be sure of it because this afternoon he bought 325 +francs worth of jewelry for his Fanny. In addition he wrote her a +twenty-page letter. The garcon brought him page after page, filled +his fountain pen, served his coffee and cigars, fanned him a little +when he perspired, brushed the crumbs from the table, lit his cigar when it +went out, bought stamps for him, danced on him, piroutted, salaamed ... +broke his spine damned near. The tip was fat. Bigger and fatter than a +Corona Corona. Moldorf probably mentioned it in his diary. It was for +Fanny's sake. The bracelet and the earrings, they were worth every sou he +spent. Better to spend it on Fanny than waste it on little strumpets like +Germaine and Odette. Yes, he told Tania so. He showed her his trunk. It is +crammed with gifts -- for Fanny, and for Moe and Murray. + +"My Fanny is the most intelligent woman in the world. I have been searching +and searching to find a flaw in her -- but there's not one. + +"She's perfect. I'll tell you what Fanny can do. She plays bridge like a +shark; she's interested in Zionism; you give her an old hat, for instance, +and see what she can do with it. A little twist here, a ribbon there, and +voila quelque chose de beau! Do you know what is perfect bliss? To +sit beside Fanny, when Moe and Murray have gone to bed, and listen to the +radio. She sits there so peacefully. I am rewarded for all my struggles and +heartaches in just watching her. She listens intelligently. When I think of +your stinking Montparnasse and then of my evenings in Bay Ridge with Fanny +after a big meal, I tell you there is no comparison. A simple thing like +food, the children, the soft lamps, and Fanny sitting there, a little tired, +but cheerful, contented, heavy with bread ... we just sit there for hours +without saying a word. That's bliss! + +"Today she writes me a letter -- not one of those dull stock report letters. +She writes me from the heart, in language that even my little Murray could +understand. She's delicate about everything, Fanny. She says that the +children must continue their education but the expense worries her. It +will cost a thousand bucks to send little Murray to school. Moe, of course, +will get a scholarship. But little Murray, that little genius, Murray, what +are we going to do about him? I wrote Fanny not to worry. Send Murray to +school, I said. What's another thousand dollars? I'll make more money this +year than ever before. I'll do it for little Murray -- because he's a genius, +that kid." + +I should like to be there when Fanny opens the trunk. "See, Fanny, this is +what I bought in Budapest from an old Jew ... This is what they wear in +Bulgaria -- it's pure wool . .. This belonged to the Duke of something or +other -- no, you don't wind it, you put it in the sun This I want you to wear, +Fanny, when we go to the Opera ... wear it with that comb I showed you ... +And this, Fanny, is something Tania picked up for me ... she's a little bit +on your type ..." + +And Fanny is sitting there on the settee, just as she was in the oleograph, +with Moe on one side of her and little Murray, Murray the genius, on the +other. Her fat legs are a little too short to reach the floor. Her eyes have +a dull permanganate glow. Breasts like ripe red cabbage; they bobble a +little when she leans forward. But the sad thing about her is that the juice +has been cut off. She sits there like a dead storage battery; her face is +out of plumb -- it needs a little animation, a sudden spurt of juice to bring +it back into focus. Moldorf is jumping around in front of her like a fat +toad. His flesh quivers. He slips and it is difficult for him to roll over +again on his belly. She prods him with her thick toes. His eyes protrude a +little further. "Kick me again. Fanny, that was good!" She gives him a good +prod this time -- it leaves a permanent dent in his paunch. His face is close +to the carpet; the wattles are joggling in the nap of the rug. He livens up +a bit, flips around, springs from furniture to furniture. "Fanny, you are +marvellous!" He is sitting now on her shoulder. He bites a little piece from +her ear, just a little tip from the lobe where it doesn't hurt. But she's +still dead -- all storage battery and no juice. He falls on her lap and lies +there quivering like a toothache. He is all warm now and helpless. His +belly glistens like a patent-leather shoe. In the sockets of his eyes a pair +of fancy vest buttons. "Unbutton my eyes. Fanny, I want to see you better!" +Fanny carries him to bed and drops a little hot wax over his eyes. +She puts rings around his navel and a thermometer up his ass. She places him +and he quivers again. Suddenly he's dwindled, shrunk completely out of +sight. She searches all over for him, in her intestines, everywhere. +Something is tickling her -- she doesn't know where exactly. The bed is full +of toads and fancy vest buttons. + +"Fanny, where are you?" Something is tickling her -- she can't say where. The +buttons are dropping off the bed. The toads are climbing the walls. A +tickling and a tickling. "Fanny, take the wax out of my eyes! I want to +look at you!" But Fanny is laughing, squirming with laughter. There is +something inside her, tickling and tickling. She'll die laughing if she +doesn't find it. "Fanny, the trunk is full of beautiful things. Fanny, do +you hear me?" Fanny is laughing, laughing like a fat worm. Her belly is +swollen with laughter. Her legs are getting blue. "O God, Morris, there is +something tickling me ... I can't help it!" + + * * * + +Sunday! Left the Villa Borghese a little before noon, just as Boris was +getting ready to sit down to lunch. I left out of a sense of delicacy, +because it really pains Boris to see me sitting there in the studio with an +empty belly. Why he doesn't invite me to lunch with him I don't know. He +says he can't afford it, but that's no excuse. Anyway, I'm delicate about +it. If it pains him to eat alone in my presence it would probably pain him +more to share his meal with me. It's not my place to pry into his secret +affairs. + +Dropped in at the Cronstadts' and they were eating too. A young chicken with +wild rice. Pretended that I had eaten already, but I could have torn the +chicken from the baby's hands. This is not just false modesty -- it's a kind +of perversion, I'm thinking. Twice they asked me if I wouldn't join them. +No! No! Wouldn't even accept a cup of coffee after the meal. I'm +delicat, I am! On the way out I cast a lingering glance at the bones +lying on the baby's plate -- there was still meat on them. + +Prowling around aimlessly. A beautiful day -- so far. The Rue de Buci is +alive, crawling. The bars wide open and the curbs lined with bicycles. All +the meat and vegetable markets are in full swing. Arms loaded with truck +bandaged in newspapers. A fine Catholic Sunday -- in the morning, at least. + +High noon and here I am standing on an empty belly at the confluence of all +these crooked lanes that reek with the odor of food. Opposite me is the Hotel +de Louisiane. A grim old hostelry known to the bad boys of the Rue de Boci in +the good old days. Hotels and food, and I'm walking about like a leper with +crabs gnawing at my entrails. On Sunday mornings there's a fever in the +streets. Nothing like it anywhere, except perhaps on the East Side, or down +around Chatham Square. The Rue de l'Echaude is seething. The streets twist +and turn, at every angle a fresh hive of activity. Long queues of people with +vegetables under their arms, turning in here and there with crisp, sparkling +appetites. Nothing but food, food, food. Makes one delirious. + +Pass the Square de Furstemberg. Looks different now, at high noon. The other +night when I passed by it was deserted, bleak, spectral. In the middle of +the square four black trees that have not yet begun to blossom. +Intellectual trees, nourished by the paving stones. Like T. S. Eliot's +verse. Here, by God, if Marie Laurencin ever brought her Lesbians out into +the open, would be the place for them to commune. Tres lesbienne id. +Sterile, hybrid, dry as Boris' heart. + +In the little garden adjoining the Eglise St. Germain are a few dismounted +gargoyles. Monsters that jut forward with a terrifying plunge. On the +benches other monsters -- old people, idiots, cripples, epileptics. Snoozing +quietly, waiting for the dinner bell to ring. At the Galerie Zak across the +way some imbecile has made a picture of the cosmos -- on the flat. A +painter's cosmos! Full of odds and ends, bric-a-brac. In the lower left-hand +corner, however, there's an anchor -- and a dinner bell. Salute! Salute, O +Cosmos! + +Still prowling around. Mid-aftemoon. Guts rattling. Beginning to rain now. +Notre-Dame rises tomb-like from the water. The gargoyles lean far out over +the lace facade. They hang there like an idee fixe in the mind of a +monomaniac. An old man with yellow whiskers approaches me. Has some +Jaworski nonsense in his hand. Comes up to me with his head thrown back and +the rain splashing in his face turns the golden sands to mud. Book store +with some of Raoul Dufy's drawings in the window. Drawings of charwomen with +rose bushes between their legs. A treatise on the philosophy of Joan Miro. +The philosophy, mind you! + +In the same window: A Man Cut In Slices! Chapter one: the man in the +eyes of his family. Chapter two: the same in the eyes of his mistress. +Chapter three:--No chapter three. Have to come back tomorrow for chapters +three and four. Every day the window trimmer turns a fresh page. A man +cut in slices ... You can't imagine how furious I am not to have +thought of a title like that! Where is this bloke who writes "the same in +the eyes of his mistress ... the same in the eyes of ... the same ..."? +Where is this guy? Who is he? I want to hug him. I wish to Christ I had had +brains enough to think of a title like that -- instead of Crazy Cock +and the other fool things I invented. Well, fuck a duck! I congratulate him +just the same. + +I wish him luck with his fine title. Here's another slice for you -- for your +next book! Ring me up some day. I'm living at the Villa Borghese. We're all +dead, or dying, or about to die. We need good titles. We need meat -- slices +and slices of meat -- juicy tenderloins, porterhouse steaks, kidneys, mountain +oysters, sweetbreads. Some day, when I'm standing at the corner of 42nd +Street and Broadway, I'm going to remember this title and I'm going to put +down everything that goes on in my noodle -- caviar, rain drops, axle-grease, +vermicelli, liverwurst -- slices and slices of it. And I'll tell no one why, +after I had put everything down, I suddenly went home and chopped the baby +to pieces. Un acte gratuit pour vous, cher monsieur si bien coupe en +tranches! + +How a man can wander about all day on an empty belly, and even get an +erection once in a while, is one of those mysteries which are too easily +explained by the "anatomists of the soul." On a Sunday afternoon, when the +shutters are down and the proletariat possesses the street in a kind of dumb +torpor, there are certain thoroughfares which remind one of nothing less +than a big chancrous cock laid open longitudinally. And it is just these +highways, the Rue St. Denis, for instance, or the Faubourg du Temple -- which +attract one irresistibly, much as in the old days, around Union Square or +the upper reaches of the Bowery, one was drawn to the dime museums where in +the show-windows there were displayed wax reproductions of various organs +of the body eaten away by syphilis and other venereal diseases. The city +sprouts out like a huge organism diseased in every part, the beautiful +thoroughfares only a little less repulsive because they have been drained +of their pus. + +At the Cite Nortier, somewhere near the Place du Combat, I pause a few +minutes to drink in the full squalor of the scene. It is a rectangular court +like many another which one glimpses through the low passageways that flank +the old arteries of Paris. In the middle of the court is a clump of decrepit +buildings which have so rotted away that they have collapsed on one another +and formed a sort of intestinal embrace. The ground is uneven, the flagging +slippery with slime. A sort of human dump-heap which has been filled in with +cinders and dry garbage. The sun is setting fast. The colors die. They shift +from purple to dried blood, from nacre to bistre, from cool dead grays to +pigeon shit. Here and there a lopsided monster stands in the window +blinking like an owl. There is the shrill squawk of children with pale faces +and bony limbs, rickety little urchins marked with the forceps. A fetid odor +seeps from the walls, the odor of a mildewed mattress Europe -- medieval, +grotesque, monstrous: a symphony in B mol. Directly across the street the +Cine Combat offers its distinguished clientele Metropolis. + +Coming away my mind reverts to a book that I was reading only the other day. +"The town was a shambles; corpses, mangled by butchers and stripped by +plunderers, lay thick in the streets; wolves sneaked from the suburbs to eat +them; the black death and other plagues crept in to keep them company, and +the English came marching on; the while the danse macabre whirled +about the tombs in all the cemeteries ..." Paris during the days of Charles +the Silly! A lovely book! Refreshing, appetizing. I'm still enchanted by +it. About the patrons and prodromes of the Renaissance I know little, but +Madam Pimpernel, la belle boulangere, and Maitre Jehan Crapotte, +I'orfevre, these occupy my spare thoughts still. Not forgetting +Rodin, the evil genius of The Wandering Jew, who practised his +nefarious ways "until the day when he was enflamed and outwitted by the +octoroon Cecily." Sitting in the Square du Temple, musing over the doings of +the horse-knackers led by Jean Caboche, I have thought long and ruefully +over the. sad fate of Charles the Silly. A half-wit, who prowled +about the halls of his Hotel St. Paul, garbed in the filthiest rags, eaten +away by ulcers and vermin, gnawing a bone, when they flung him one, like a +mangy dog. At the Rue des Lions I looked for the stones of the old menagerie +where he once fed his pets. His only diversion, poor dolt, aside from those +card games with his "low-born companion," Odette de Champsdivers. + +It was a Sunday afternoon, much like this, when I first met Germaine. I was +strolling along the Boulevard Beaumarchais, rich by a hundred francs or so +which my wife had frantically cabled from America. There was a touch of +spring in the air, a poisonous, malefic spring that seemed to burst from the +manholes. Night after night I had been coming back to this quarter, +attracted by certain leprous streets which only revealed their sinister +splendor when the light of day had oozed away and the whores commenced to +take up their posts. The Rue Pasteur-Wagner is one I recall in particular, +corner of the Rue Amelot which hides behind the boulevard like a slumbering +lizard. Here, at the neck of the bottle, so to speak, there was always a +cluster of vultures who croaked and flapped their dirty wings, who reached +out with sharp talons and plucked you into a doorway. Jolly, rapacious +devils who didn't even give you time to button your pants when it was over. +Led you into a little room off the street, a room without a window usually, +and, sitting on the edge of the bed with skirts tucked up gave you a quick +inspection, spat on your cock, and placed it for you. While you washed +yourself another one stood at the door and, holding her victim by one hand, +watched nonchalantly as you gave the finishing touches to your toilet. + +Germaine was different. There was nothing to tell me so from her appearance. +Nothing to distinguish her from the other trollops who met each afternoon +and evening at the Cafe de l'Elephant. As I say, it was a spring day and the +few francs my wife had scraped up to cable me were jingling in my pocket. I +had a sort of vague premonition that I would not reach the Bastille without +being taken in tow by one of these buzzards. Sauntering along the boulevard +I had noticed her verging towards me with that curious trot-about air of a +whore and the rundown heels and the cheap jewelry and the pasty look of +their kind which the rouge only accentuates. It was not difficult to come +to terms with her. We sat in the back of the little tabac called +L'Elephant and talked it over quickly. + +In a few minutes we were in a five-franc room on the Rue Amelot, the +curtains drawn and the covers thrown back. She didn't rush things, Germaine. +She sat on the bidet soaping herself and talked to me pleasantly +about this and that; she liked the knickerbockers I was wearing. Tres +chic! she thought. They were once, but I had worn the seat out of them; +fortunately the jacket covered my ass. As she stood up to dry herself, still +talking to me pleasantly, suddenly she dropped the towel and, advancing +towards me leisurely, she commenced rubbing her pussy affectionately, +stroking it with her two hands, caressing it, patting it, patting it. There +was something about her eloquence at that moment and the way she thrust +that rosebush under my nose which remains unforgettable; she spoke of it as +if it were some extraneous object which she had acquired at great cost, an +object whose value had increased with time and which now she prized above +everything in the world. Her words imbued it with a peculiar fragrance; it +was no longer just her private organ, but a treasure, a magic, potent +treasure, a God-given thing -- and none the less so because she traded it day +in and day out for a few pieces of silver. As she flung herself on the bed, +with legs spread wide apart, she cupped it with her hands and stroked it +some more, murmuring all the while in that hoarse, cracked voice of hers +that it was good, beautiful, a treasure, a little treasure. And it was +good, that little pussy of hers! That Sunday afternoon, with its +poisonous breath of spring in the air, everything clicked again. As we +stepped out of the hotel I looked her over again in the harsh light of day +and I saw clearly what a whore she was -- the gold teeth, the geranium in her +hat, the rundown heels, etc., etc. Even the fact that she had wormed +a dinner out of me and cigarettes and taxi hadn't the least disturbing +effect upon me. I encouraged it, in fact. I liked her so well that after +dinner we went back to the hotel again and took another shot at it. "For +love," this time. And again that big, bushy thing of hers worked its bloom +and magic. It began to have an independent existence -- for me too. There was +Germaine and there was that rosebush of hers. I liked them separately and +I liked them together. + + As I say, she was different, Germaine. Later, when she +discovered my true circumstances, she treated me nobly -- blew me to drinks, +gave me credit, pawned my things, introduced me to her friends, and so on. +She even apologized for not lending me money, which I understood quite well +after her maquereau had been pointed out to me. Night after night I +walked down the Boulevard Beaumarchais to the little tabac where they +all congregated and I waited for her to stroll in and give me a few minutes +of her precious time. + +When, some time later, I came to write about Claude it was not Claude that I +was thinking of, but Germaine.... "All the men she's been with and now you, +just you, and barges going by, masts and hulls, the whole damned current of +life flowing through you, through her, through all the guys behind you and +after you, the flowers and the birds and the sun streaming in and the +fragrance of it choking you, annihilating you." That was for Germaine! Claude +was not the same, though I admired her tremendously -- I even thought for a +while that I loved her. Claude had a soul and a conscience; she had +refinement, too, which is bad -- in a whore. Claude always imparted a feeling +of sadness; she left the impression, unwittingly, of course, that you were +just one more added to the stream which fate had ordained to destroy her. +Unwittingly, I say, because Claude was the last person in the world +who would consciously create such an image in one's mind. She was too +delicate, too sensitive for that. At bottom, Claude was just a good French +girl of average breed and intelligence whom life had tricked somehow; +something in her there was which was not tough enough to withstand the shock +of daily experience. For her were meant those terrible words of +Louis-Philippe: "and a night comes when all is over, when so many jaws have +closed upon us that we no longer have the strength to stand, and our meat +hangs upon our bodies, as though it had been masticated by every mouth." +Germaine, on the other hand, was a whore from the cradle; she was thoroughly +satisfied with her role, enjoyed it in fact, except when her stomach pinched +or her shoes gave out, little surface things of no account, nothing that ate +into her soul, nothing that created torment. Ennui! That was the worst +she ever felt. Days there were, no doubt, when she had a bellyful, as we say +-- but no more than that! Most of the time she enjoyed it -- or gave the +illusion of enjoying it. It made a difference of course, whom she went with +-- or came with. But the principal thing was a man. A man! That +was what she craved. A man with something between his legs that could tickle +her, that could make her writhe in ecstasy, make her grab that bushy twat of +hers with both hands and rub it joyfully, boastfully, proudly, with a sense +of connection, a sense of life. That was the only place where she experienced +any life -- down there where she clutched herself with both hands. + +Germaine was a whore all the way through, even down to her good heart, her +whore's heart which is not really a good heart but a lazy one, an +indifferent, flaccid heart that can be touched for a moment, a heart without +reference to any fixed point within, a big, flaccid whore's heart that can +detach itself for a moment from its true center. However vile and +circumscribed was that world which she had created for herself, nevertheless +she functioned in it superbly. And that in itself is a tonic thing. When, +after we had become well acquainted, her companions would twit me, saying +that I was in love with Germaine (a situation almost inconceivable to them), +I would say: "Sure! Sure, I'm in love with her! And what's more, I'm going +to be faithful to her!" A lie, of course, because I could no more think of +loving Germaine than I could think of loving a spider; and if I was +faithful, it was not to Germaine but to that bushy thing she carried between +her legs. Whenever I looked at another woman I thought immediately of +Germaine, of that flaming bush which she had left in my mind and which +seemed imperishable. It gave me pleasure to sit on the terrasse of +the little tabac and observe her as she plied her trade, observe her +as she resorted to the same grimaces, the same tricks, with others as she +had with me. "She's doing her job!" -- that's how I felt about it, and it was +with approbation that I regarded her transactions. Later, when I had taken up +with Claude, and I saw her night after night sitting in her accustomed place, +her round little buttocks chubbily ensconced in the plush settee, I felt a +sort of inexpressible rebellion towards her; a whore, it seemed to me, had no +right to be sitting there like a lady, waiting timidly for some one to +approach and all the while abstemiously sipping her chocolat. Germaine +was a hustler. She didn't wait for you to come to her -- she went out and +grabbed you. I remember so well the holes in her stockings, and the torn +ragged shoes; I remember too how she stood at the bar and with blind, +courageous defiance threw a strong drink down her stomach and marched out +again. A hustler! Perhaps it wasn't so pleasant to smell that boozy breath of +hers, that breath compounded of weak coffee, cognac, aperitifs, pemods +and all the other stuff she guzzled between times, what to warm herself and +what to summon up strength and courage, but the fire of it penetrated her, it +glowed down there between her legs where women ought to glow, and there was +established that circuit which makes one feel the earth under his legs again. +When she lay there with her legs apart and moaning, even if she did moan that +way for any and everybody, it was good, it was a proper show of feeling. She +didn't stare up at the ceiling with a vacant look or count the bedbugs on the +wallpaper; she kept her mind on her business, she talked about the things a +man wants to hear when he's climbing over a woman. Whereas Claude -- well, with +Claude there was always a certain delicacy, even when she got under the +sheets with you. And her delicacy offended me. Who wants a delicate +whore! Claude would even ask you to turn your face away when she squatted +over the bidet. All wrong! A man, when he's burning up with passion, +wants to see things; he wants to see everything, even how they make +water. And while it's all very nice to know that a woman has a mind, +literature coming from the cold corpse of a whore is the last thing to be +served in bed. Germaine had the right idea: she was ignorant and lusty, she +put her heart and soul into her work. She was a whore all the way +through -- and that was her virtue! + +Easter came in like a frozen hare -- but it was fairly warm in bed. Today it +is lovely again and along the Champs-Elysees at twilight it is like an +outdoor seraglio choked with dark-eyed houris. The trees are in full +foliage and of a verdure so pure, so rich, that it seems as though they +were still wet and glistening with dew. From the Palais du Louvre to the +Etoile it is like a piece of music for the pianoforte. For five days I have +not touched the typewriter nor looked at a book; nor have I had a single +idea in my head except to go to the American Express. At nine this morning +I was there, just as the doors were being opened, and again at one o'clock. +No news. At four-thirty I dash out of the hotel, resolved to make a last +minute stab at it. Just as I turn the corner I brush against Walter Pach. +Since he doesn't recognize me, and since I have nothing to say to him, I +make no attempt to arrest him. Later, when I am stretching my legs in the +Tuileries his figure reverts to mind. He was a little stooped, pensive, with +a sort of serene yet reserved smile on his face. I wonder, as I look up at +this softly enamelled sky, so faintly tinted, which does not bulge today +with heavy rain clouds but smiles like a piece of old china, I wonder what +goes on in the mind of this man who translated the four thick volumes of +the History of Art when he takes in this blissful cosmos with his +drooping eye. + +Along the Champs-Elysees, ideas pouring from me like sweat. I ought to be +rich enough to have a secretary to whom I could dictate as I walk, because +my best thoughts always come when I am away from the machine. + +Walking along the Champs-Elysees I keep thinking of my really superb health. +When I say "health" I mean optimism, to be truthful. Incurably optimistic! +Still have one foot in the 19th century. I'm a bit retarded, like most +Americans. Carl finds it disgusting, this optimism. "I have only to talk +about a meal," he says, "and you're radiant!" It's a fact. The mere thought +of a meal -- another meal -- rejuvenates me. A meal! That means +something to go on -- a few solid hours of work, an erection possibly. I +don't deny it. I have health, good, solid, animal health. The only thing that +stands between me and a future is a meal, another meal. + +As for Carl, he's not himself these days. He's upset, his nerves are +jangled. He says he's ill, and I believe him, but I don't feel badly about +it. + +I can't. In fact, it makes me laugh. And that offends him, of course. +Everything wounds him -- my laughter, my hunger, my persistence, my +insouciance, everything. One day he wants to blow his brains out +because he can't stand this lousy hole of a Europe any more; the next day he +talks of going to Arizona "where they look you square in the eye." + +"Do it!" I say. "Do one thing or the other, you bastard, but don't try to +cloud my healthy eye with your melancholy breath!" + +But that's just it! In Europe one gets used to doing nothing. You sit on +your ass and whine all day. You get contaminated. You rot. + +Fundamentally Carl is a snob, an aristocratic little prick who lives in a +dementia praecox kingdom all his own. "I hate Paris!" he whines. "All these +stupid people playing cards all day ... look at them! And this writing! +What's the use of putting words together? I can be a writer without +writing, can't I? What does it prove if I write a book? What do we want with +books anyway? There are too many books already ..." + +My eye, but I've been all over that ground -- years and years ago. I've lived +out my melancholy youth. I don't give a fuck any more what's behind me, or +what's ahead Of me. I'm healthy. Incurably healthy. No sorrows, no regrets. +No past, no future. The present is enough for me. Day by day. Today! Le +bel aujourd'hui! + +He has one day a week off, Carl, and on that day he's more miserable, if you +can imagine it, than on any other day of the week. Though he professes to +despise food, the +only way he seems to enjoy himself on his day off is to order a big spread. +Perhaps he does it for my benefit -- I don't know, and I don't ask. If he +chooses to add martyrdom to his list of vices, let him -- it's O. K. with me. +Anyway, last Tuesday, after squandering what he had on a big spread, he +steers me to the D6me, the last place in the world I would seek on my day +off. But one not only gets acquiescent here -- one gets supine. + +Standing at the D6me bar is Marlowe, soused to the ears. He's been on a +bender, as he calls it, for the last five days. That means a continuous +drunk, a peregrination from one bar to another, day and night without +interruption, and finally a lay-off at the American Hospital. Marlowe's +bony emaciated face is nothing but a skull perforated by two deep sockets +in which there are buried a pair of dead clams. His back is covered with +sawdust -- he has just had a little snooze in the watercloset. In his coat +pocket are the proofs for the next issue of his review, he was on his way to +the printer with the proofs, it seems, when some one inveigled him to have a +drink. He talks about it as though it happened months ago. He takes out the +proofs and spreads them over the bar; they are full of coffee stains and +dried spittle. He tries to read a poem which he had written in Greek, but +the proofs are undecipherable. Then he decides to deliver a speech, in +French, but the gerant puts a stop to it. Marlowe is piqued: his one +ambition is to talk a French which even the garcon will understand. +Of old French he is a master; of the Surrealists he has made excellent +translations; but to say a simple thing like "get the hell out of here, you +old prick!" -- that is beyond him. Nobody understands Marlowe's French, not +even the whores. For that matter, it's difficult enough to understand his +English when he's under the weather. He blabbers and spits like a confirmed +stutterer ... no sequence to his phrases. "You pay!" that's one thing +he manages to get out clearly. + +Even if he is fried to the hat some fine preservative instinct always warns +Marlowe when it is time to act. If there is any doubt in his mind as to how +the drinks are going to be paid he will be sure to put on a stunt. The usual +one is to pretend that he is going blind. Carl knows all his tricks by now, +and so when Marlowe suddenly claps his hands to his temples and begins to act +it out Carl gives him a boot in the ass and says: "Come out of it, you sap! +You don't have to do that with me!" + +Whether it is a cunning piece of revenge or not, I don't know, but at any +rate Marlowe is paying Carl back in good coin. Leaning over us +confidentially he relates in a hoarse, croaking voice a piece of gossip +which he picked . up in the course of his peregrinations from bar to bar. +Carl looks up in amazement. He's pale under the gills. Marlowe repeats the +story with variations. Each time Carl wilts a little more. "But that's +impossible!" he finally blurts out. "No, it ain't!" croaks Marlowe. "You're +gonna lose your job ... I got it straight." Carl looks at me in despair. +"Is he shitting me, that bastard?" he murmurs in my ear. And then +aloud -- "What am I going to do now? I'll never find another job. It took me a +year to land this one." + +This, apparently, is all that Marlowe has been waiting to hear. At last he +has found someone worse off than himself. "They be hard times!" he croaks, +and his bony skull glows with a cold, electric fire. + +Leaving the Dome Marlowe explains between hiccups that he's got to return to +San Francisco. He seems genuinely touched now by Carl's helplessness. He +proposes that Carl and I take over the review during his absence. "I can +trust you, Carl," he says. And then suddenly he gets an attack, a real one +this time. He almost collapses in the gutter. We haul him to a +bistrot at the Boulevard Edgar Quinet and sit him down. This time +he's really got It -- a blinding headache that makes him squeal and grunt and +rock himself to and fro like a dumb brute that's been struck by a +sledge hammer. We spill a couple of Femet-Brancas down his throat, lay him +out on the bench and cover his eyes with his muffler. He lies there +groaning. In a little while we hear him snoring. + +"What about his proposition?" says Carl. "Should we take it up? He says +he'll give me a thousand francs when he comes back. I know he won't, but +what about it?" He looks at Marlowe sprawled out on the bench, lifts the +muffler from his eyes, and puts it back again. Suddenly a mischievous grin +lights up his face. "Listen, Joe," he says, beckoning me to move closer, +"we'll take him up on +it. We'll take his lousy review over and we'll fuck him good and proper." + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Why we'll throw out all the other contributors and we'll fill it with our +own shit -- that's what!" + +"Yeah, but what kind of shit?" + +"Any kind ... he won't be able to do anything about it. We'll fuck him good +and proper. One good number and after that the magazine'll be finished. Are +you game, Joe?" + +Grinning and chuckling we lift Marlowe to his feet and haul him to Carl's +room. When we turn on the lights there's a woman in the bed waiting for +Carl. "I forgot all about her," says Carl. We turn the cunt loose and shove +Marlowe into bed. In a minute or so there's a knock at the door. It's Van +Norden. He's all aflutter. Lost a plate of false teeth -- at the Bal Negre, he +thinks. Anyway, we get to bed, the four of us. Marlowe stinks like a smoked +fish. + +In the morning Marlowe and Van Norden leave to search for the false teeth. +Marlowe is blubbering. He imagines they are his teeth. + + * * * + +It is my last dinner at the dramatist's home. They have just rented a new +piano, a concert grand. I meet Sylvester coming out of the florist's with a +rubber plant in his arms. He asks me if I would carry it for him while he +goes for the cigars. One by one I've fucked myself out of all these free +meals which I had planned so carefully. One by one the husbands turn against +me, or the wives. As I walk along with the rubber plant in my arms I think +of that night a few months back when the idea first occurred to me. I was +sitting on a bench near the Coupole, fingering the wedding ring which I had +tried to pawn off on a garcon at the Dome. He had offered me six +francs for it and I was in a rage about it. But the belly was getting the +upper hand. Ever since I left Mona I had worn the ring on my pinkie. It was +so much a part of me that it had never occurred to me to sell it. It was one +of those orange-blossom affairs in white gold. Worth a dollar and a half +once, may be more. For three years we went along without a wedding ring and +then one day when I was going to the pier to meet Mona I happened to pass a +jewelry window on Maiden Lane and the whole window was staffed with wedding +rings. When I got to the pier Mona Was not to be seen. I waited for the last +passenger to descend the gangplank, but no Mona. Finally I asked to be shown +the passenger list. Her name was not on it. I slipped the wedding ring on my +pinkie and there it stayed. Once I left it in a public bath, but then I got +it back again. One of the orange blossoms had fallen off. Anyway, I was +sitting there on the bench with my head down, twiddling the ring, when +suddenly someone clapped me on the back. To make it brief, I got a meal and a +few francs besides. And then it occurred to me, like a flash, that no one +would refuse a man a meal if only he had the courage to demand it. I went +immediately to a cafe and wrote a dozen letters. "Would you let me have +dinner with you once a week? Tell me what day is most convenient for you." It +worked like a charm. I was not only fed ... I was feasted. Every night I went +home drunk. They couldn't do enough for me, these generous once-a-week souls. +What happened to me between times was none of their affair. Now and then the +thoughtful ones presented me with cigarettes, or a little pin money. They +were all obviously relieved when they realized that they would see me only +once a week. And they were still more relieved when I said -- "it won't be +necessary any more." They never asked why. They congratulated me, and that +was all. Often the reason was I had found a better host; I could afford to +scratch off the ones who were a pain in the ass. But that thought never +occurred to them. Finally I had a steady, solid program -- a fixed schedule. +On Tuesdays I knew it would be this kind of a meal and on Fridays that kind. +Cronstadt, I knew, would have champagne for me and homemade apple pie. And +Carl would invite me out, take me to a different restaurant each time, order +rare wines, invite me to the theatre afterwards or take me to the Cirque +Medrano. They were curious about one another, my hosts. Would ask me which +place I liked best, who was the best cook, etc. I think I liked Cronstadt's +joint best of all, perhaps because he chalked the meal up on the wall each +time. Not that it eased my conscience to see what I owed him, because I had +no intention of paying him back nor had he any illusions about being +requited. No, it was the odd numbers which intrigued me. He used to figure it +out to the last centime. If I was to pay in full I would have had to break a +sou. His wife was a marvellous cook and she didn't give a fuck about those +centimes Cronstadt added up. She took it out of me in carbon copies. A fact! +If I hadn't any fresh carbons for her when I showed up, she was crestfallen. +And for that I would have to take the little girl to the Luxembourg next day, +play with her for two or three hours, a task which drove me wild because she +spoke nothing but Hungarian and French. They were a queer lot on the whole, +my hosts ... At Tania's I look down on the spread from the balcony. Moldorf +is there, sitting beside his idol. He is warming his feet at the hearth, a +monstrous look of gratitude in his watery eyes. Tania is running over the +adagio. The adagio says very distinctly: no more words of love! I am at the +fountain again, watching the turtles pissing green milk. Sylvester has just +come back from Broadway with a heart full of love. All night I was lying on a +bench outside the mall while the globe was sprayed with warm turtle piss and +the horses stiffened with priapic fury galloped like mad without ever +touching the ground. All night long I smell the lilacs in the little dark +room where she is taking down her hair, the lilacs that I bought for her as +she went to meet Sylvester. He came back with a heart full of love, she said, +and the lilacs are in her hair, her mouth, they are choking her armpits. The +room is swimming with love and turtle piss and warm lilacs and the horses are +galloping like mad. In the morning dirty teeth and scum on the +window-panes; the little gate that leads to the mall is locked. People +are going to work and the shutters are rattling like coats of mail. In the +bookstore opposite the fountain is the story of Lake Tchad, the silent +lizards, the gorgeous gamboge tints. All the letters I wrote her, drunken +ones with a blunt stub, crazy ones with bits of charcoal, little pieces from +bench to bench, firecrackers, doilies, tutti-frutti; they will be going over +them now, together, and he will compliment me one day. He will say, as he +flicks his cigar ash: "Really, you write quite well. Let's see, you're a +Surrealist, aren't you?" Dry, brittle voice, teeth full of dandruff, solo for +solar plexus, g for gaga. + +Up on the balcony with the rubber plant and the adagio going on down below. +The keys are black and white, then black, then white, then white and black. +And you want to know if you can play something for me. Yes, play something +with those big thumbs of yours. Play the adagio since that's the only +god-damned thing you know. Play it, and then cut off your big thumbs. + +That adagio! I don't know why she insists on playing it all the time. The old +piano wasn't good enough for her; she had to rent a concert grand -- for the +adagio! When I see her big thumbs pressing the keyboard and that silly rubber +plant beside me I feel like that madman of the North who threw his clothes +away and, sitting naked in the wintry boughs, threw nuts down into the +herring-frozen sea. There is something exasperating about this movement, +something abortively melancholy about it, as if it had been written in lava, +as if it had the color of lead and milk mixed. And Sylvester, with his head +cocked to one side like an auctioneer, Sylvester says: "Play that other one +you were practising today." It's beautiful to have a smoking jacket, a good +cigar and a wife who plays the piano. So relaxing. So lenitive. Between the +acts you go out for a smoke and a breath of fresh air. Yes, her fingers are +very supple, extraordinarily supple. She does batik work too. Would you like +to try a Bulgarian cigarette? I say, pigeon-breast, what's that other +movement I like so well? The scherzo! Ah, yes, the scherzo! Excellent, the +scherzo! Count Waldemar von Schwisseneinzug speaking. Cool, dandruff eyes. +Halitosis. Gaudy socks. And crotons in the pea soup, if you please. We always +have pea soup Friday nights. Won't you try a little red wine? The red wine +goes with the meat, you know. A dry, crisp voice. Have a cigar, won't you? +Yes, I like my work, but I don't attach any importance to it. My next play +will involve a pluralistic conception of the universe. Revolving drums with +calcium lights. O'Neill is dead. I think, dear, you should lift your foot +from the pedal more frequently. Yes, that part is very nice ... very +nice, don't you think? Yes, the characters go around with microphones in +their trousers. The locale is in Asia, because the atmospheric conditions are +more conducive. Would you like to try a little Anjou? We bought it especially +for you ... + +All through the meal this patter continues. It feels exactly as if he had +taken out that circumcised dick of his and was peeing on us. Tania is +bursting with the strain. Ever since he came back with a heart full of love +this monologue has been going on. He talks while he's undressing, she tells +me -- a steady stream of warm piss, as though his bladder had been punctured. +When I think of Tania crawling into bed with this busted bladder I get +enraged. To think that a poor, withered bastard with those cheap Broadway +plays up his sleeve should be pissing on the woman I love. Calling for red +wine and revolving drums and crotons in his pea soup! The cheek of him! To +think that he can lie beside that furnace I stoked for him and do nothing but +make water! My God, man, you ought to get down on your knees and thank me. +Don't you see that you have a woman in your house now? Can't you see +she's bursting? You telling me with those strangulated adenoids of yours -- +"well now, I'll tell you ... there's .two ways of looking at that ..." Fuck +your two ways of looking at things! Fuck your pluralistic universe, and your +Asiatic acoustics! Don't hand me your red wine or your Anjou ... hand +her over ... she belongs to me! You ,go sit by the fountain, and let +me smell the lilacs! Pick the dandruff from out of your eyes ... and +take that damned adagio and wrap it in a pair of flannel pants! And the other +little movement too ... all the little movements that you make with your weak +bladder. You smile at me so confidently, so calculatingly. I'm flattering the +ass off you, can't you tell? While I listen to your crap she's got her hand +on me -- but you don't see that. You think I like to suffer -- that's my +role, you say. O.K. Ask her about it! She'll tell you how I suffer. "You're +cancer and delirium," she said over the phone the other day. She's got it +now, the cancer and delirium, and soon you'll have to pick the scabs. Her +veins are bursting, I tell you, and your talk is all sawdust. No matter how +much you piss away you'll never plug up the holes. What did Mr. Wren say? +Words are loneliness, I left a couple of words for you on the +tablecloth last night -- you covered them with your elbows. + +He's put a fence around her as if she were a dirty, stinking bone of a +saint. If he only had the courage to say 'Take her!" perhaps a miracle would +occur. Just that. Take her! and I swear everything would come out all +right. Besides, maybe I wouldn't take her -- did that ever occur to him, I +wonder? Or I might take her for a while and hand her back, improved. +But putting up a fence around her, that won't work. You can't put a fence +around a human being. It ain't done any more ... You think, you poor, +withered bastard, that I'm no good for her, that I might pollute her, +desecrate her. You don't know how palatable is a polluted woman, how a +change of semen can make a woman bloom! You think a heart full of love +is enough, and perhaps it is, for the right woman, but you haven't got a +heart any more ... you are nothing but a big, empty bladder. You are +sharpening your teeth and cultivating your growl. You run at her heels like +a watchdog and you piddle everywhere. She didn't take you for a watchdog +... she took you for a poet. You were a poet once, she said. And now what +are you? Courage, Sylvester, courage! Take the microphone out of your pants. +Put your hind leg down and stop making water everywhere. Courage, I say, +because she's ditched you already. She's contaminated, I tell you, and you +might as well take down the fence. No use asking me politely if the coffee +doesn't taste like carbolic acid: that won't scare me away. Put rat poison +in the coffee, and a little ground glass. Make some boiling hot urine and +drop a few nutmegs in it ... + +It is a communal life I have been living for the last few weeks. I have had +to share myself with others, principally with some crazy Russians, a drunken +Dutchman, and a big Bulgarian woman named Olga. Of the Russians there are +chiefly Eugene and Anatole. + +It was just a few days ago that Olga got out of the hospital where she had +her tubes burned out and lost a little excess weight. However she doesn't +look as if she had gone through much suffering. She weighs almost as much as +a camel-backed locomotive; she drips with perspiration, has halitosis, and +still wears her Circassian wig that looks like excelsior. She has two big +warts on her chin from which there sprouts a clump of little hairs; she is +growing a moustache. + +The day after Olga was released from the hospital she commenced making shoes +again. At six in the morning she is at her bench; she knocks out two pairs +of shoes a day. Eugene complains that Olga is a burden, but the truth is +that Olga is supporting Eugene and his wife with her two pairs of shoes a +day. If Olga doesn't work there is no food. So everyone endeavours to pull +Olga to bed on time, to give her enough food to keep going, etc. + +Every meal starts off with soup. Whether it be onion soup, tomato soup, +vegetable soup, or what not, the soup always tastes the same. Mostly it +tastes as if a dish rag had been stewed in it -- slightly sour, mildewed, +scummy. I see Eugene hiding it away in the commode after the meal. It stays +there, rotting away, until the next meal. The butter, too, is hidden away in +the commode; after three days it tastes like the big toe of a cadaver. + +The smell of rancid butter frying is not particularly appetizing, +especially when the cooking is done in a room in which there is not the +slightest form of ventilation. No sooner than I open the door I feel ill. +But Eugene, as soon as he hears me coming, usually opens the shutters and +pulls back the bed-sheet which is strung up like a fishnet to keep out the +sunlight. Poor Eugene! He looks about the room at the few sticks of +furniture, at the dirty bed-sheets and the wash basin with the dirty water +still in it, and he says: "I am a slave!" Every day he says it, not once, +but a dozen times. And then he takes his guitar from the wall and sings. + +But about the smell of rancid butter ... There are good associations too. +When I think of this rancid butter, I see myself standing in a little, +old-world courtyard, a very Smelly, very dreary courtyard. Through the +cracks in the shutters strange figures peer out at me ... old women with +shawls, dwarfs, rat-faced pimps, bent Jews, midinettes, bearded idiots. They +totter out into the courtyard to draw water or to rinse the slop pails. One +day Eugene asked me if I would empty the pail for him. I took it to the +corner of the yard. There was a hole in the ground and some dirty paper lying +around the hole. The little well was slimy with excrement, which in English +is shit. I tipped the pail and there was a foul, gurgling spash +followed by another and unexpected splash. When I returned the soup was +dished out. All through the meal I thought of my toothbrush -- it is getting +old and the bristles get caught in my teeth. + +When I sit down to eat I always sit near the window. I am afraid to sit on +the other side of the table -- it is too Close to the bed and the bed is +crawling. I can see bloodstains on the gray sheets if I look that way, but +I try not to look that way. I look out on the courtyard where they are +rinsing the slop pails. + +The meal is never complete without music. As soon as the cheese is passed +around Eugene jumps up and reaches for the guitar which hangs over the bed. +It is always the same song. He says he has fifteen or sixteen songs in his +repertoire, but I have never heard more than three. His favorite is +Channant poeme d'amour. It is full of angoisse and +tristesse. + +In the afternoon we go to the cinema which is cool and dark. Eugene sits at +the piano in the big pit and I sit on a bench up front. The house is empty, +but Eugene sings as if he had for audience all the crowned heads of Europe. +The garden door is open and the odor of wet leaves sops in and the rain +blends with Eugene's angoisse and tristesse. At midnight, +after the spectators have saturated the hall with perspiration and foul +breath, I return to sleep on a bench. The exit light, swimming in a halo of +tobacco smoke, sheds a faint light on the lower corner of the asbestos +curtain; I close my eyes every night on an artificial eye ... + +Standing in the courtyard with a glass eye; only half the world intelligible. +The stones are wet and mossy and in the crevices are black toads. A big door +bars the entrance to the cellar; the steps are slippery and soiled with +bat-dung. The door bulges and sags, the hinges are falling off, but there is +an enamelled sign on it, in perfect condition, which says: "Be sure to close +the door." Why close the door? I can't make it out. I look again at the sign +but it is removed; in its place there is a pane of colored glass. I take out +my artificial eye, spit on it and polish it with my handkerchief. A woman is +sitting on a dais above an immense carven desk; she has a snake around her +neck. The entire room is lined with books and strange fish swimming in +colored globes; there are maps and charts on the wall, maps of Paris before +the plague, maps of the antique world, of Knossus and Carthage, of Carthage +before and after the salting. In a corner of the room I see an iron bedstead +and on it a corpse is lying; the woman gets up wearily, removes the corpse +from the bed and absent-mindedly throws it out the window. She returns to the +huge carven desk, takes a goldfish from the bowl and swallows it. Slowly the +room begins to revolve and one by one the continents slide into the sea; only +the woman is left, but her body is a mass of geography. I lean out the window +and the Eiffel Tower is fizzing champagne; it is built entirely of numbers +and shrouded in black lace. The sewers are gurgling furiously. There are +nothing but roofs everywhere, laid out with execrable geometric cunning. + +I have been ejected from the world like a cartridge. A deep fog has settled +down, the earth is smeared with frozen grease. I can feel the city +palpitating, as if it were a heart just removed from a warm body. The +windows of my hotel are festering and there is a thick, acrid stench as of +chemicals burning. Looking into the Seine I see mud and desolation, street +lamps drowning, men and women choking to death, the bridges covered with +houses, slaughter-houses of love. A man is standing against a wall with an +accordion strapped to his belly; his hands are cut off at the wrists, but +the accordion writhes between his stamps like a sack of snakes. The universe +has dwindled; it is only a block long and there are no stars, no trees, no +rivers. The people who live here are dead; they make chairs which other +people sit on in their dreams. In the middle of the street is a wheel and in +the hub of the wheel a gallows is fixed. People already dead are trying +frantically to mount the gallows, but the wheel is turning too fast ... + +Something was needed to put me right with myself. Last night I discovered +it: Papini. It doesn't matter to me whether he's a chauvinist, a +little Christer, or a nearsighted pedant. As a failure he's marvellous ... + +The books he read -- at eighteen! Not only Homer, Dante, Goethe, not only +Aristotle, Plato, Epictetus, not only Rabelais, Cervantes, Swift, not only +Walt Whitman, Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire, Villon, Carducci, Manzoni, Lope de +Vega, not only Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, Kant, Hegel, Darwin, Spencer, Huxley +-- not only these but all the small fry in between. This on page 18. +Alors, on page 232 he breaks down and confesses. I know nothing, he +admits. I know the titles, I have compiled bibliographies, I have written +critical essays, I have maligned and defamed ... I can talk for five minutes +or for five days, but then I give out, I am squeezed dry. + +Follows this: "Everybody wants to see me. Everybody insists on talking to +me. People pester me and they pester others with inquiries about what I am +doing. How am I? Am I quite well again? Do I still go for my walks in the +country? Am I working? Have I finished my book? Will I begin another soon? + +"A skinny monkey of a German wants me to translate his works. A wildeyed +Russian girl wants me to write an account of my life for her. An American +lady wants the very latest news about me. An American gentleman will +send his carriage to take me to dinner -- just an intimate, confidential talk, +you know. An old schoolmate and chum of mine, of ten years ago, wants me to +read him all that I write as fast as I write it. A painter friend I know +expects me to pose for him by the hour. A newspaper man wants my present +address. An acquaintance, a mystic, inquires about the state of my soul; +another, more practical, about the state of my pocketbook. The president of +my club wonders if I will make a speech for the boys! A lady, spiritually +inclined, hopes I will come to her house for tea as often as possible. She +wants to have my opinion of Jesus Christ, and -- what do I think of that new +medium? ... + +"Great God! what have I turned into? What right have you people to clutter +up my life, steal my time, probe my soul, suckle my thoughts, have me for +your companion, confidant, and information bureau? What do you take me for? +Am I an entertainer on salary, required every evening to play an +intellectual farce under your stupid noses? Am I a slave, bought and paid +for, to crawl on my belly in front of you idlers and lay at your feet all +that I do and all that I know? Am I a wench in a brothel who is called upon +to lift her skirts or take off her chemise at the bidding of the first man +in a tailored suit who comes along? + +"I am a man who would live an heroic life and make the world more endurable +in his own sight: If, in some moment of weakness, of relaxation, of need, I +blow off steam -- a bit of red-hot rage cooled off in words -- a passionate +dream, wrapped and tied in imagery -- well, take it or leave it ... but +don't bother me! + +"I am a free man -- and I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to +ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the +paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face +to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. What do you +want of me? When I have something to say, I put it in print. When I have +something to give, I give it. Your prying curiosity turns my stomach! Your +compliments humiliate me! Your tea poisons me! I owe nothing to any one. I +would be responsible to God alone -- if He existed!" + +It seems to me Papini misses something by a hair's breadth when he talks of +the need to be alone. It is not difficult to be alone if you are poor and a +failure. An artist is always alone -- if he is an artist. No, what the +artist needs is loneliness. + +The artist, I call myself. So be it. A beautiful nap this afternoon that put +velvet between my vertebrae. Generated enough ideas to last me three days. +Chock full of energy and nothing to do about it. Decide to go for a walk. +In the street I change my mind. Decide to go to the movies. Can't go to the +movies -- short a few sous. A walk then. At every movie house I stop and look +at the billboards, then at the price list. Cheap enough, these opium +joints, but I'm short just a few sous. If it weren't so late I might go back +and cash an empty bottle. + +By the time I get to the Rue Amelie I've forgotten all about the movies. The +Rue Amelie is one of my favorite streets. It is one of those streets which +by good fortune the municipality has forgotten to pave. Huge cobblestones +spreading convexly from one side of the street to the other. Only one block +long and narrow. The Hotel Pretty is on this street. There is a little +church, too, on the Rue Amelie. It looks as though it were made especially +for the President of the Republic and his private family. It's good +occasionally to see a modest little church. Paris is full of pompous +cathedrals. + +Pont Alexandre III. A great wind-swept space approaching the bridge. Gaunt +bare trees mathematically fixed in their iron grates; the gloom of the +Invalides welling out of the dome and overflowing the dark streets adjacent +to the Square. The morgue of poetry. They have him where they want him now, +the great warrior, the last big man of Europe. He sleeps soundly in his +granite bed. No fear of him turning over in his grave. The doors are well +bolted, the lid is on tight. Sleep, Napoleon! It was not your ideas they +wanted, it was only your corpse! + +The river is still swollen, muddy, streaked with lights. I don't know what +it is rushes up in me at the sight of this dark, swift-moving current, but a +great exultation lifts me up, affirms the deep wish that is in my never to +leave this land. I remember passing this way the other morning on my way to +the American Express, knowing in advance that there would be no mail for me, +no check, no cable, nothing, nothing. A wagon from the Galeries Lafayette +was rumbling over the bridge. The rain had stopped and the sun breaking +through the soapy clouds touched the glistening rubble of roofs with a cold +fire. I recall now how the driver leaned out and looked up the river towards +Passy way. Such a healthy, simple, approving glance, as if he were saying to +himself: "Ah, spring is coming!" And God knows, when spring comes to Paris +the humblest mortal alive must feel that he dwells in paradise. But it was +not only this -- it was the intimacy with which his eye rested upon the scene. +It was his Paris. A man does not need to be rich, nor even a citizen, +to feel this way about Paris. Paris is filled with poor people -- the proudest +and filthiest lot of beggars that ever walked the earth, it seems to me. And +yet they give the illusion of being at home. It is that which distinguishes +the Parisian from all other metropolitan souls. + +When I think of New York I have a very different feeling. New York makes +even a rich man feel his unimportance. New York is cold, glittering, malign. +The buildings dominate. There is a sort of atomic frenzy to the activity +going on; the more furious the pace, the more diminished the spirit. A +constant ferment, but it might just as well be going on in a testtube. +Nobody knows what it's all about. Nobody directs the energy. Stupendous. +Bizarre. Baffling. A tremendous reactive urge, but absolutely +uncoordinated. + +When I think of this city where I was born and raised, this Manhattan that +Whitman sang of, a blind, white rage licks my guts. New York! The white +prisons, the sidewalks swarming with maggots, the bread lines, the opium +joints that are built like palaces, the kikes that are there, the lepers, +the thugs, and above all, the ennui, the monotony of faces, streets, +legs, houses, skyscrapers, meals, posters, jobs, crimes, loves ... A whole +city erected over a hollow pit of nothingness. Meaningless. Absolutely +meaningless. And Forty-Second Street! The top of the world, they call it. +Where's the bottom then? You can walk along with your hand out and they'll +put cinders in your cap. Rich or poor, they walk along with head thrown back +and they almost break their necks looking up at their beautiful white +prisons. They walk along like blind geese and the searchlights spray their +empty faces with flecks of ecstasy. + + * * * + +"Life," said Emerson, "consists in what a man is thinking all day." If that +be so, then my life is nothing but a big intestine. I not only think about +food all day, but I dream about it at night. + +But I don't ask to go back to America, to be put in double harness again, to +work the treadmill. No, I prefer to be a poor man of Europe. God knows, I am +poor enough; it only remains to be a man. Last week I thought the problem of +living was about to be solved, thought I was on the way to becoming +self-supporting. It happened that I ran across another Russian -- Serge is +his name. He lives in Suresnes where there is a little colony of +emigres and rundown artists. Before the revolution Serge was a captain +in the Imperial Guard; he stands six foot three in his stockinged feet and +drinks vodka like a fish. His father was an admiral, or something like that, +on the battleship Potemkin. + +I met Serge under rather peculiar circumstances. Sniffing about for food I +found myself towards noon the other day in the neighborhood of the Folies +Bergere -- the back entrance, that is to say, in the narrow little lane with +an iron gate at one end. I was dawdling about the stage entrance, hoping +vaguely for a casual brush with one of the butterflies, when an open truck +pulls up to the sidewalk. Seeing me standing there with my hands in my +pockets the driver, who was Serge, asks me if I would give him a hand +unloading the iron barrels. When he learns that I am an American and that I'm +broke he almost weeps with joy. He has been looking high and low for an +English teacher, it seems. I help him roll the barrels of insecticide inside +and I look my fill at the butterflies fluttering about the wings. The +incident takes on strange proportions to me -- the empty house, the sawdust +dolls bouncing in the wings, the barrels of germicide, the battleship +Potemkin -- above all. Serge's gentleness. He is big and tender, a man every +inch of him, but with a woman's heart. + +In the cafe nearby -- Cafe des Artistes -- he proposes immediately to put me +up; says he will put a mattress on the floor in the hallway. For the lessons +he says he will give me a meal every day, a big Russian meal, or if for any +reason the meal is lacking then five francs. It sounds wonderful to me -- +wonderful. The only question is, how will I get from Suresnes to the +American Express every day. + +Serge insists that we begin at once -- he gives me the car fare to get out to +Suresnes in the evening. I arrive a little before dinner, with my knapsack, +in order to give Serge a lesson. There are some guests on hand already -- +seems as though they always eat in a crowd, everybody chipping in. + +There are eight of us at the table -- and three dogs. The dogs eat first. They +eat oatmeal. Then we commence. We eat oatmeal too -- as an hors-d'oeuvre. +"Chez nous," says Serge, with a twinkle in his eye, "c'est pour +les chiens, les Quaker Oats. Ici pour le gentleman. Ca va." After the +oatmeal, mushroom soup and vegetables; after that bacon omelette, fruit, red +wine, vodka, coffee, cigarettes. Not bad, the Russian meal. Everyone talks +with his mouth fall. Toward the end of the meal Serge's wife who is a lazy +slut of an Armenian, flops on the couch and begins to nibble bonbons. She +fishes around in the box with her fat fingers, nibbles a tiny piece to see +if there is any juice inside, and then throws it on the floor for the dogs. + +The meal over, the guests rush away. They rush away precipitously, as if +they feared a plague. Serge and I are left with the dogs -- his wife has +fallen asleep on the couch. Serge moves about unconcernedly, scraping the +garbage together for the dogs. "Dogs like very much," be says. "Very good +for dogs. Little dog he has worms ... he too young yet." He bends down to +examine some white worms lying on the carpet between the dog's paws. Tries +to explain about the worms in English, but his vocabulary is lacking. +Finally he consults the dictionary. + +"Ah," he says, looking at me exultantly, "tape-worms!" My response is +evidently not very intelligent. Serge is confused. He gets down on his hands +and knees to examine them better. He picks one up and lays it on the table +beside the fruit. "Huh, him not very beeg," he grunts. "Next lesson you +learn me worms, no? You are gude teacher. I make progress with you ..." + +Lying on the mattress in the hallway the odor of the germicide stifles me. A +pungent, acrid odor that seems to invade every pore of my body. The food +begins to repeat on me -- the quaker oats, the mushrooms, the bacon, the fried +apples. I see the little tape-worm lying beside the fruit and all the +varieties of worms that Serge drew on the tablecloth to explain what was the +matter with the dog. I see the empty pit of the Folies Bergere and in every +crevice there are cockroaches and lice and bedbugs; I see people scratching +themselves frantically, scratching and scratching until the blood comes. I +see the worms crawling over the scenery like an army of red ants, devouring +everything in sight. I see the chorus girls throwing away their gauze +tunics and running through the aisles naked; I see the spectators in the pit +throwing off their clothes also and scratching each other like monkeys. + +I try to quiet myself. After all, this is a home I've found, and there's a +meal waiting for me every day. And Serge is a brick, there's no doubt about +that. But I can't sleep. It's like going to sleep in a morgue. The mattress +is saturated with embalming fluid. It's a morgue for lice, bedbugs, +cockroaches, tape-worms. I can't stand it. I won't stand it. After +all I'm a man, not a louse. + +In the morning I wait for Serge to load the truck. I ask him to take me in +to Paris. I haven't the heart to tell him I'm leaving. I leave the knapsack +behind, with the few things that were left me. When we get to the Place +Pereire I jump out. No particular reason for getting off here. No particular +reason for anything. I'm free -- that's the main thing ... + +Light as a bird I flit about from one quarter to another. It's as though I +had been released from prison. I look at the world with new eyes. Everything +interests me profoundly. Even trifles. On the Rue du Faubourg Poissonniere +I stop before the window of a physical culture establishment. There are +photographs showing specimens of manhood "before and after." All frogs. Some +of them are nude, except for a pince-nez or a beard. Can't understand how +these birds fall for parallel bars and dumbbells. A frog should have just a +wee bit of a paunch, like the Baron de Charlus. He should wear a beard and a +pince-nez, but he should never be photographed in the nude. He should wear +twinkling patent-leather boots and in the breast pocket of his sack coat +there should be a white handkerchief protruding about three-quarters of an +inch above the vent. If possible, he should have a red ribbon in his lapel, +through the buttonhole. He should wear pajamas on going to bed. + +Approaching the Place Clichy toward evening I pass the little whore with the +wooden stump who stands opposite the Gaumont Palace day in and day out. She +doesn't look a day over eighteen. Has her regular customers, I suppose. +After midnight she stands there in her black rig rooted to the spot. Back of +her is the little alleyway that blazes like an inferno. Passing her now with +a light heart she reminds me somehow of a goose tied to a stake, a goose +with a diseased liver, so that the world may have its pate de foie +gras. Must be strange taking that wooden stump to bed with you. One +imagines all sorts of things -- splinters, etc. However, every man to his +taste! + +Going down the Rue des Dames I bump into Peckover, another poor devil who +works on the paper. He complains of getting only three or four hours' sleep +a night -- has to get up at eight in the morning to work at a dentist's +office. It isn't for the money he's doing it, so he explains -- it's for to +buy himself a set of false teeth. "It's hard to read proof when you're +dropping with sleep," he says. "The wife, she thinks I've got a cinch of it. +What would we do if you lost your job? she says." But Peckover doesn't give +a damn about the job; it doesn't even allow him spending money. He has to +save his cigarette butts and use them for pipe tobacco. His coat is held +together with pins. He has halitosis and his hands sweat. And only three +hours' sleep a night. "It's no way to treat a man," he says. "And that boss +of mine, he bawls the piss out of me if I miss a semicolon." Speaking of +his wife he adds: + +"That woman of mine, she's got no fucking gratitude, I tell you!" + +In parting I manage to worm a franc fifty out of him. I try to squeeze +another fifty centimes out of him but it's impossible. Anyway I've got +enough for a coffee and croissants. Near the Gare St. Lazare there's +a bar with reduced prices. + +As luck would have it I find a ticket in the lavabo for a concert. +Light as a feather now I go there to the Salle Gaveau. The usher looks +ravaged because I overlook giving him his little tip. Every time he passes +me he looks at me inquiringly, as if perhaps I will suddenly remember. + +It's so long since I've sat in the company of well dressed people that I +feel a bit panic-stricken. I can still smell the formaldehyde. Perhaps Serge +makes deliveries here too. But nobody is scratching himself, thank God. A +faint odor of perfume ... very faint. Even before the music begins there is +that bored look on people's faces. A polite form of self-imposed torture, +the concert. For a moment, when the conductor raps with his little wand, +there is a tense spasm of concentration followed almost immediately by a +general slump, a quiet vegetable sort of repose induced by the steady, +uninterrupted drizzle from the orchestra. My mind is curiously alert; it's +as though my skull had a thousand mirrors inside it. My nerves are taut, +vibrant! the notes are like glass balls dancing on a million jets of water. +I've never been to a concert before on such an empty belly. Nothing escapes +me, not even the tiniest pin falling. It's as though I had no clothes on and +every pore of my body was a window and all the windows open and the light +flooding my gizzards. I can feel the light curving under the vault of my +ribs and my ribs hang there over a hollow nave trembling with reverberations. +How long this lasts I have no idea; I have lost all sense of time and place. +After what seems like an eternity there follows an interval of +semiconsciousness balanced by such a calm that I feel a great lake inside me, +a lake of iridescent sheen, cool as jelly; and over this lake, rising in +great swooping spirals, there emerge great flocks of birds, huge birds of +passage with long slim legs and brilliant plumage. Flock after flock surge up +from the cool, still surface of the lake and, passing under my clavicles, +lose themselves in the white sea of space. And then slowly, very slowly, as +if an old woman in a white cap were going the rounds of my body, slowly the +windows are closed and my organs drop back into place. Suddenly the lights +flare up and the man in the white box whom I had taken for a Turkish officer +turns out to be a woman with a flower-pot on her head. + +There is a buzz now and all those who want to cough cough to their heart's +content. There is the noise of feet shuffling and seats slamming, the +steady, frittering noise of people moving about aimlessly, of people +fluttering their programs and pretending to read and then dropping their +programs and scuffling under their seats, thankful for even the slightest +accident which will prevent them from asking themselves what they were +thinking about because if they knew they were thinking about nothing they +would go mad. In the harsh glare of the lights they look at each other +vacuously and there is a strange tenseness with which they stare at one +another. And the moment the conductor raps again they fall back into a +cataleptic state -- they scratch themselves unconsciously or they remember +suddenly a show-window in which there was displayed a scarf or a hat; they +remember every detail of that window with amazing clarity, but where it was +exactly, that they can't recall; and that bothers them, keeps them wide +awake, restless, and they listen now with redoubled attention because they +are wide awake and no matter how wonderful the music is they will not lose +consciousness of that show-window and that scarf that was hanging there, or +the hat. + +And this fierce attentiveness communicates itself; even the orchestra seems +galvanized into an extraordinary alertness. The second number goes off like +a top -- so fast indeed that when suddenly the music ceases and the lights go +up some are stuck in their seats like carrots, their jaws working +convulsively, and if you suddenly shouted in their ear Brahms, Beethoven, +Mendeleieff, Herzegovina, they would answer without thinking -- 4, 967, +289. + +By the time we get to the Debussy number the atmosphere is completely +poisoned. I find myself wondering what it feels like, during intercourse, to +be a woman -- whether the pleasure is keener, etc. Try to imagine something +penetrating my groin, but have only a vague sensation of pain. I try +to focus, but the music is too slippery. I can think of nothing but a vase +slowly turning and the figures dropping off into space. Finally there is +only light turning, and how does light turn, I ask myself. The man next to +me is sleeping soundly. He looks like a broker, with his big paunch and his +waxed moustache. I like him thus. I like especially that big paunch and all +that went into the making of it. Why shouldn't he sleep soundly? If he wants +to listen he can always rustle up the price of a ticket. I notice that the +better dressed they are the more soundly they sleep. They have an easy +conscience, the rich. If a poor man dozes off, even for a few seconds, he +feels mortified; he imagines that he has committed a crime against the +composer. + +In the Spanish number the house was electrified. Everybody sat on the edge +of his seat -- the drums woke them up. I thought when the drums started it +would keep up forever. I expected to see people fall out of the boxes or +throw their hats away. There was something heroic about it and he could have +driven us stark mad. Ravel, if he had wanted to. But that's not Ravel. +Suddenly it all died down. It was as if he remembered, in the midst of his +antics, that he had on a cut-away suit. He arrested himself. A great +mistake, in my humble opinion. Art consists in going the full length. If +you start with the drums you have to end with dynamite, or TNT. Ravel +sacrificed something for form, for a vegetable that people must digest +before going to bed. + +My thoughts are spreading. The music is slipping away from me, now that the +drums have ceased. People everywhere are composed to order. Under the exit +light is a Werther sunk in despair; he is leaning on his two elbows, his +eyes are glazed. Near the door, huddled in a big cape, stands a Spaniard +with a sombrero in his hand. He looks as if he were posing for the Balzac of +Rodin. From the neck up he suggests Buffalo Bill. In the gallery opposite +me, in the front row, sits a woman with her legs spread wide apart; she +looks as though she had lock-jaw, with her neck thrown back and dislocated. +The woman with the red hat who is dozing over the rail -- marvellous if she +were to have a hemorrhage! if suddenly she spilled a bucketful on those +stiff shirts below. Imagine these bloody no-accounts going home from the +concert with blood on their dickies! + +Sleep is the keynote. No one is listening any more. Impossible to think and +listen. Impossible to dream even when the music itself is nothing but a +dream. A woman with white gloves holds a swan in her lap. The legend is that +when Leda was fecundated she gave birth to twins. Everybody is giving birth +to something -- everybody but the Lesbian in the upper tier. Her head is +uptilted, her throat wide open; she is all alert and tingling with the +shower of sparks that burst from the radium symphony. Jupiter is piercing +her ears. Little phrases from California, whales with big fins, Zanzibar, +the Alcazar. When along the Guadalquivir there were a thousand mosques +a-shimmer. Deep in the icebergs and the days all lilac. The Money Street +with two white hitching-posts. The gargoyles ... the man with the Jaworski +nonsense ... the river lights ... the ... + + + * * * + +In America I had a number of Hindu friends, some good, some bad, some +indifferent. Circumstances had placed me in a position where fortunately I +could be of aid to them; I secured jobs for them, I harbored them, and I fed +them when necessary. They were very grateful, I must say, so much so, in +fact, that they made my life miserable with their attentions. Two of them +were saints, if I know what a saint is; particularly Gupte who was found one +morning with his throat cut from ear to ear. In a little boarding house in +Greenwich Village he was found one morning stretched out stark naked on the +bed, his flute beside him, and his throat gashed, as I say, from ear to ear. +It was never discovered whether he had been murdered or whether he had +committed suicide. But that's neither here nor there ... + +I'm thinking back to the chain of circumstances which has brought me finally +to Nanantatee's place. Thinking how strange it is that I should have +forgotten all about Nanantatee until the other day when lying in a shabby +hotel room on the Rue Cels. I'm lying there on the iron bed thinking what a +zero I have become, what a cipher, what a nullity, when, bango! out pops the +word: NONENTITY! That's what we called him in New York -- Nonentity. +Mister Nonentity. + +I'm lying on the floor now in that gorgeous suite of rooms he boasted of when +he was in New York. Nanantatee is playing the good Samaritan; he has given me +a pair of itchy blankets, horse blankets they are, in which I curl up on the +dusty floor. There are little jobs to do every hour of the day -- that is, if +I am foolish enough to remain indoors. In the morning he wakes me rudely in +order to have me prepare the vegetables for his lunch: onions, garlic, beans, +etc. His friend. Kepi, warns me not to eat the food -- he says it's bad. Bad +or good what difference? Food! That's all that matters. For a little +food I am quite willing to sweep his carpets with a broken broom, to wash his +clothes and to scrape the crumbs off the floor as soon as he has finished +eating. He's become absolutely immaculate since my arrival: everything has to +be dusted now, the chairs must be arranged a certain way, the clock must +ring, the toilet must flush properly ... A crazy Hindu if ever there was +one! And parsimonious as a string bean. I'll have a great laugh over it when +I get out of his clutches, but just now I'm a prisoner, a man without caste, +an untouchable... + + If I fail to come back at night and roll up in the horse blankets he says +to me on arriving: "Oh, so you didn't die then? I thought you had died." +And though he knows I'm absolutely penniless he tells me every day about +some cheap room he has just discovered in the neighborhood. "But I can't +take a room yet, you know that," I say. And then, blinking his eyes like a +Chink, he answers smoothly: "Oh, yes, I forgot that you had no money. I am +always forgetting, Endree ... But when the cable comes ... when Miss Mona +sends you the money, then you will come with me to look for a room, eh?" And +in the next breath he urges me to stay as long as I wish -- "six months ... +seven months, Endree ... you are very good for me here." + +Nanantatee is one of the Hindus I never did anything for in America. He +represented himself to me as a wealthy merchant, a pearl merchant, with a +luxurious suite of rooms on the Rue Lafayette, Paris, a villa in Bombay, a +bungalow in Darjeeling. I could see from the first glance that he was a +half-wit, but then half-wits sometimes have the genius to amass a fortune. I +didn't know that he paid his hotel bill in New York by leaving a couple of +fat pearls in the proprietor's hands. It seems amusing to me now that this +little duck once swaggered about the lobby of that hotel in New York with an +ebony Cane, bossing the bell-hops around, ordering luncheons for his guests, +calling up the porter for theatre tickets, Denting a taxi by the day, etc., +etc., all without a sou in his pocket. Just a string of fat pearls around his +neck which he cashed one by one as time wore on. And the fatuous way he used +to pat me on the back, thank me for being so good to the Hindu boys -- "they +are all very intelligent boys, Endree ... very intelligent!" Telling me that +the good lord so-and-so would repay me for my kindness. That explains now why +they used to giggle so, these intelligent Hindu boys, when I suggested that +they touch Nanantatee for a five-spot. + +Curious now how the good lord so-and-so is requiting me for my benevolence. +I'm nothing but a slave to this fat little duck. I'm at his beck and call +continually. He needs me here -- he tells me so to my face. When he goes to +the crap-can he shouts: "Endree, bring me a pitcher of water, please. I must +wipe myself." He wouldn't think of using toilet paper, Nanantatee. Must be +against his religion. No, he calls for a pitcher of water and a rag. He's +delicate, the fat little duck. Sometimes when I'm drinking a cup of +pale tea in which he has dropped a rose-leaf he comes alongside of me and +lets a loud fart, right in my face. He never says "Excuse me!" The word must +be missing from his Gujurati dictionary. + +The day I arrived at Nanantatee's apartment he was in the act of performing +his ablutions, that is to say, he was standing over a dirty bowl trying to +work his crooked arm around toward the back of his neck. Beside the bowl was +a brass goblet which he used to change the water. He requested me to be +silent during the ceremony. I sat there silently, as I was bidden, and +watched him as he sang and prayed and spat now and then into the wash-bowl. +So this is the wonderful suite of rooms he talked about in New York! The Rue +Lafayette! It sounded like an important street to me back there in New York. +I thought only millionaires and pearl merchants inhabited the street. It +sounds wonderful, the Rue Lafayette, when you're on the other side of the +water. So does Fifth Avenue, when you're over here. One can't imagine what +dumps there are on these swell streets. Anyway, here I am at last, sitting +in the gorgeous suite of rooms on the Rue Lafayette. And this crazy duck +with his crooked arm is going through the ritual of washing himself. The +chair on which I'm sitting is broken, the bedstead is falling apart, the +wall-paper is in tatters, there is an open valise under the bed crammed with +dirty wash. From where I sit I can glance at the miserable courtyard down +below where the aristocracy of the Rue Lafayette sit and smoke their clay +pipes. I wonder now, as he chants the doxology, what that bungalow in +Darjeeling looks like. It's interminable, his chanting and praying. + +He explains to me that he is obliged to wash in a certain prescribed +way -- his religion demands it. But on Sundays he takes a bath in the tin +tub -- the Great I AM will wink at that, he says. When he's dressed he goes to +the cupboard, kneels before a little idol on the third shelf, and repeats +the mumbojumbo. If you pray like that every day, he says, nothing will +happen to you. The good lord what's his name never forgets an obedient +servant. And then he shows me the crooked arm which he got in a taxi +accident on a day doubtless when he had neglected to rehearse the complete +song and dance. His arm looks like a broken compass; it's not an arm any +more, but a knuckle-bone with a shank attached. Since the arm has been +repaired he has developed a pair of swollen glands in the armpit -- fat little +glands, exactly like a dog's testicles. While bemoaning his plight he +remembers suddenly that the doctor had recommended a more liberal diet. He +begs me at once to sit down and make up a menu with plenty of fish and meat. +"And what about oysters, Endree -- for le petit frere?" But all this is +only to make an impression on me. He hasn't the slightest intention of +buying himself oysters, or meat, or fish. Not as long as I am there, at +least. For the time being we are going to nourish ourselves on lentils and +rice and all the dry foods he has stored away, in the attic. And the butter +he bought last week, that won't go to waste either. When he commences to +cure the butter the smell is unbearable. I used to run out at first, when he +started frying the butter, but now I stick it out. He'd be only too +delighted if he could make me vomit up my meal -- that would be something else +to put away in the cupboard along with the dry bread and the mouldy cheese +and the little grease cakes that he makes himself out of the stale milk and +the rancid butter. + +For the last five years, so it seems, he hasn't done a stroke of work, +hasn't turned over a penny. Business has gone to smash. He talks to me about +pearls in the Indian ocean -- big fat ones on which you can live for a +lifetime. The Arabs are ruining the business, he says. But meanwhile he prays +to the lord so-and-so every day, and that sustains him. He's on a marvellous +footing with the deity: knows just how to cajole him, how to wheedle a few +sous out of him. It's a pure commercial relationship. In exchange for that +flummery before the cabinet every day he gets his ration of beans and garlic, +to say nothing of the swollen testicles under his arm. He is confident that +everything will turn out well in the end. The pearls will sell again some +day, maybe five years hence, maybe twenty -- when the Lord Boomaroom wishes +it. "And when the business goes, Endree, you will get ten per cent -- for +writing the letters. But first, Endree, you must write the letter to find out +if we can get credit from India. It will take about six months for an answer, +maybe seven months ... the boats are not fast in India." He has no conception +of time at all, the little duck. When I ask him if he has slept well he will +say: "Ah, yes, Endree, I sleep very well ... I sleep sometimes ninety-two +hours in three days." + +Mornings he is usually too weak to do any work. His arm! That poor broken +crutch of an arm! I wonder sometimes when I see him twisting it around the +back of his neck how he will ever get it into place again. If it weren't for +that little paunch he carries he'd remind me of one of those contortionists +at the Cirque Medrano. All he needs is to break a leg. When he sees me +sweeping the carpet, when he sees what a cloud of dust I raise, he begins to +cluck like a pygmy. "Good! Very good, Endree. And now I will pick up the +knots." That means that there are a few crumbs of dust which I have +overlooked; it is a polite way he has of being sarcastic. + +Afternoons there are always a few cronies from the pearl market dropping in +to pay him a visit. They're all very suave, butter-tongued bastards with +soft, doelike eyes; they sit around the table drinking the perfumed tea with +a loud, hissing noise while Nanantatee jumps up and down like a +jack-in-the-box or points to a crumb on the floor and says in his smooth +slippery voice -- "Will you please to pick that up, Endree." When the guests +arrive he goes unctuously to the cupboard and gets out the dry crusts of +bread which he toasted maybe a week ago and which taste strongly now of the +mouldy wood. Not a crumb is thrown away. If the bread gets too sour he takes +it downstairs to the concierge who, so he says, has been very kind to him. +According to him, the concierge is delighted to get the stale bread -- she +makes bread pudding with it. + +One day my friend Anatole came to see me. Nanantatee was delighted. +Insisted that Anatole stay for tea. Insisted that he try little grease +cakes and the stale bread. "You must come every day," he says, "and teach me +Russian. Fine language, Russian ... I want to speak it. How do you say that +again, Endree -- borscht? You will write that down for me, please, +Endree ..." And I must write it on the typewriter, no less, so that he can +observe my technique. He bought the typewriter, after he had collected on +the bad arm, because the doctor recommended it as a good exercise. But he +got tired of the typewriter shortly -- it was an English typewriter. + +When he learned that Anatole played the mandolin he said: "Very good! You +must come every day and teach me the music. I will buy a mandolin as soon as +business is better. It is good for my arm." The next day he borrows a +phonograph from the concierge. "You will please teach me to dance, Endree. +My stomach is too big." I am hoping that he will buy a porterhouse steak +some day so that I can say to him: "You will please bite it for me. +Mister Nonentity. My teeth are not strong!" + +As I said a moment ago, ever since my arrival he has become extraordinarily +meticulous. "Yesterday," he says, "you made three mistakes, Endree. First, +you forgot to close the toilet door and so all night it makes boom-boom; +second, you left the kitchen window open and so the window is cracked this +morning. And you forgot to put out the milk bottle! Always you will put out +the milk bottle please, before you go to bed, and in the morning you will +please bring in the bread." + +Every day his friend Kepi drops in to see if any visitors have arrived from +India. He waits for Nanantatee to go out and then he scurries to the cupboard +and devours the sticks of bread that are hidden away in a glass jar. The food +is no good, he insists, but he puts it away like a rat. Kepi is a scrounger, +a sort of human tick who fastens himself to the hide of even the poorest +compatriot. From Kepi's standpoint they are all nabobs. For a Manila cheroot +and the price of a drink he will suck any Hindu's ass. A Hindu's mind you, +but not an Englishman's. He has the address of every whore-house in Paris, +and the rates. Even from the ten-franc points he gets his little commission. +And he knows the shortest way to any place you want to go. He will ask you +first if you want to go by taxi; if you say no, he will suggest the bus, and +if that is too high then the tramway or the metro. Or he will offer to walk +you there and save a franc or two, knowing very well that it will be +necessary to pass a tabac on the way and that you will please be so +good as to buy me a little cheroot. + +Kepi is interesting, in a way, because he has absolutely no ambition except +to get a fuck every night. Every penny he makes, and they are damned few, he +squanders in the dance-halls. He has a wife and eight children in Bombay, +but that does not prevent him from proposing marriage to any little femme +de chambre who is stupid and credulous enough to be taken in by him. He +has a little room on the Rue Condorcet for which he pays sixty francs a +month. He papered it all himself. Very proud of it, too. He uses +violet-colored ink in his fountain-pen because it lasts longer. He shines +his own shoes, presses his own pants, does his own laundry. For a little +cigar, a cheroot, if you please, he will escort you all over Paris. If you +stop to look at a shirt or a collar-button his eyes flash. "Don't buy it +here," he will say. "They ask too much. I will show you a cheaper place." +And before you have time to think about it he will whisk you away and +deposit you before another shop-window where there are the same des and +shirts and collar-buttons -- maybe it's the very same store! but you don't +know the difference. When Kepi hears that you want to buy something his soul +becomes animated. He will ask you so many questions and drag you to so many +places that you are bound to get thirsty and ask him to have a drink, +whereupon you will discover to your amazement that you are again standing +in a tabac -- maybe the same tabac! -- and Kepi is saying +again in that small unctuous voice: "Will you please be so good as to buy me +a little cheroot?" No matter what you propose doing, even if it's only to +walk around the corner. Kepi will economize for you. Kepi will show you the +shortest way, the cheapest place, the biggest dish, because whatever you +have to do you must pass a tabac, and whether there is a +revolution or a lock-out or a quarantine Kepi must be at the Moulin Rouge +or the Olympia or the Ange Rouge when the music strikes up. + +The other day he brought a book for me to read. It was about a famous suit +between a holy man and the editor of an Indian paper. The editor, it seems, +had openly accused the holy man of leading a scandalous life; he went +further, and accused the holy man of being diseased. Kepi says it must have +been the great French pox, but Nanantatee avers that it was the Japanese +clap. For Nanantatee everything has to be a little exaggerated. At any rate, +says Nanantatee cheerily: "You will please tell me what it says, Endree. I +can't read the book -- it hurts my arm." Then, by way of encouraging me -- "it +is a fine book about the fucking, Endree. Kepi has brought it for you. He +thinks about nothing but the girls. So many girls he fucks -- just like +Krishna. We don't believe in that business, Endree ..." + +A little later he takes me upstairs to the attic which is loaded down with +tin cans and crap from India wrapped in burlap and firecracker paper. "Here +is where I bring the girls," he says. And then rather wistfully: "I am not a +very good fucker, Endree. I don't screw the girls any more. I hold them in +my arms and I say the words. I like only to say the words now." It isn't +necessary to listen any further: I know that he is going to tell me about +his arm. I can see him lying there with that broken hinge dangling from the +side of the bed. But to my surprise he adds: "I am no good for the fucking, +Endree. I never was a very good fucker. My brother, he is good! Three times +a day, every day! And Kepi, he is good -- just like Krishna." + +His mind is fixed now on the "fucking business." Downstairs, in the little +room where he kneels before the open cabinet, he explains to me how it was +when he was rich and his wife and children were here. On holidays he would +take his wife to the House of All Nations and hire a room for the night. +Every room was appointed in a different style. His wife liked it there very +much. "A wonderful place for the fucking, Endree. I know all the rooms ..." + +The walls of the little room in which we are sitting are crammed with +photographs. Every branch of the family is represented, it is like a +cross-section of the Indian empire. For the most part the members of this +genealogical tree look like withered leaves: the women are frail and they +have a startled, frightened look in their eyes: the men have a keen, +intelligent look, like educated chimpanzees. They are all there, about +ninety of them, with their white bullocks, their dung-cakes, their skinny +legs, their old-fashioned spectacles; in the background, now and then, one +catches a glimpse of the parched soil, of a crumbling pediment, of an idol +with crooked arms, a sort of human centipede. There is something so +fantastic, so incongruous about this gallery that one is reminded +inevitably of the great spawn of temples which stretch from the Himalayas +to the tip of Ceylon, a vast jumble of architecture, staggering in beauty +and at the same time monstrous, hideously monstrous because the fecundity +which seethes and ferments in the myriad ramifications of design seems to +have exhausted the very soil of India itself. Looking at the seething hive +of figures which swarm the facades of the temples one is overwhelmed by the +potency of these dark, handsome people who mingled their mysterious streams +in a sexual embrace that has lasted thirty centuries or more. These frail +men and women with piercing eyes who stare out of the photographs seem like +the emaciated shadows of those virile, massive figures who incarnated +themselves in stone and fresco from one end of India to the other in order +that the heroic myths of the races who here intermingled should remain +forever entwined in the hearts of their countrymen. When I look at only a +fragment of these spacious dreams of stone, these toppling, sluggish +edifices studded with gems, coagulated with human sperm, I am overwhelmed by +the dazzling splendor of those imaginative flights which enabled half +a billion people of diverse origins to thus incarnate the most fugitive +expressions of their longing. + +It is a strange, inexplicable medley of feelings which assails me now as +Nanantatee prattles on about the sister who died in child-birth. There she +is on the wall, a frail, timid thing of twelve or thirteen clinging to the +arm of a dotard. At ten years of age she was given in wedlock to this old +roue who had already buried five wives. She had seven children, only one of +whom survived her. She was given to the aged gorilla in order to keep the +pearls in the family. As she was passing away, so Nanantatee puts it, she +whispered to the doctor: "I am tired of this fucking ... I don't want to +fuck any more, doctor." As he relates this to me he scratches his head +solemnly with his withered arm. "The fucking business is bad, Endree," he +says. "But I will give you a word that will always make you lucky; you must +say it every day, over and over, a million times you must say it. It is the +best word there is, Endree ... say it now ... OOMAHARUMOOMA!" + +"OOMARABOO ..." + +"No, Endree ... like this ... OOMAHARUMOOMA!" + +"OOMAMABOOMBA ..." + +"No, Endree ... like this ... + +"... but what with the murky light, the botchy print, the tattered cover, +the jigjagged page, the fumbling fingers, the foxtrotting fleas, the +lie-a-bed lice, the scum on his tongue, the drop in his eye, the lump in his +throat, the drink in his pottle, the itch in his palm, the wail of his wind, +the grief from his breath, the fog of his brainfag, the tic of his +conscience, the height of his rage, the gush of his fundament, the fire in +his gorge, the tickle of his tail, the rats in his garret, the hullabaloo +and the dust in his ears, since it took him a month to steal a march, he was +hardset to memorize more than a word a week." + +I suppose I would never have gotten out of Nanantatee's clutches if fate +hadn't intervened. One night, as luck would have it. Kepi asked me if I +wouldn't take one of his clients to a whore-house near by. The young man had +just come from India and he had not very much money to spend. He was one of +Gandhi's men, one of that little band who made the historic march to the sea +during the salt trouble. A very gay disciple of Gandhi's I must say, despite +the vows of abstinence he had taken. Evidently he hadn't looked at a woman +for ages. It was all I could do to get him as far as the Rue Lafemere; he was +like a dog with his tongue hanging out. And a pompous, vain little devil to +boot! He had decked himself out in a corduroy suit, a beret, a cane, a +Windsor tie; he had bought himself two fountain-pens, a kodak, and some fancy +underwear. The money he was spending was a gift from the merchants of Bombay; +they were sending him to England to spread the gospel of Gandhi. + +Once inside Miss Hamilton's joint he began to lose his sang-froid. +When suddenly he found himself surrounded by a bevy of naked women he looked +at me in consternation. "Pick one out," I said. "You can have your choice." +He had become so rattled that he could scarcely look at them. "You do it for +me," he murmured, blushing violently. I looked them over coolly and picked +out a plump young wench who seemed full of feathers. We sat down in the +reception room and waited for the drinks. The madame wanted to know why I +didn't take a girl also. "Yes, you take one too," said the young Hindu. "I +don't want to be alone with her." So the girls were brought in again and I +chose one for myself, a rather tall, thin one with melancholy eyes. We were +left alone, the four of us, in the reception room. After a few moments my +young Gandhi leans over and whispers something in my ear. "Sure, if you like +her better, take her," I said, and so, rather awkwardly and considerably +embarrassed, I explained to the girls that we would like to switch. I saw at +once that we had made a faux pas, but by now my young friend had +become gay and lecherous and nothing would do but to get upstairs quickly +and have it over with. + +We took adjoining rooms with a connecting door between. I think my companion +had in mind to make another switch once he had satisfied his sharp, gnawing +hunger. At any rate, no sooner had the girls left the room to prepare +themselves than I hear him knocking on the door. "Where is the toilet, +please?" he asks. Not thinking that it was anything serious I urge him to do +in the bidet. The girls return with towels in their hands. I hear him +giggling in the next room. As I'm putting on my pants suddenly I hear a +commotion in the next room. The girl is bawling him out, calling him a pig, a +dirty little pig. I can't imagine what he has done to warrant such an +outburst. I'm standing there with one foot in my trousers listening +attentively. He's trying to explain to her in English, raising his voice +louder and louder until it becomes a shriek. + +I hear a door slam and in another moment the madame bursts into my room, her +face as red as a beet, her arms gesticulating wildly. "You ought to be +ashamed of yourself," she screams, "bringing a man like that to my place! +He's a barbarian ... he's a pig ... he's a ... !" My companion is standing +behind her, in the doorway, a look of utmost discomfiture on his face. "What +did you do?" I ask. + +"What did he do?" yells the madame. "I'll show you ... Come here!" And +grabbing me by the arm she drags me into the next room. "There! There!" she +screams, pointing to the bidet. + +"Come on, let's get out," says the Hindu boy. + +"Wait a minute, you can't get out as easily as all that." + +The madame is standing by the bidet, fuming and spitting. The girls +are standing there too, with towels in their hands. The five of us are +standing there looking at the bidet. There are two enormous turds +floating in the water. The madame bends down and puts a towel over it. +"Frightful! Frightful!" she wails. "Never have I seen anything like this! A +pig! A dirty little pig!" + +The Hindu boy looks at me reproachfully. "You should have told me!" he says. +"I didn't know it wouldn't go down. I asked you where to go and you told me +to use that." He is almost in tears. + +Finally the madame takes me to one side. She has become a little more +reasonable now. After all, it was a mistake. Perhaps the gentlemen would like +to come downstairs and order another drink -- for the girls. It was a great +shock to the girls. They are not used to such things. And if the good +gentlemen will be so kind as to remember the femme de chambre ... It +is not so pretty for me femme de chambre -- that mess, that ugly mess. +She shrugs her shoulders and winks her eye. A lamentable incident. But an +accident. If the gentlemen will wait here a few moments the maid will bring +the drinks. Would the gentlemen like to have some champagne? Yes? + +"I'd like to get out of here," says the Hindu boy weakly. + +"Don't you feel so badly about it," says the madame. "It is all over now. +Mistakes will happen sometimes. Next time you will ask for the toilet." She +goes on about the toilet -- one on every floor, it seems. And a bathroom too. +"I have lots of English clients," she says. "They are all gentlemen. The +gentleman is a Hindu? Charming people, the Hindus. So intelligent. So +handsome." + +When we get into the street the charming young gentleman is almost weeping. +He is sorry now that he bought a corduroy suit and the cane and the +fountain-pens. He talks about the eight vows that he took, the control of +the palate, etc. On the march to Dandi even a plate of ice cream it was +forbidden to take. He tells me about the spinning wheel -- how the little band +of Satyagrahists imitated the devotion of their master. He relates with +pride how he walked beside the master and conversed with him. I have the +illusion of being in the presence of one of the twelve disciples. + +During the next few days we see a good deal of each other; there are +interviews to be arranged with the newspaper men and lectures to be given +to the Hindus of Paris. It is amazing to see how these spineless devils +order one another about; amazing also to see how ineffectual they are in all +that concerns practical affairs. And the jealousy and the intrigues, the +petty, sordid rivalries. Wherever there are ten Hindus together there is +India with her sects and schisms, her racial, lingual, religious, political +antagonisms. In the person of Gandhi they are experiencing for a brief +moment the miracle of unity, but when he goes there will be a crash, an +utter relapse into that strife and chaos so characteristic of the Indian +people. + +The young Hindu, of course, is optimistic. He has been to America and he has +been contaminated by the cheap idealism of the Americans, contaminated by +the ubiquitous bath-tub, the five and ten cent store bric-a-brac, the +bustle, the efficiency, the machinery, the high wages, the free libraries, +etc., etc. His ideal would be to americanize India. He is not at all pleased +with Gandhi's retrogressive mania. Forward, he says, just like a Y. M. +C. A. man. As I listen to his tales of America I see how absurd it is to +expect of Gandhi that miracle which will deroute the trend of destiny. +India's enemy is not England, but America. India's enemy is the time spirit, +the hand which cannot be turned back. Nothing will avail to offset this virus +which is poisoning the whole world. America is the very incarnation of doom. +She will drag the whole world down to the bottomless pit. + +He thinks the Americans are a very gullible people. He tells me about the +credulous souls who succored him there -- the Quakers, the Unitarians, the +Theosophists, the New Thoughters, the Seventh Day Adventists, etc. He knew +where to sail his boat, this bright young man. He knew how to make the tears +come to his eyes at the right moment; he knew how to take up a collection, +how to appeal to the minister's wife, how to make love to the mother and +daughter at the same time. To look at him you would think him a saint. And +he is a saint, in the modern fashion; a contaminated saint who talks in one +breath of love, brotherhood, bath-tubs, sanitation, efficiency, etc. + +The last night of his sojourn in Paris is given up to "the fucking +business." He has had a full program all day -- conferences, cablegrams, +interviews, photographs for the newspapers, affectionate farewells, advice +to the faithful, etc., etc. At dinner time he decides to lay aside his +troubles. He orders champagne with the meal, he snaps his fingers at the +garcon and behaves in general like the boorish little peasant that he +is. And since he has had a bellyful of all the good places he suggests now +that I show him something more primitive. He would like to go to a very +cheap place, order two or three girls at once. I steer him along the +Boulevard de la Chapelle, warning him all the while to be careful of his +pocket-book. Around Aubervilliers we duck into a cheap dive and immediately +we've got a flock of them on our hands. In a few minutes he's dancing with a +naked wench, a huge blonde with creases in her jowls. I can see her ass +reflected a dozen times in the mirrors that line the room -- and those dark, +bony fingers of his clutching her tenaciously. The table is full of beer +glasses, the mechanical piano is wheezing and gasping. The girls who are +unoccupied are sitting placidly on the leather benches, scratching themselves +peacefully just like a family of chimpanzees. There is a sort of subdued +pandemonium in the air, a note of repressed violence, as if the awaited +explosion required the advent of some utterly minute detail, something +microscopic but thoroughly unpremeditated, completely unexpected. In that +sort of half-reverie which permits one to participate in an event and yet +remain quite aloof, the little detail which was lacking began obscurely but +insistently to coagulate, to assume a freakish, crystalline form, like the +frost which gathers on the window-pane. And like those frost patterns which +seem so bizarre, so utterly free and fantastic in design, but which are +nevertheless determined by the most rigid laws, so this sensation which +commenced to take form inside me seemed also to be giving obedience to +ineluctable laws. My whole being was responding to the dictates of an +ambiance which it had never before experienced; that which I could call +myself seemed to be contracting, condensing, shrinking from the stale, +customary boundaries of the flesh whose perimeter knew only the modulations +of the nerve ends. + +And the more substantial, the more solid the core of me became, the more +delicate and extravagant appeared the close, palpable reality out of which I +was being squeezed. In the measure that I became more and more metallic, in +the same measure the scene before my eyes became inflated. The state of +tension was so finely drawn now that the introduction of a single foreign +particle, even a microscopic particle, as I say, would have shattered +everything. For the fraction of a second perhaps I experienced that utter +clarity which the epileptic, it is said, is given to know. In that moment I +lost completely the illusion of time and space: the world unfurled its drama +simultaneously along a meridian which had no axis. In this sort of +hair-trigger eternity I felt that everything was justified, supremely +justified; I felt the wars inside me that had left behind this pulp and +wrack; I felt the crimes that were seething here to emerge tomorrow in +blatant screamers; I felt the misery that was grinding itself out with +pestle and mortar, the long dull misery that dribbles away in dirty +handkerchiefs. On the meridian of time there is no injustice: there +is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and +drama. If at any moment anywhere one comes face to face with the absolute +that great sympathy which makes men like Gautama and Jesus seem divine +freezes away; the monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of +this dung-heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want +roses. For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish +it he will wade through blood. He will debauch himself with ideas, he will +reduce himself to a shadow if for only one second of his life he can close +his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured, disgrace, +humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui --in the belief that overnight +something will occur, a miracle, which will render life tolerable. And all +the while a meter is running inside and there is no hand that can reach in +there and shut it off. All the while someone is eating the bread of life and +drinking the wine, some dirty fat cockroach of a priest who hides away in the +cellar guzzling it, while up above in the light of the street a phantom host +touches the lips and the blood is pale as water. And out of the endless +torment and misery no miracle comes forth, no microscopic vestige even of +relief. Only ideas, pale, attenuated ideas which have to be fattened by +slaughter; ideas which come forth like bile, like the guts of a pig when the +carcass is ripped open. + +And so I think what a miracle it would be if this miracle which man attends +eternally should turn out to be nothing more than these two enormous turds +which the faithful disciple dropped in the bidet. What if at the last +moment, when the banquet table is set and the cymbals clash, there should +appear suddenly, and wholly without warning, a silver platter on which even +the blind could see that there is nothing more, and nothing less, than two +enormous lumps of shit. That, I believe would be more miraculous than +anything which man has looked forward to. It would be miraculous because it +would be undreamed of. It would be more miraculous than even the wildest +dream because anybody could imagine the possibility but nobody ever +has, and probably nobody ever again will. + +Somehow the realization that nothing was to be hoped for had a salutary +effect upon me. For weeks and months, for years, in fact, all my life I had +been looking forward to something happening, some extrinsic event that would +alter my life, and now suddenly, inspired by the absolute hopelessness of +everything, I felt relieved felt as though a great burden had been lifted +from my shoulders. At dawn I parted company with the young Hindu, after +touching him for a few francs, enough for a room. Walking toward Montparnasse +I decided to let myself drift with the tide, to make not the least resistance +to fate, no matter in what form it presented itself. Nothing that had +happened to me thus far had been sufficient to destroy me; nothing had been +destroyed except my illusions. I myself was intact. The world was intact. +Tomorrow there might be a revolution, a plague, an earthquake; tomorrow there +might not be left a single soul to whom one could turn for sympathy, for aid, +for faith. It seemed to me that the great calamity had already manifested +itself, that I could be no more truly alone than at this very moment. I made +up my mind that I would hold on to nothing, that I would expect nothing, that +henceforth I would live as an animal, a beast of prey, a rover, a plunderer. + +Even if war were declared, and it were my lot to go, I would grab the bayonet +and plunge it, plunge it up to the hilt. And if rape were the order of the +day then rape I would, and with a vengeance. At this very moment, in the +quiet dawn of a new day, was not the earth giddy with crime and distress? Had +one single element of man's nature been altered, vitally, fundamentally +altered, by the incessant march of history? By what he calls the better part +of his nature, man has been betrayed, that is all. At the extreme limits of +his spiritual being man finds himself again naked as a savage. When he finds +God, as it were, he has been picked clean: he is a skeleton. One must burrow +into life again in order to put on flesh. The word must become flesh; the +soul thirsts. On whatever crumb my eye fastens, I will pounce and devour. If +to live is the paramount thing, then I will live, even if I must become a +cannibal. Heretofore I have been trying to save my precious hide, trying to +preserve the few pieces of meat that hid my bones. I am done with that. I +have reached the limits of endurance. My back is to the wall; I can retreat +no further. As far as history goes I am dead. If there is something beyond I +shall have to bounce back. I have found God, but he is insufficient. I am +only spiritually dead. Physically I am alive. Morally I am free. The world +which I have departed is a menagerie. The dawn is breaking on a new world, a +jungle world in which the lean spirits roam with sharp claws. If I am a hyena +I am a lean and hungry one: I go forth to fatten myself. + + * * * + +At one-thirty I called on Van Norden, as per agreement. He had warned me that +if he didn't answer it would mean that he was sleeping with some one, +probably his Georgia cunt. + +Anyway, there he was, tucked away comfortably, but with an air of weariness +as usual. He wakes up, cursing himself, or cursing the job, or cursing life. +He wakes up utterly bored and discomfited, chagrined to think that he did +not die overnight. + +I sit down by the window and give him what encouragement I can. It is +tedious work. One has to actually coax him out of bed. Mornings -- he means by +mornings anywhere between one and five p.m. -- mornings, as I say, he gives +himself up to reveries. Mostly it is about the past he dreams. About his +"cunts." He endeavors to recall how they felt, what they said to him at +certain critical moments, where he laid them, and so on. And as he lies +there, grinning and cursing, he manipulates his fingers in that curious, +bored way of his, as though to convey the impression that his disgust is too +great for words. Over the bedstead hangs a douche-bag which he keeps for +emergencies -- for the virgins whom he tracks down like a sleuth. Even +after he has slept with one of these mythical creatures he will still refer +to her as a virgin, and almost never by name. "My virgin," he will say, just +as he says "my Georgia cunt." When he goes to the toilet he says: + +"If my Georgia cunt calls tell her to wait. Say I said so. And listen, you +can have her if you like. I'm tired of her." + +He takes a squint at the weather and heaves a deep sigh. If it's rainy he +says: "God damn this fucking climate, it makes one morbid." And if the sun +is shining brightly he says: "God damn that fucking sun, it makes +you blind." As he starts to shave he suddenly remembers that there is no +clean towel. "God damn this fucking hotel, they're too stingy to give you a +clean towel every day!" No matter what he does or where he goes things are +out of joint. Either it's the fucking country or the fucking job, or else +it's some fucking cunt who's put him on the blink. + +"My teeth are all rotten," he says, gargling his throat. "It's the fucking +bread they give you to eat here." He opens his mouth wide and pulls his lower +lip down. "See that? Pulled out six teeth yesterday. Soon I'll have to get +another plate. That's what you get working for a living. When I was on the +bum I had all my teeth, my eyes were bright and clear. Look at me now! It's a +wonder I can make a cunt any more. Jesus, what I'd like is to find some rich +cunt -- like that cute little prick, Carl. Did he ever show you the letters +she sends him? Who is she, do you know? He wouldn't tell me her name, the +bastard ... he's afraid I might take her away from him." He gargles his +throat again and then he takes a long look at the cavities. "You're lucky," +he says ruefully. "You've got friends, at least. I haven't anybody, except +that cute little prick who drives me bats about his rich cunt." + +"Listen," he says, "do you happen to know a cunt by the name of Norma? She +hangs around the Dome all day. I think she's queer. I had her up here +yesterday, tickling her ass. She wouldn't let me do a thing. I had her on the +bed ... I even had her drawers off ... and then I got disgusted. Jesus, I +can't bother struggling that way any more. It isn't worth it. Either they do +or they don't -- it's foolish to waste time wrestling with them. While you're +struggling with a little bitch like that there may be a dozen cunts on the +terrasse just dying to be laid. It's a fact. They all come over here +to get laid. They think it's sinful here ... the poor boobs! Some of +these school-teachers from out West, they're honestly virgins ... I mean it! +They sit around on their can all day thinking about it. You don't have to +work over them very much. They're dying for it. I had a married woman the +other day who told me she hadn't had a lay for six months. Can you imagine +that? Jesus, she was hot! I thought she'd tear the cock off me. And groaning +all the time. 'Do you? Do you?' She kept saying that all the time, +like she was nuts. And you know what that bitch wanted to do? She wanted to +move in here. Imagine that! Asking me if I loved her. I didn't even know her +name. I never know their names ... I don't want to. The married ones! Christ, +if you saw all the married cunts I bring up here you'd never have any more +illusions. They're worse than the virgins, the married ones. They don't wait +for you to start things -- they fish it out for you themselves. And then they +talk about love afterwards. It's disgusting. I tell you, I'm actually +beginning to hate cunt!" + +He looks out the window again. It's drizzling. It's been drizzling this way +for the last five days. + +"Are we going to the Dome, Joe?" I call him Joe because he calls me Joe. +When Carl is with us he is Joe too. Everybody is Joe because it's easier +that way. It's also a pleasant reminder not to take yourself too seriously. +Anyway, Joe doesn't want to go to the Dome -- he owes too much money there. +He wants to go to the Coupole. Wants to take a little walk first around the +block. + +"But it's raining, Joe." + +"I know, but what the hell! I've got to have my constitutional. I've got to +wash the dirt out of my belly." When he says this I have the impression that +the whole world is wrapped up there inside his belly, and that it's rotting +there. + +As he's putting on his things he falls back again into a semi-comatose +state. He stands there with one arm in his coat sleeve and his hat on +ass-ways and he begins to dream aloud -- about the Riviera, about the sun, +about lazing one's life away. "All I ask of life," he says, "is a bunch of +books, a bunch of dreams, and a bunch of cunt." As he mumbles this +meditatively he looks at me with the softest, the most insidious smile. "Do +you like that smile?" he says. And then disgustedly -- "Jesus, if I could only +find some rich cunt to smile at that way!" + +"Only a rich cunt can save me now," he says with an air of utmost weariness. +"One gets tired of chasing after new cunts all the time. It gets mechanical. +The trouble is, you see, I can't fall in love. I'm too much of an egoist. +Women only help me to dream, that's all. It's a vice, like drink or opium. +I've got to have a new one every day; if I don't I get morbid. I think too +much. Sometimes I'm amazed at myself, how quick I pull it off -- and how +little it really means. I do it automatically like. Sometimes I'm not +thinking about a woman at all, but suddenly I notice a woman looking at me +and then bango! it starts all over again. Before I know what I'm doing I've +got her up to the room. I don't even remember what I say to them. I bring +them up to the room, give them a pat on the ass, and before I know what it's +all about it's over. It's like a dream ... Do you know what I mean?" + +He hasn't much use for the French girls. Can't stand them. "Either they want +money or they want you to marry them. At bottom they're all whores. I'd +rather wrestle with a virgin," he says. "They give you a little illusion. +They put up a fight at least." Just the same, as we glance over the +terrasse there is hardly a whore in sight whom he hasn't fucked at +some time or other. Standing at the bar he points them out to me, one by +one, goes over them anatomically, describes their good points and their bad. +"They're all frigid," he says. And then begins to mould his hands, thinking +of the nice, juicy virgins who are just dying for it. + +In the midst of his reveries he suddenly arrests himself, and grabbing my arm +excitedly he points to a whale of a woman who is just lowering herself into a +seat. "There's my Danish cunt," he grunts. "See that ass? Danish. How +that woman loves it! She just begs me for it. Come over here ... look at her +now, from the side! Look at that ass, will you? It's enormous. I tell you, +when she climbs over me I can hardly get my arms around it. It blots out the +whole world. She makes me feel like a little bug crawling inside her. I don't +know why I fall for her -- I suppose it's that ass. It's so incongruous like. +And the creases in it! You can't forget an ass like that. It's a fact ... a +solid fact. The others, they may bore you, or they may give you a moment's +illusion, but this one -- with her ass! -- zowie, you can't obliterate her ... +it's like going to bed with a monument on top of you." + +The Danish cunt seems to have electrified him. He's lost all his sluggishness +now. His eyes are popping out of his head. And of course one thing reminds +him of another. He wants to get out of the fucking hotel because the noise +bothers him. He wants to write a book too so as to have something to occupy +his mind. But then the goddamned job stands in the way. "It takes it out of +you, that fucking job! I don't want to write about Montparnasse ... I want to +write my life, my thoughts. I want to get the dirt out of my belly ... +Listen, get that one over there! I had her a long time ago. She used to be +down near Les Halles. A funny bitch. She lay on the edge of the bed and +pulled her dress up. Ever try it that way? Not bad. She didn't hurry me +either. She just lay back and played with her hat while I slugged away at +her. And when I come she says sort of bored like -- Are you through? Like it +didn't make any difference at all. Of course, it doesn't make any difference, +I know that god-damn well ... but the cold blooded way she had ... I sort of +liked it ... it was fascinating, you know? When she goes to wipe herself she +begins to sing. Going out of the hotel she was still singing. Didn't even say +Au revoir! Walks off swinging her hat and humming to herself like. +That's a whore for you! A good lay though. I think I liked her better than my +virgin. There's something depraved about screwing a woman who doesn't give a +fuck about it. It heals your blood ..." And then, after a moment's meditation +-- "Can you imagine what she'd be like if she had any feelings?" + +"Listen," he says, "I want you to come to the Club with me tomorrow +afternoon ... there's a dance on." + +"I can't tomorrow, Joe. I promised to help Carl out..." + +"Listen, forget that prick! I want you to do me a favor. +It's like this" -- he commences to mould his hands again. "I've got a cunt +lined up ... she promised to stay with me on my night off. But I'm not +positive about her yet. She's got a mother you see ... some shit of a +painter, she chews my ear off every time I see her. I think the truth is, +the mother's jealous. I don't think she'd mind so much if I gave her a lay +first. You know how it is ... Anyway, I thought maybe you wouldn't mind +taking the mother ... she's not so bad ... if I hadn't seen the daughter I +might have considered her myself. The daughter's nice and young, fresh like, +you know what I mean? There's a clean smell to her ..." + +"Listen, Joe, you'd better find somebody else ..." + +"Aw, don't take it like that! I know how you feel about it. It's only a +little favor I'm asking you to do for me. I don't know how to get rid of the +old hen. I thought first I'd get her drunk and ditch her -- but I don't think +the young one'd like that. They're sentimental like. They come from Minnesota +or somewhere. Anyway, come around tomorrow and wake me up, will you? +Otherwise I'll oversleep. And besides, I want you to help me find a room. You +know I'm helpless. Find me a room in a quiet street, somewhere near here. +I've got to stay around here ... I've got credit here. Listen, promise me +you'll do that for me. I'll buy you a meal now and then. Come around anyway, +because I go nuts talking to these foolish cunts. I want to talk to you about +Havelock Ellis. Jesus, I've had the book out for three weeks now and I +haven't looked at it. You sort of rot here. Would you believe it, I've never +been to the Louvre -- nor the Comedie Francaise. Is it worth going to those +joints? Still, it sort of takes your mind off things, I suppose. What do you +do with yourself all day? Don't you get bored? What do you do for a lay? +Listen ... come here! Don't run away yet ... I'm lonely. Do you know +something -- if this keeps up another year I'll go nuts. I've got to get out +of this fucking country. There's nothing for me here. I know it's lousy now, +in America, but just the same ... You go queer over here ... all these cheap +shits sitting on their ass all day bragging about their work and none of them +is worth a stinking damn. They're all failures -- that's why they come over +here. Listen, Joe, don't you ever get homesick? You're a funny guy ... you +seem to like it over here. What do you see in it... I wish you'd tell me. I +wish to Christ I could stop thinking about myself. I'm all twisted up inside +... it's like a knot in there ... Listen, I know I'm boring the shit out of +you, but I've got to talk to someone. I can't talk to those guys upstairs ... +you know what those bastards are like ... they all take a by-line. And Carl, +the little prick, he's so god-damned selfish. I'm an egotist, but I'm not +selfish. There's a difference. I'm a neurotic, I guess. I can't stop thinking +about myself. It isn't that I think myself so important.... I simply can't +think about anything else, that's all. If I could fall in love with a woman +that might help some. But I can't find a woman who interests me. I'm in a +mess, you can see that can't you? What do you advise me to do? What would you +do in my place? Listen, I don't want to hold you back any longer, but wake me +up tomorrow -- at one-thirty -- will you? I'll give you something extra if +you'll shine my shoes. And listen, if you've got an extra shirt, a clean one, +bring it along, will you? Shit, I'm grinding my balls off on that job, and it +doesn't even give me a clean shirt. They've got us over here like a bunch of +niggers. Ah, well, shit! I'm going to take a walk ... wash the dirt out of my +belly. Don't forget, tomorrow!" + +For six months or more it's been going on, this correspondence with the rich +cunt, Irene. Recently I've been reporting to Carl every day in order to bring +the affair to a head, because as far as Irene is concerned this thing could +go on indefinitely. In the last few days there's been a perfect avalanche of +letters exchanged; the last letter we dispatched was almost forty pages long, +and written in three languages. It was a pot-pourri, the last letter +-- tag ends of old novels, slices from the Sunday supplement, reconstructed +versions of old letters to Liona and Tania, garbled transliterations of +Rabelais and Petronius -- in short, we exhausted ourselves. Finally Irene +decides to come out of her shell. Finally a letter arrives giving a +rendez-vous at her hotel. Carl is pissing in his pants. It's one thing to +write letters to a woman you don't know; it's another thing entirely to call +on her and make love to her. At the last moment he's quaking so that I almost +fear I'll have to substitute for him. When we get out of the taxi in front of +her hotel he's trembling so much that I have to walk him around the block +first. He's already had two Pernods, but they haven't made the slightest +impression on him. The sight of the hotel itself is enough to crush him: it's +a pretentious place with one of those huge empty lobbies in which +Englishwomen sit for hours with a blank look. In order to make sure that he +wouldn't run away I stood by while the porter telephoned to announce him. +Irene was there, and she was waiting for him. As he got into the lift he +threw me a last despairing glance, one of those mute appeals which a dog +makes when you put a noose around its neck. Going through the revolving door +I thought of Van Norden ... + +I go back to the hotel and wait for a telephone call. He's only got an +hour's time and he's promised to let me know the results before going to +work. I look over the carbons of the letters we sent her. I try to imagine +the situation as it actually is, but it's beyond me. Her letters are much +better than ours -- they're sincere, that's plain. By now they've sized each +other up. I wonder if he's still pissing in his pants. + +The telephone rings. His voice sounds queer, squeaky, as though he were +frightened and jubilant at the same time. He asks me to substitute for him +at the office. "Tell the bastard anything! Tell him I'm dying ..." + +"Listen, Carl ... can you tell me ...?" + +"Hello! Are you Henry Miller?" It's a woman's voice. It's Irene. She's +saying hello to me. Her voice sounds beautiful over the phone ... beautiful. +For a moment I'm in a perfect panic. I don't know what to say to her. I'd +like to say: "Listen, Irene, I think you're beautiful ... I think you're +wonderful." I'd like to say one true thing to her, no matter how +silly it would sound, because now that I hear her voice everything is +changed. But before I can gather my wits Carl is on the phone again and he's +saying in that queer squeaky voice: "She likes you, Joe. I told her all +about you ..." + +At the office I have to hold copy for Van Norden. When it comes time for the +break he pulls me aside. He looks glum and ravaged. + +"So he's dying, is he, the little prick? Listen, what's the low-down on +this?" + +"I think he went to see his rich cunt," I answer calmly. + +"What! You mean he called on her?" He seems beside himself. "Listen, +where does she live? What's her name?" I pretend ignorance. "Listen," he +says, "you're a decent guy. Why the hell don't you let me in on this +racket?" + +In order to appease him I promise finally that I'll tell him everything as +soon as I get the details from Carl. I can hardly wait myself until I see +Carl. + +Around noon next day I knock at his door. He's up already and lathering his +beard. Can't tell a thing from the +expression on his face. Can't even tell whether he's going to tell me the +truth. The sun is streaming in through the open window, the birds are +chirping, and yet somehow, why it is I don't know, the room seems more +barren and poverty-stricken than ever. The floor is slathered with lather, +and on the rack there are the two dirty towels which are never changed. And +somehow Carl isn't changed either, and that puzzles me more than anything. +This morning the whole world ought to be changed, for bad or good, but +changed, radically changed. And yet Carl is standing there lathering his +face and not a single detail is altered. + +"Sit down ... sit down there on the bed," he says. "You're going to hear +everything ... but wait first ... wait a little." He commences to lather his +face again, and then to hone his razor. He even remarks about the water ... +no hot water again. + +"Listen, Carl, I'm on tenter-hooks. You can torture me afterwards, if you +like, but tell me now, tell me one thing ... was it good or bad?" + +He turns away from the mirror with brush in hand and gives me a strange +smile. "Wait! I'm going to tell you everything ..." + +"That means it was a failure." + +"No," he says, drawing out his words. "It wasn't a failure, and it wasn't a +success either ... By the way, did you fix it up for me at the office? What +did you tell them?" + +I see it's no use trying to pull it out of him. When he gets good and ready +he'll tell me. Not before. I lie back on the bed, silent as a clam. He goes +on shaving. + +Suddenly, apropos of nothing at all, he begins to talk -- disconnectedly at +first, and then more and more clearly, emphatically, resolutely. It's a +struggle to get it out, but he seems determined to relate everything; he +acts as if he were getting something off his conscience. He even reminds me +of the look he gave me as he was going up the elevator shaft. He dwells on +that lingeringly, as though to imply that everything were contained in that +last moment, as though, if he had to the power to alter things, he would +never have put foot outside the elevator. + +She was in her dressing sack when he called. There was a bucket of champagne +on the dresser. The room was rather dark and her voice was lovely. He gives +me all the details about the room, the champagne, how the garcon +opened it, the noise it made, the way her dressing sack rustled when she came +forward to greet him -- he tells me everything but what I want to hear. + +It was about eight when he called on her. At eight-thirty he was nervous, +thinking about the job. "It was about nine when I called you, wasn't it?" he +says. + +"Yes, about that." + +"I was nervous, see ..." + +"I know that. Go on ..." I don't know whether to believe him or not, +especially after those letters we concocted. I don't even know whether I've +heard him accurately, because what he's telling me sounds utterly fantastic. +And yet it sounds true too, knowing the sort of guy he is. And then I +remember his voice over the telephone, that strange mixture of fright and +jubilation. But why isn't he more jubilant now? He keeps smiling all the +time, smiling like a rosy little bed-bug that has had its fill. + +"It was nine o'clock," he says once again, "when I called you up, wasn't it?" +I nod my head wearily. Yes, it was nine o'clock. He is certain now that it +was nine o'clock because he remembers having taken out his watch. Anyway, +when he looked at his watch again it was ten o'clock. At ten o'clock she was +lying on the divan with her boobies in her hands. That's the way he gives it +to me -- in driblets. At eleven o'clock it was all settled; they were going +to run away, to Borneo. Fuck the husband! She never loved him anyway. She +would never have written the first letter if the husband wasn't old and +passionless. "And then she says to me: 'But listen, dear, how do you know you +won't grow tired of me?' " + +At this point I burst out laughing. This sounds preposterous to me, I can't +help it. "And you said?" + +"What did you expect me to say? I said: how could anyone ever grow tired of +you?" + +And then he describes to me what happened after that, how he bent down and +kissed her breasts, and how, after he had kissed them fervidly, he stuffed +them back into her corsage, or whatever it is they call these things. And +after that another coupe of champagne. + +Around midnight the garcon arrives with beer and sandwiches -- caviar +sandwiches. And all the while, so he says, he has been dying to take a leak. +He had one hard-on, but it faded out. All the while his bladder is fit to +burst, but he imagines, the cute little prick that he is, that the situation +calls for delicacy. + +At one-thirty she's for hiring a carriage and driving through the Bois. He +has only one thought in his head -- how to take a leak? "I love you ... I +adore you," he says. "I'll go anywhere you say -- Istamboul, Singapore, +Honolulu. Only I must go now ... It's getting late." + +He tells me all this in his dirty little room, with the sun pouring in and +the birds chirping away like mad. I don't yet know whether she was beautiful +or not. He doesn't know himself, the imbecile. He rather thinks she wasn't. +The room was dark and then there was the champagne and his nerves all +frazzled. + +"But you ought to know something about her -- if this isn't all a god-damned +lie!" + +"Wait a minute," he says. "Wait ... let me think! No, she wasn't beautiful. +I'm sure of that now. She had a streak of gray hair over her forehead ... I +remember that. But that wouldn't be so bad -- I had almost forgotten it you +see. No, it was her arms -- they were thin ... they were thin and brittle." He +begins to pace back and forth. -- Suddenly, he stops dead. "If she were only +ten years younger!" he exclaims. "If she were ten years younger I might +overlook the streak of gray hair ... and even the brittle arms. But she's +too old. You see, with a cunt like that every year counts now. She won't be +just one year older next year -- she'll be ten years older. Another year hence +and she'll be twenty years older. And I'll be getting younger looking all +the time -- at least for another five years ..." + +"But how did it end?" I interrupt. + +"That's just it ... it didn't end. I promised to see her Tuesday around five +o'clock. That's bad, you know! There were lines in her face which will look +much worse in daylight. I suppose she wants me to fuck her Tuesday. Fucking +in the day-time -- you don't do it with a cunt like +that. Especially in a hotel like that. I'd rather do it on my night off ... +but Tuesday's not my night off. And that's not all. I promised her a letter +in the meantime. How am I going to write her a letter now? I haven't +anything to say ... Shit! If only she were ten years younger. Do you think I +should go with her ... to Borneo or wherever it is she wants to take me? +What would I do with a rich cunt like that on my hands? I don't know how to +shoot. I am afraid of guns and all that sort of thing. Besides, she'll be +wanting me to fuck her night and day ... nothing but hunting and fucking +all the time ... I can't do it!" + +"Maybe it won't be so bad as you think. She'll buy you ties and all sorts of +things ..." + +"Maybe you'll come along with us, eh? I told her all about you ..." + +"Did you tell her I was poor? Did you tell her I needed things?" + +"I told her everything. Shit, everything would be fine, if she were just a +few years younger. She said she was turning forty. That means fifty or +sixty. It's like fucking your own mother ... you can't do it ... it's +impossible." + +"But she must have had some attractiveness ... you were kissing her breasts, +you said." + +"Kissing her breasts -- what's that? Besides it was dark, I'm telling you." + +Putting on his pants a button falls off. "Look at that, will you. It's +falling apart, the god-damned suit. I've worn it for seven years now ... I +never paid for it either. It was a good suit once, but it stinks now. And +that cunt would buy me suits too, all I wanted most likely. But that's what +I don't like, having a woman shell out for me. I never did that in my life. +That's your idea. I'd rather live alone. Shit, this is a good room, +isn't it? What's wrong with it? It's a damned sight better than her room, +isn't it? I don't like her fine hotel. I'm against hotels like that. I told +her so. She said she didn't care where she lived ... said she'd come and +live with me if I wanted her to. Can you picture her moving in here with her +big trunks and her hat-boxes and all that crap she drags around with her? +She has too many things -- too many dresses and bottles and all that. It's +like a clinic, her room. If she gets a little scratch on her finger it's +serious. + +And then she has to be massaged and her hair has to be waved and she mustn't +eat this and she mustn't eat that. Listen, Joe, she'd be all right if she +were just a little younger. You can forgive a young cunt anything. A young +cunt doesn't have to have any brains. They're better without brains. But an +old cunt, even if she's brilliant, even if she's the most charming woman in +the world, nothing makes any difference. A young cunt is an investment; an +old cunt is a dead loss. All they can do for you is buy you things. But that +doesn't put meat on their arms or juice between the legs. She isn't bad, +Irene. In fact, I think you'd like her. With you it's different. You don't +have to fuck her. You can afford to like her. Maybe you wouldn't like all +those dresses and the bottles and what not, but you could be tolerant. She +wouldn't bore you, that I can tell you. She's even interesting, I might say. +But she's withered. Her breasts are all right yet -- but her arms! I told her +I'd bring you around some day. I talked a lot about you ... I didn't know +what to say to her. Maybe you'd like her, especially when she's dressed. I +don't know ..." + +"Listen, she's rich, you say? I'll like her! I don't care how old she is, so +long as she's not a hag ..." + +"She's not a hag! What are you talking about? She's charming, I tell you. +She talks well. She looks well too ... only her arms ..." + +"All right, if that's how it is, I'll fuck her -- if you don't want +to. Tell her that. Be subtle about it, though. With a woman like that you've +got to do things slowly. You bring me around and let things work out for +themselves. Praise the shit out of me. Act jealous like ... Shit, maybe we'll +fuck her together ... and we'll go places and we'll eat together ... and +we'll drive and hunt and wear nice things. If she wants to go to Borneo let +her take us along. I don't know how to shoot either, but that doesn't matter. +She doesn't care about that either. She just wants to be fucked that's all. +You're talking about her arms all the time. You don't have to look at her +arms all the time, do you? Look at this bedspread! Look at the mirror! Do you +call this living? Do you want to go on being delicate and live like a louse +all your life? You can't even pay your hotel bill ... and you've got a job +too. This is no way to live. I don't care if she's seventy years old -- it's +better than this ..." + +"Listen, Joe, you fuck her for me ... then everything'll be fine. Maybe +I'll fuck her once in a while too ... on my night off. It's four days now +since I've had a good shit. There's something sticking to me, like grapes ..." + +"You've got the piles, that's what." + +"My hair's falling out too ... and I ought to see the dentist. I feel as +though I were falling apart. I told her what a good guy you are ... You'll +do things for me, eh? You're not too delicate, eh? If we go to Borneo I +won't have haemorrhoids any more. Maybe I'll develop something else ... +something worse ... fever perhaps ... or cholera. Shit, it is better to die +of a good disease like that than to piss your life away on a newspaper with +grapes up your ass and buttons falling off your pants. I'd like to be rich, +even if it were only for a week, and then go to a hospital with a good +disease, a fatal one, and have flowers in the room and nurses dancing +around and telegrams coming. They take good care of you if you're rich. They +wash you with cotton batting and they comb your hair for you. Shit, I know +all that. Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all +my life .. . maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheel-chair. But +then I'd be taken care of just the same ... even if I had no more money. If +you're an invalid -- a real one -- they don't let you starve. And you get +a clean bed to lie in ... and they change the towels every day. This way +nobody gives a fuck about you, especially if you have a job. They think a +man should be happy if he's got a job. What would you rather do -- be a +cripple all your life, or have a job ... or marry a rich cunt? You'd rather +marry a rich cunt, I can see that. You only think about food. But supposing +you married her and then you couldn't get a hard-on any more -- that happens +sometimes -- what would you do then? You'd be at her mercy. You'd have to eat +out of her hand, like a little poodle dog. You'd like that, would you? Or +maybe you don't think of those things? I think of everything. I +think of the suits I'd pick out and the places I'd like to go to, but I also +think of the other thing. That's the important thing. What good are the +fancy ties and the fine suits if you can't get a hard-on any more? You +couldn't even betray her -- because she'd be on your heels all the time. No, +the best thing would be to marry her and then get a disease right away. Only +not syphilis. Cholera, let's say, or yellow fever. So that if a miracle did +happen and your life was spared you'd be a cripple for the rest of your +days. Then you wouldn't have to worry about fucking her any more, and you +wouldn't have to worry about the rent either. She'd probably buy you a fine +wheel-chair with rubber tires and all sorts of levers and what not. You +might even be able to use your hands -- I mean enough to be able to write. Or +you could have a secretary, for that matter. That's it -- that's the best +solution for a writer. What does a guy want with his arms and legs? He +doesn't need arms and legs to write with. He needs security ... peace ... +protection. All those heroes who parade in wheel-chairs -- it's too bad +they're not writers. If you could only be sure, when you go off to war, +that you'd have only your legs blown off ... if you could be sure of that +I'd say let's have a war tomorrow. I wouldn't give a fuck about the +medals -- they could keep the medals. All I'd want is a good wheel-chair and +three meals a day. Then I'd give them something to read, those pricks!" + +The following day, at one-thirty, I call on Van Norden. It's his day off, or +rather his night off. He has left word with Carl that I am to help him move +today. + +I find him in a state of unusual depression. He hasn't slept a wink all +night, he tells me. There's something on his mind, something that's eating +him up. It isn't long before I discover what it is; he's been waiting +impatiently for me to arrive in order to spill it. + +"That guy," he begins, meaning Carl, "that guy's an artist. He described +every detail minutely. He told it to me with such accuracy that I know it's +all a god-damned lie ... but I can't dismiss it from my mind. You know how +my minds works!" + +He interrupts himself to inquire if Carl has told me the whole story. There +isn't the least suspicion in his mind that Carl may have told me one thing +and him another. He seems to think that the story was invented expressly to +torture him. He doesn't seem to mind so much that it's a +fabrication. It's the "images," as he says, which Carl left in his mind, +that get him. The images are real, even if the whole story is false. And +besides, the fact that there actually is a rich cunt on the scene and that +Carl actually paid her a visit, that's undeniable. What actually happened is +secondary; he takes it for granted that Carl put the boots to her. But what +drives him desperate is the thought that what Carl has described to him +might have been possible. + +"It's just like that guy," he says, "to tell me he put it to her six or +seven times. I know that's a lot of shit and I don't mind that so much, but +when he tells me that she hired a carriage and drove him out to the Bois and +that they used the husband's fur-coat for a blanket, that's too much. I +suppose he told you about the chauffeur waiting respectfully ... and listen, +did he tell you how the engine purred all the time? Jesus, he built that up +wonderfully. It's just like him to think of a detail like that ... it's one +of those little details which makes a thing psychologically real ... you +can't get it out of your head afterwards. And he tells it to me so smoothly, +so naturally ... I wonder, did he think it up in advance or did it just pop +out of his head like that, spontaneously? He's such a cute little liar you +can't walk away from him ... it's like he's writing you a letter, one of +those flower-pots that he makes overnight. I don't understand how a guy can +write such letters ... I don't get the mentality behind it ... it's a form a +masturbation ... what do you think?" + +But before I have an opportunity to venture an opinion, or even to laugh in +his face, Van Norden goes on with his monologue. + +"Listen, I suppose he told you everything ... did he tell you how he stood +on the balcony in the moonlight and kissed her? That sounds banal when you +repeat it, but the way that guy describes it ... I can just see the little +prick standing there with the woman in his arms and already he's writing +another letter to her, another flower-pot about the roof-tops and all that +crap he steals from his French authors. That guy never says a thing that's +original, I found that out. You have to get a clue like ... find out whom +he's been reading lately ... and it's hard to do that because he's so damned +secretive. Listen, if I didn't know that you went there with him, I wouldn't +believe that the woman existed. A guy like that could write letters to +himself. And yet he's lucky ... he's so damned tiny, so frail, so romantic-looking, +that women fall for him now and then ... they sort of adopt him ... they feel +sorry for him, I guess. And some cunts like to receive flower-pots ... it +makes them feel important ... But this woman's an intelligent woman, so he +says. You ought to know, you've seen her letters. What do you suppose a woman +like that saw in him? I can understand her falling for the letters ... but +how do you suppose she felt when she saw him? + +"But listen, all that's beside the point. What I'm getting at is the way he +tells it to me. You know how he embroiders things ... well, after that scene +on the balcony -- he gives me that like an hors d'oeuvre, you know -- after +that, so he says, they went inside and he unbuttoned her pajamas. What are +you smiling for? Was he shitting me about that?" + +"No, no! You're giving it to me exactly as he told me. Go ahead ..." + +"After that" -- here Van Norden has to smile himself -- "after that, mind you, +he tells me how she sat in the chair with her legs up ... not a stitch on +... and he's sitting on the floor looking up at her, telling her how +beautiful she looks ... did he tell you that she looked like a Matisse ... +Wait a minute ... I'd like to remember exactly what he said. He had some +cute little phrase there about an odalisque ... what the hell's an +odalisque anyway? He said it in French, that's why it's hard to remember the +fucking thing ... but it sounded good. It sounded just like the sort of +thing he might say. And she probably thought it was original with him ... I +suppose she thinks he's a poet or something. But listen, all this is nothing +... I make allowance for his imagination. It's what happened after that +that drives me crazy. All night long I've been tossing about, playing with +these images he left in my mind. I can't get it out of my head. It sounds so +real to me that if it didn't happen I could strangle the bastard. A guy has +no right to invent things like that. Or else he's diseased ... + +"What I'm getting at is that moment when, he says, he got down on his knees +and with those two skinny fingers of his he spread her cunt open. You +remember that? He says she was sitting there with her legs dangling over the +arms of the chair and suddenly, he says, he got an inspiration. This was +after he had given her a couple of lays already ... after he had made that +little spiel about Matisse. He gets down on his knees -- get this! -- and +with his two fingers ... just the tips of them, mind you ... he opens the +little petals ... squish-squish ... just like that. A sticky little +sound ... almost inaudible. Squish-squish! Jesus, I've been hearing +it all night long! And then he says -- as if that weren't enough for me -- then +he tells me he buried his head in her muff. And when he did that, so help me +Christ, if she didn't swing her legs around his neck and lock him there. +That finished me! Imagine it! Imagine a fine, sensitive woman like +that swinging her legs around his neck\ There's something poisonous +about it. It's so fantastic that it sounds convincing. If he had only told +me about the champagne and the ride in the Bois and even that scene on the +balcony I could have dismissed it. But this thing is so incredible that it +doesn't sound like a lie, any more. I can't believe that he ever read +anything like that anywhere, and I can't see what could have put the idea +into his head unless there was some truth in it. With a little prick like +that, you know, anything can happen. He may not have fucked her at all, but +she may have let him diddle her ... you never know with these rich cunts +what they might expect you to do ..." + +When he finally pulls himself out of bed and starts to shave the afternoon +is already well advanced. I've finally succeeded in switching his mind to +other things, to the moving principally. The maid comes in to see if he's +ready -- he's supposed to have vacated the room by noon. He's just in the act +of slipping into his trousers. I'm a little surprised that he doesn't +excuse himself, or turn away. Seeing him standing there nonchalantly +buttoning his fly as he gives her orders I begin to titter. "Don't mind +her," he says, throwing her a look of supreme contempt, "she's just a big +sow. Give her a pinch in the ass, if you like. She won't say anything." And +then addressing her, in English, he says: "Come here, you bitch, put your +hand on this!" At this I can't restrain myself any longer. I burst out +laughing, a fit of hysterical laughter which infects the maid also, though +she doesn't know what it's all about. + + +The maid commences to take down the pictures and photographs, mostly of +himself, which line the walls. "You," he says, jerking his thumb, +"come here! Here's something to remember me by" -- ripping a photograph off +the wall -- "when I go you can wipe your ass with it. See," he says, turning +to me, "she's a dumb bitch. She wouldn't look any more intelligent if I said +it in French." The maid stands there with her mouth open; she is evidently +convinced that he is cracked. "Hey!" he yells at her as if she were hard of +healing. "Hey, you! Yes, you! Like this ... !" and he takes +the photograph, his own photograph, and wipes his ass with it. "Comme +ca! Savvy? You've got to draw pictures for her," he says, thrusting his +lower lip forward in absolute disgust. + +He watches her helplessly as she throws his things into the big valises. +"Here, put these in too," he says, handing her a tooth-brush and the +douche-bag. Half of his belongings are lying on the floor. The valises are +crammed full and there is nowhere to put the paintings and the books and the +bottles that are half empty. "Sit down a minute," he says. "We've got plenty +of time. We've got to think this thing out. If you hadn't come around I'd +never have gotten out of here. You see how helpless I am. Don't let me +forget to take the bulbs out ... they belong to me. That waste-basket +belongs to me too. They expect you to live like pigs, these bastards." The +maid has gone downstairs to get some twine ... "Wait till you see ... +she'll charge me for the twine even if it's only three sous. They wouldn't +sew a button on your pants here without charging for it. The lousy, dirty +scroungers!" He takes a bottle of Calvados from the mantelpiece and nods to +me to grab the other. "No use carrying these to the new place. Let's finish +them off now. But don't give her a drink! That bastard, I wouldn't +leave her a piece of toilet-paper. I'd like to ruin the joint before I go. +Listen ... piss on the floor, if you like. I wish I could take a crap in the +bureau drawer." He feels so utterly disgusted with himself and everything +else that he doesn't know what to do by way of venting his feelings. He +walks over to the bed with the bottle in his hand and pulling back the +covers he sprinkles Calvados over the mattress. Not content with that he +digs his heel into the mattress. Unfortunately there's no mud +on his heels. Finally he takes the sheet and cleans his shoes with it. +"That'll give them something to do," he mutters vengefully. Then, taking a +good swig, he throws his head back and gargles his throat, and after he's +gargled it good and proper he spits it out on the mirror. "There, you cheap +bastards! Wipe that off when I go!" He walks back and forth mumbling to +himself. Seeing his torn socks lying on the floor he picks them up and tears +them to bits. The paintings enrage him too. He picks one up -- a portrait of +himself done by some Lesbian he knew and he puts his foot through it. "That +bitch! You know what she had the nerve to ask me? She asked me to turn over +my cunts to her after I was through with them. She never gave me a sou for +writing her up. She thought I honestly admired her work. I wouldn't have +gotten that painting out of her if I hadn't promised to fix her up with that +cunt from Minnesota. She was nuts about her ... used to follow us around +like a dog in heat ... we couldn't get rid of the bitch! She bothered the +life out of me. I got so that I was almost afraid to bring a cunt up here +for fear that she'd bust in on me. I used to creep up here like a burglar +and lock the door behind me as soon as I got inside ... She and that Georgia +cunt -- they drive me nuts. The one is always in heat and the other is always +hungry. I hate fucking a woman who's hungry. It's like you push a feed +inside her and then you push it out again ... Jesus, that reminds me of +something ... where did I put that blue ointment? That's important. Did you +ever have those things? It's worse than having a dose. And I don't know +where I got them from either. I've had so many women up here in the last +week or so I've lost track of them. Funny too, because they all smelled so +fresh. But you know how it is ..." + +The maid has piled his things up on the sidewalk. The patron looks on +with a surly air. When everything has been loaded into the taxi there is only +room for one of us inside. As soon as we commence to roll Van Norden gets out +a newspaper and starts bundling up his pots and pans; in the new place all +cooking is strictly forbidden. By the time we reach our destination all his +luggage has come undone; it wouldn't be quite so embarrassing if the madame +had not stuck her head out of the doorway just as we rolled up. "My God!" she +exclaims, "what in the devil is all this? What does it mean?" Van Norden is +so intimidated that he can think of nothing more to say than "C'est moi +... c'est moi, madame!" And turning to me he mumbles savagely: "That +cluck! Did you notice her face? She's going to make it hard for me." + +The hotel lies back of a dingy passage and forms a rectangle very much on +the order of a modern penitentiary. The bureau is large and gloomy, despite +the brilliant reflections from the tile walls. There are bird cages hanging +in the windows and little enamel signs everywhere begging the guests in an +obsolete language not to do this and not to forget that. It is almost +immaculately clean but absolutely poverty-stricken, threadbare, woe-begone. +The upholstered chairs are held together with wired thongs; +they remind one unpleasantly of the electric chair. The room he is going to +occupy is on the fifth floor. As we climb the stairs Van Norden informs me +that Maupassant once lived here. And in the same breath he remarks that +there is a peculiar odor in the hall. On the fifth floor a few window-panes +are missing; we stand a moment gazing at the tenants across the court. It +is getting toward dinner-time and people are straggling back to their rooms +with that weary, dejected air which comes from earning a living honestly. +Most of the windows are wide open: the dingy rooms have the appearance of so +many yawning mouths. The occupants of the rooms are yawning too, or else +scratching themselves. They move about listlessly and apparently without +much purpose; they might just as well be lunatics. + +As we turn down the corridor towards room 57, a door suddenly opens in front +of us and an old hag with matted hair and the eyes of a maniac peers out. +She startles us so that we stand transfixed. For a full minute the three of +us stand there powerless to move or even to make an intelligent gesture. +Back of the old hag I can see a kitchen table and on it lies a baby all +undressed, a puny little brat no bigger than a plucked chicken. Finally the +old one picks up a slop-pail by her side and makes a move forward. We stand +aside to let her pass and as the door closes behind her the baby lets out a +piercing scream. It is room number 56, and between 56 and 57 is the toilet +where the old hag is emptying her slops. + +Ever since we have mounted the stairs Van Norden has kept silence. But his +looks are eloquent. When he opens the door of 57 I have for a fleeting moment +the sensation of going mad. A huge mirror covered with green gauze and tipped +at an angle of 45 degrees hangs directly opposite the entrance over a +baby-carriage which is filled with books. Van Norden doesn't even crack a +smile; instead he walks nonchalantly over to the baby-carriage and picking up +a book begins to skim it through, much as a man would enter the public +library and go unthinkingly to the rack nearest to hand. And perhaps this +would not seem so ludicrous to me if I had not espied at the same time a pair +of handle-bars resting in the corner. They look so absolutely peaceful and +contented, as if they had been dozing there for years, that suddenly it seems +to me as if we had been standing in this room, in exactly this position, for +an incalculably long time, that it was a pose we had struck in a dream from +which we never emerged, a dream which the least gesture, the wink of an eye +even, will shatter. But more remarkable still is the remembrance that +suddenly floats up of an actual dream which occurred only the other night, a +dream in which I saw Van Norden in just such a corner as is occupied now by +the handle-bars, only instead of the handle-bars there was a woman crouching +with her legs drawn up. I see him standing over the woman with that alert, +eager look in his eye, which comes when he wants something badly. The street +in which this is going on is blurred -- only the angle made by two walls is +clear, and the cowering figure of the woman. I can see him going at her in +that quick, animal way of his, reckless of what's going on about him, +determined only to have his way. And a look in his eye as though to say -- +"you can kill me afterwards, but just let me get it in ... I've got to get it +in!" And there he is, bent over her, their heads knocking against the wall, +he has such a tremendous erection that it's simply impossible to get it in +her. Suddenly, with that disgusted air which he knows so well how to summon, +he picks himself up and adjusts his clothes. He is about to walk away when +suddenly he notices that his penis is lying on the sidewalk. It is about the +size of a sawed-off broom-stick. He picks it up nonchalantly and slings it +under his arm. As he walks off I notice two huge bulbs, like tulip bulbs, +dangling from the end of the broom-stick, and I can hear him muttering to +himself "flower-pots ... flower-pots." + +The garcon arrives panting and sweating. Van Norden looks at him +uncomprehendingly. The madame now marches in and walking straight up to Van +Norden she takes the book out of his hand, thrusts it in the baby-carriage, +and without saying a word, wheels the baby-carriage into the hallway. + +"This is a bug-house," says Van Norden, smiling distressedly. It is such a +faint, indescribable smile that for a moment the dream feeling comes back +and it seems to me that we are standing at the end of a long corridor at the +end of which is a corrugated mirror. And down this corridor, swinging his +distress like a dingy lantern. Van Norden staggers, staggers in and out as +here and there a door opens and a hand yanks him in or a hoof pushes him +out. And the further off he wanders the more lugubrious is his distress; he +wears it like a lantern which the cyclists hold between their teeth on a +night when the pavement is wet and slippery. In and out of the dingy rooms +he wanders, and when he sits down the chair collapses, when he opens his +valise there is only a tooth-brush inside. In every room there is a mirror +before which he stands attentively and chews his rage, and from the +constant chewing, from the grumbling and mumbling and the muttering and +cursing his jaws have gotten unhinged and they sag badly and, when he rubs +his beard, pieces of his jaw crumble away and he's so disgusted with himself +that he stamps on his own jaw, grinds it to bits with his big heels. + +Meanwhile the luggage is being hauled in. And things begin to look crazier +even than before -- particularly when he attaches his exerciser to the +bedstead and begins his Sandow exercises. "I like this place," he says, +smiling at the garcon. He takes his coat and vest off. The +garcon is watching him with a puzzled air; he has a valise in one hand +and the douche-bag in the other. I'm standing apart in the ante-chamber +holding the mirror with the green gauze. Not a single object seems to possess +a practical use. The ante-chamber itself seems useless, a sort of vestibule +to a barn. It is exactly the same sort of sensation which I get when I enter +the Comedie Francaise or the Palais Royal Theatre; it is a world of +bric-a-brac, of trapdoors, of arms and busts and waxed floors, of candelabras +and men in armor, of statues without eyes and love letters lying in glass +cases. Something is going on, but it makes no sense; it's like finishing the +half-empty bottle of Calvados because there's no room in the valise. + +Climbing up the stairs, as I said a moment ago, he had mentioned the fact +that Maupassant used to live here. The coincidence seems to have made an +impression upon him. He would like to believe that it was in this very room +that Maupassant gave birth to some of those gruesome tales on which his +reputation rests. "They lived like pigs, those poor bastards," he says. We +are sitting at the round table in a pair of comfortable old arm-chairs that +have been trussed up with thongs and braces; the bed is right beside as, so +close indeed that we can put our feet on it. The armoire stands in a +corner behind us, also conveniently within reach. Van Norden has emptied his +dirty wash on the table; we sit here with our feet buried in his dirty socks +and shirts, and smoke contentedly. The sordidness of the place seems to have +worked a spell on him: he is content here. When I get up to switch on the +light he suggests that we play a game of cards before going out to +eat. And so we sit there by the window, with the dirty wash strewn +over the floor and the Sandow exerciser hanging from the chandelier, and we +play a few rounds of two-handed pinochle. Van Norden has put away his pipe +and packed a wad of snuff on the under side of his lower lip. Now and then +he spits out of the window, big healthy gobs of brown juice which resound +with a smack on the pavement below. He seems content now. + +"In America," he says, "you wouldn't dream of living in a joint like this. +Even when I was on the bum I slept in better rooms than this. But here it +seems natural -- it's like the books you read. If I ever go back there I'll +forget all about this life, just like you forget a bad dream. I'll probably +take up the old life again just where I left off... if I ever get back. +Sometimes I lie in bed dreaming about the past and it's so vivid to me that I +have to shake myself in order to realize where I am. Especially when I have a +woman beside me; a woman can set me off better than anything. That's all I +want of them -- to forget myself. Sometimes I get so lost in my reveries that +I can't remember the name of the cunt or where I picked her up. That's funny, +eh? It's good to have a fresh warm body beside you when you wake up in the +morning. It gives you a clean feeling. You get spiritual like ... until they +start pulling that mushy crap about love et cetera. Why do all these cunts +talk about love so much, can you tell me that? A good lay isn't enough for +them apparently ... they want your soul too ..." + +Now this word soul, which pops up frequently in Van Norden's soliloquies, +used to have a droll effect upon me at first. Whenever I heard the word soul +from his lips I would get hysterical; somehow it seemed like a false coin, +more particularly because it was usually accompanied by a gob of brown +juice which left a trickle down the corner of his mouth. And as I never +hesitated to laugh in his face it happened invariably that when this little +word bobbed up Van Norden would pause just long enough for me to burst into +a cackle and then, as if nothing had happened, he would resume his +monologue, repeating the word more and more frequently and each time with a +more caressing emphasis. It was the soul of him that women were trying to +possess -- that he made clear to me. He had explained it over and over again, +but he comes back to it afresh each time like a paranoiac to his obsession. +In a sense Van Norden is mad, of that I'm convinced. His one fear is to be +left alone, and this fear is so deep and so persistent that even when he is +on top of a woman, even when he has welded himself to her, he cannot escape +the prison which he has created for himself. "I try all sorts of things," he +explains to me. "I even count sometimes, or I begin to think of a problem in +philosophy, but it doesn't work. It's like I'm two people, and one of them +is watching me all the time. I get so god-damned mad at myself that I could +kill myself ... and in a way, that's what I do every time I have an orgasm. +For one second like I obliterate myself. There's not even one me then ... +there's nothing ... not even the cunt. It's like receiving communion. +Honest, I mean that. For a few seconds afterwards I have a fine spiritual +glow ... and maybe it would continue that way indefinitely -- how can you +tell? -- if it weren't for the fact that there's a woman beside you and then +the douche-bag and the water running ... all those little details that make +you desperately self-conscious, desperately lonely. And for that one moment +of freedom you have to listen to all that love crap ... it drives me nuts +sometimes ... I want to kick them out immediately ... I do now and then. But +that doesn't keep them away. They like it, in fact. The less you notice them +the more they chase after you. There's something perverse about women ... +they're all masochists at heart." + +"But what is it you want of a woman, then?" I demand. + + He begins to mould his hands; his lower lip droops. He looks completely +frustrated. When eventually he succeeds in stammering out a few broken +phrases it's with the conviction that behind his words lies an overwhelming +futility. "I want to be able to surrender myself to a woman," he blurts out. +"I want her to take me out of myself. But to do that, she's got to be better +than I am; she's got to have a mind, not just a cunt. She's got to make me +believe that I need her, that I can't live without her. Find me a cunt like +that, will you? If you could do that I'd give you my job. I wouldn't care +then what happened to me: I wouldn't need a job or friends or books or +anything. If she could only make me believe that there was something more +important on earth than myself. Jesus, I hate myself! But I hate these +bastardly cunts even more -- because they're none of them any good. + + "You think I like myself," he continues. "That shows how little you know +about me. I know I'm a great guy ... I wouldn't have these problems if there +weren't something to me. But what eats me up is that I can't express myself. +People think I'm a cunt-chaser. That's how shallow they are, these high-brows +who sit on the terrasse all day chewing the psychologic cud ... That's +not so bad, eh -- psychologic cud? Write it down for me. I'll use it in my +column next week ... By the way, did you ever read Stekel? Is he any good? It +looks like nothing but case histories to me. I wish to Christ I could get up +enough nerve to visit an analyst... a good one, I mean. I don't want to see +these little shysters with goatees and frock coats, like your friend Boris. +How do you manage to tolerate those guys? Don't they bore you stiff? You talk +to anybody, I notice. You don't give a god-damn. Maybe you're right. I wish I +weren't so damned critical. But these dirty little Jews who hang around the +Dome, Jesus, they give me the creeps. They sound just like textbooks. If I +could talk to you every day maybe I could get things off my chest. You're a +good listener. I know you don't give a damn about me, but you're patient. And +you don't have any theories to exploit. I suppose you put it all down +afterwards in that notebook of yours. Listen, I don't mind what you say about +me, but don't make me out to be a cunt-chaser -- it's too simple. Some day +I'll write a book about myself, about my thoughts. I don't mean just a piece +of introspective analysis ... I mean that I'll lay myself down on the +operating table and I'll expose my whole guts ... every god-damned thing. Has +anybody ever done that before? -- What the hell are you smiling at? Does it +sound naif?" + +I'm smiling because whenever we touch on the subject of this book which he is +going to write some day things assume an incongruous aspect. He has only to +say "my book" and immediately the world shrinks to the private dimensions of +Van Norden and Co. The book must be absolutely original, absolutely perfect. +That is why, among other things, it is impossible for him to get started on +it. As soon as he gets an idea he begins to question it. He remembers that +Dostoievski used it, or Hamsun, or somebody else. "I'm not saying that I want +to be better than them, but I want to be different," he explains. And so, +instead of tackling his book, he reads one author after another in order to +make absolutely certain that he is not going to tread on their private +property. And the more he reads the more disdainful he becomes. None of them +are satisfying; none of them arrive at that degree of perfection which he has +imposed on himself. And forgetting completely that he has not written as much +as a chapter he talks about them condescendingly, quite as though there +existed a shelf of books bearing his name, books which everyone is familiar +with and the titles of which it is therefore superfluous to mention. Though +he has never overtly lied about this fact, nevertheless it is obvious that +the people whom he buttonholes in order to air his private philosophy, his +criticism, and his grievances, take it for granted that behind his loose +remarks there stands a solid body of work. Especially the young and foolish +virgins whom he lures to his room on the pretext of reading to them his +poems, or on the still better pretext of asking their advice. Without the +least feeling of guilt or self-consciousness he will hand them a piece of +soiled paper on which he has scribbled a few lines -- the basis of a new +poem, as he puts it -- and with absolute seriousness demand of them an honest +expression of opinion. As they usually have nothing to give by way of +comment, wholly bewildered as they are by the utter senselessness of the +lines. Van Norden seizes the occasion to expound to them his view of art, a +view, needless to say, which is spontaneously created to suit the event. So +expert has he become in this role that the transition from Ezra Pound's +cantos to the bed is made as simply and naturally as a modulation from one +key to another; in fact, if it were not made there would be a discord, which +is what happens now and then when he makes a mistake as regards those +nit-wits whom he refers to as "push-overs." Naturally, constituted as he is, +it is with reluctance that he refers to these fatal errors of judgment. But +when he does bring himself to confess to an error of this kind it is with +absolute frankness; in fact, he seems to derive a perverse pleasure in +dwelling upon his inaptitude. There is one woman, for example, whom he has +been trying to make for almost ten years now -- first in America, and finally +here in Paris. It is the only person of the opposite sex with whom he has a +cordial, friendly relationship. They seem not only to like each other, but to +understand each other. At first it seemed to me that if he could really make +this creature his problem might be solved. All the elements for a successful +union were there -- except the fundamental one. Bessie was almost as unusual +in her way as himself. She had as little concern about giving herself to a +man as she has about the dessert which follows the meal. Usually she singled +out the object of her choice and made the proposition herself. She was not +bad-looking, nor could one say that she was good-looking either. She had a +fine body, that was the chief thing -- and she liked it, as they say. + +They were so chummy, these two, that sometimes, in order to gratify her +curiosity (and also in the vain hope of inspiring her by his prowess). Van +Norden would arrange to hide her in his closet during one of his seances. +After it was over Bessie would emerge from her hiding-place and they would +discuss the matter casually, that is to say, with an almost total +indifference to everything except "technique." Technique was one of her +favorite terms, at least in those discussions which I was privileged to +enjoy. "What's wrong with my technique?" he would say. And Bessie would +answer: "You're too crude. If you ever expect to make me you've got to +become more subtle." + +There was such a perfect understanding between them, as I say, that often +when I called for Van Norden at one-thirty, I would find Bessie sitting on +the bed, the covers thrown back and Van Norden inviting her to stroke his +penis ... "just a few silken strokes," he would say, "so as I'll have the +courage to get up." Or else he would urge her to blow on it, or failing +that, he would grab hold of himself and shake it like a dinner-bell, the two +of them laughing fit to die. "I'll never make this bitch," he would say. +"She has no respect for me. That's what I get for taking her into my +confidence." And then abruptly he might add: "What do you make of that +blonde I showed you yesterday?" Talking to Bessie, of course. And Bessie +would jeer at him, telling him he had no taste. "Aw, don't give me that +line," he would say. And then playfully, perhaps for the thousandth time, +because by now it had become a standing joke between them -- "Listen, Bessie, +what about a quick lay? Just one little lay ... no." And when this had +passed off in the usual manner he would add, in the same tone: "Well, what +about him? Why don't you give him a lay?" + +The whole point about Bessie was that she couldn't, or just wouldn't, regard +herself as a lay. She talked about passion, as if it were a brand new word. +She was passionate about things, even a little thing like a lay. She had to +put her soul into it. + +"I get passionate too sometimes," Van Norden would say. + +"Oh, you," says Bessie. You're just a worn-out satyr. You don't know +the meaning of passion. When you get an erection you think you're +passionate." + +"All right, maybe it's not passion ... but you can't get passionate +without having an erection, that's true isn't it?" + +All this about Bessie, and the other women whom he drags to this room day in +and out, occupies my thoughts as we walk to the restaurant. I have adjusted +myself so well to his monologues that without interrupting my own reveries I +make whatever comment is required automatically, the moment I hear his +voice die out. It is a duet, and like most duets moreover in that one +listens attentively only for the signal which announces the advent of one's +own voice. As it is his night off, and as I have promised to keep him +company, I have already dulled myself to his queries. I know that before the +evening is over I shall be thoroughly exhausted; if I am lucky, that is, if +I can worm a few francs out of him on some pretext or other, I will duck him +the moment he goes to the toilet. But he knows my propensity for slipping +away, and, instead of being insulted, he simply provides against the +possibility by guarding his sous. If I ask him for money to buy cigarettes +he insists on going with me to purchase them. He will not be left alone, not +for a second. Even when he has succeeded in grabbing off a woman, even then +he is terrified to be left alone with her. If it were possible he would have +me sit in the room while he puts on the performance. It would be like asking +me to wait while he took a shave. + +On his night off Van Norden generally manages to have at least fifty francs +in his pocket, a circumstance which does not prevent him from making a touch +whenever he encounters a prospect. "Hello," he says, "give me twenty francs +... I need it." He has a way of looking panic-stricken at the same time. And +if he meets with a rebuff he becomes insulting. "Well, you can buy a drink +at least." And when he gets his drink he says more graciously -- "Listen, give +me five francs then ... give me two francs ..." We go from bar to bar +looking for a little excitement and always accumulating a few more francs. +At the Coupole we stumble into a drunk from the newspaper. One of the +upstairs guys. There's just been an accident at the office, he informs us. +One of the proofreaders fell down the elevator shaft. Not expected to live. + +At first Van Norden is shocked, deeply shocked. But when he learns that it +was Peckover, the Englishman, he looks relieved. "The poor bastard," he +says, "he's better off dead than alive. He just got his false teeth the +other day too ..." + +The allusion to the false teeth moves the man upstairs to tears. He relates +in a slobbery way a little incident connected with the accident. He is +upset about it, more upset about this little incident than about the +catastrophe itself. It seems that Peckover, when he hit the bottom of the +shaft, regained consciousness before anyone could reach him. Despite the +fact that his legs were broken and his ribs busted, he had managed to rise +to all fours and grope about for his false teeth. In the ambulance he was +crying out in his delirium for the teeth he had lost. The incident was +pathetic and ludicrous at the same time. The guy from upstairs hardly knew +whether to laugh or to weep as he related it. It was a delicate moment +because with a drunk like that one false move and he'd crash a bottle over +your skull. He had never been particularly friendly with Peckover -- as a +matter of fact, he had scarcely ever set foot in the proof-reading +department: there was an invisible wall between the guys upstairs and the +guys down below. But now, since he had felt the touch of death, he wanted to +display his comradeship. He wanted to weep, if possible, to show that he was +a regular guy. And Joe and I, who knew Peckover well and who knew also that +he wasn't worth a good god-damn, even a few tears, we felt annoyed with this +drunken sentimentality. We wanted to tell him so too, but with a guy like +that you can't afford to be honest; you have to buy a wreath and go to the +funeral and pretend that you're miserable. And you have to congratulate him +too for the delicate obituary he's written. He'll be carrying his delicate +little obituary around with him for months, praising the shit out of himself +for the way he handled the situation. We felt all that, Joe and I, without +saying a word to each other. We just stood there and listened with a +murderous, silent contempt. And as soon as we could break away we did so; we +left him there at the bar blubbering to himself over his Pernod. + +Once out of his sight we began to laugh hysterically. The false teeth! No +matter what we said about the poor devil, and we said some good things about +him too, we always came back to the false teeth. There are people in this +world who cut such a grotesque figure that even death renders them +ridiculous. And the more horrible the death the more ridiculous they seem. +It's no use trying to invest the end with a little dignity -- you have to be a +liar and a hypocrite to discover anything tragic in their going. And since +we didn't have to put on a false front we could laugh about the incident to +our heart's content. We laughed all night about it, and in between times, we +vented our scorn and disgust for the guys upstairs, the fat-heads who were +trying to persuade themselves, no doubt, that Peckover was a fine fellow and +that his death was a catastrophe. All sorts of funny recollections came to +our minds -- the semicolons that he overlooked and for which they bawled the +piss out of him. They made his life miserable with their rucking little +semi-colons and the fractions which he always got wrong. They were even +going to fire him once because he came to work with a boozy breath. They +despised him because he always looked so miserable and because he had +eczema and dandruff. He was just a nobody, as far as they were concerned, +but, now that he was dead, they would all chip in lustily and buy him a huge +wreath and they'd put his name in big type in the obituary column. Anything +to throw a little reflection on themselves; they'd make him out to be a +big shit if they could. But unfortunately, with Peckover, there was +little they could invent about him. He was a zero, and even the fact that he +was dead wouldn't add a cipher to his name. + +"There's only one good aspect to it," says Joe. "You may get his job. And if +you have any luck, maybe you'll fall down the elevator shaft and break your +neck too. We'll buy you a nice wreath, I promise you that." + +Towards dawn we're sitting on the terrasse of the D6me. We've +forgotten about poor Peckover long ago. +We've had a little excitement at the Bal Negre and Joe's mind has slipped +back to the eternal preoccupation: cunt. It's at this hour, when his night +off is almost concluded, that his restlessness mounts to a fever pitch. He +thinks of the women he passed up earlier in the evening and of the steady +ones whom he might have had for the asking, if it weren't that he was fed up +with them. He is reminded inevitably of his Georgia cunt -- she's been +hounding him lately, begging him to take her in, at least until she can find +herself a job. "I don't mind giving her a feed once in a while," he says, +"but I couldn't take her on as a steady thing . .. she'd ruin it for my +other cunts." What gripes him most about her is that she doesn't put on any +flesh. "It's like taking a skeleton to bed with you," he says. "The other +night I took her on -- out of pity -- and what do you think the crazy bitch +had done to herself? She had shaved it clean ... not a speck of hair on it! +Did you ever have a woman who shaved her twat? It's repulsive, ain't it? And +it's funny, too. Sort of mad like. It doesn't look like a twat any more: it's +like a dead clam or something." He describes to me how, his curiosity +aroused, he got out of bed and searched for his flashlight. "I made her hold +it open and I trained the flashlight on it. You should have seen me ... it +was comical. I got so worked up about it that I forgot all about her. I never +in my life looked at a cunt so seriously. You'd imagine I'd never seen one +before. And the more I looked at it the less interesting it became. It only +goes to show that there's nothing to it after all, especially when it's +shaved. It's the hair that makes it mysterious. That's why a statue leaves +you cold. Only once I saw real cunt on a statue -- that was by Rodin. You +ought to see it some time ... she has her legs spread wide apart ... I don't +think there was any head on it. Just a cunt you might say. Jesus, it looked +ghastly. The thing is this -- they all look alike. When you look at them with +their clothes on you imagine all sorts of things; you give them an +individuality like, which they haven't got, of course. There's just a crack +there between the legs and you get all steamed up about it -- you don't even +look at it half the time. You know it's there and all you think about is +getting your ramrod inside; it's as though your penis did the thinking for +you. It's an illusion! You get all burned up about nothing ... about a crack +with hair on it, or without hair. It's so absolutely meaningless that it +fascinated me to look at it. I must have studied it for ten minutes or more. +When you look at it that way, sort of detached like, you get funny notions in +your head. All that mystery about sex and then you discover that it's +nothing, just a blank. Wouldn't it be funny if you found a harmonica inside +... or a calendar? But there's nothing there ... nothing at all. It's +disgusting. It almost drove me mad ... Listen, do you know what I did +afterwards? I gave her a quick lay and then I turned my back on her. Yeah, I +picked up a book and I read. You can get something out of a book, even a bad +book ... but a cunt, it's just a sheer loss of time ..." + +It just so happened that as he was concluding his speech a whore gave us the +eye. Without the slightest transition he says to me abruptly: "Would you +like to give her a tumble? It won't cost much ... she'll take the two of us +on." And without waiting for a reply he staggers to his feet and goes over +to her. In a few minutes he comes back. "It's all fixed," he says. "Finish +your beer. She's hungry. There's nothing doing any more at this hour ... +she'll take the both of us for fifteen francs. We'll go to my room ... it'll +be cheaper." + +On the way to the hotel the girl is shivering so that we have to stop and +buy her a coffee. She's a rather gentle sort of creature and not at all bad +to look at. She evidently knows Van Norden, knows there's nothing to +expect from him but the fifteen francs. "You haven't got any dough," he +says, mumbling to me under his breath. As I haven't a centime in my pocket I +don't quite see the point of this, until he bursts out "For Christ's sake, +remember that we're broke. Don't get tenderhearted when we get upstairs. +She's going to ask you for a little extra -- I know this cunt! I could get her +for ten francs, if I wanted to. There's no use spoiling them ..." + +"Il est mechant, celui-la," she says to me, gathering the drift of his +remarks in her dull way. + +"Non, il n'est pas mechant, il est tres gentil." + +She shakes her head laughingly. "Je le connais bien, ce +type." And then she commences a hard luck story, about the hospital +and the back rent and the baby in the country. But she doesn't overdo it. +She knows that our ears are stopped; but the misery is there inside her, +like a stone, and there's no room for any other thoughts. She isn't trying +to make an appeal to our sympathies -- she's just shifting this big weight +inside her from one place to another. I rather like her. I hope to Christ +she hasn't got a disease ... + +In the room she goes about her preparations mechanically. "There isn't a +crust of bread about by any chance?" she inquires, as she squats over the +bidet. Van Norden laughs at this. "Here, take a drink," he says, +shoving a bottle at her. She doesn't want anything to drink; her stomach's +already on the bum, she complains. + +"That's just a line with her," says Van Norden. "Don't let her work on your +sympathies. Just the same. I wish she'd talk about something else. How the +hell can you get up any passion when you've got a starving cunt on your +hands?" + +Precisely! We haven't any passion either of us. And as for her, one might as +well expect her to produce a diamond necklace as to show a spark of +passion. But there's the fifteen francs and something has to be done about +it. It's like a state of war; the moment the condition is precipitated +nobody thinks about anything but peace, about getting it over with. And yet +nobody has the courage to lay down his arms, to say, "I'm fed up with it ... +I'm through." No, there's fifteen francs somewhere, which nobody gives a +damn about any more and which nobody is going to get in the end anyhow, but +the fifteen francs is like the primal cause of things and rather than listen +to one's own voice, rather than walk out of the primal cause, one surrenders +to the situation, one goes on butchering and butchering and the more +cowardly one feels the more heroically does he behave, until a day when the +bottom drops out and suddenly all the guns are silenced and the +stretcher-bearers pick up the maimed and bleeding heroes and pin medals on +their chest. Then one has the rest of his life to think about the fifteen +francs. One hasn't any eyes or arms or legs, but he has the consolation of +dreaming for the rest of his days about the fifteen francs which everybody +has forgotten. + +It's exactly like a state of war -- I can't get it out of my head. The way +she works over me, to blow a spark of passion into me, makes me think what a +damned poor soldier I'd be if I was ever silly enough to be trapped like this +and dragged to the front. I know for my part that I'd surrender everything, +honor included, in order to get out of the mess. I haven't any stomach for +it, and that's all there is to it. But she's got her mind set on the fifteen +francs and if I don't want to fight about it she's going to make me fight. +But you can't put fight into a man's guts if he hasn't any fight in him. +There are some of us so cowardly that you can't even make heroes of us, not +even if you frighten us to death. We know too much, maybe. There are some of +us who don't live in the moment, who live a little ahead, or a little behind. +My mind is on the peace treaty all the time. I can't forget that it was the +fifteen francs which started all the trouble. Fifteen francs! What does +fifteen francs mean to me, particularly since it's not my fifteen francs? + +Van Norden seems to have a more normal attitude about it. He doesn't care a +rap about the fifteen francs either now; it's the situation itself which +intrigues him. It seems to call for a show of mettle -- his manhood is +involved. The fifteen francs are lost, whether we succeed or not. There's +something more involved -- not just manhood perhaps, but will. It's like a +man in the trenches again: he doesn't know any more why he should go on +living, because if he escapes now he'll only be caught later, but he goes on +just the same, and even though he has the soul of a cockroach and has +admitted as much to himself, give him a gun or a knife or even just his bare +nails, and he'll go on slaughtering and slaughtering, he'd slaughter a +million men rather than stop and ask himself why. + +As I watch Van Norden tackle her, it seems to me that I'm looking at a +machine whose cogs have slipped. Left to themselves, they could go on this +way forever, grinding and slipping, without ever anything happening. Until a +hand shuts the motor off. The sight of them coupled like a pair of goats +without the least spark of passion, grinding and grinding away for no reason +except the fifteen francs, washes away every bit of feeling I have, except +the inhuman one of satisfying my curiosity. The girl is lying on the edge of +the bed and Van Norden is bent over her like a satyr with his two feet +solidly planted on the floor. I am sitting on a chair behind him, watching +their movements with a cool, scientific detachment; it doesn't matter to me +if it should last forever. It's like watching one of those crazy machines +which throw the newspaper out, millions and billions and trillions of them +with their meaningless head-lines. The machine seems more sensible, crazy as +it is, and more fascinating to watch, than the human beings and the events +which produced it. My interest in Van Norden and the girl is nil; if I could +sit like this and watch every single performance going on at this minute all +over the world my interest would be even less than nil. I wouldn't be able to +differentiate between this phenomenon and the rain falling or a volcano +erupting. As long as that spark of passion is missing there is no human +significance in the performance. The machine is better to watch. And these +two are like a machine which has slipped its cogs. It needs the touch of a +human hand to set it right. It needs a mechanic. + +I get down on my knees behind Van Norden and I examine the machine more +attentively. The girl throws, her head on one side and gives me a despairing +look. "It's no use," she says. "It's impossible." Upon which Van Norden sets +to work with renewed energy, just like an old billy goat. He's such an +obstinate cuss that he'll break his horns rather than give up. And he's +getting sore now because I'm tickling him in the rump. + +"For God's sake, Joe, give it up! You'll kill the poor girl." + +"Leave me alone," he grunts. "I almost got it in that time." + +The posture and the determined way in which he blurts this out suddenly +brings to my mind, for the second time, the remembrance of my dream. Only +now it seems as though that broomstick, which he had so nonchalantly slung +under his arm, as he walked away, is lost forever. It is like the sequel to +the dream -- the same Van Norden, but minus the primal cause. He's like a hero +come back from the war, a poor maimed bastard living out the reality of his +dreams. Wherever he sits himself the chair collapses; whatever door he +enters the room is empty; whatever he puts in his mouth leaves a bad taste. +Everything is just the same as +it was before; the elements are unchanged, the dream is no different than +the reality. Only, between the time he went to sleep and the time he woke +up, his body was stolen. He's like a machine throwing out newspapers, +millions and billions of them every day, and the front page is loaded with +catastrophes, with riots, murders, explosions, collisions, but he doesn't +feel anything. If somebody doesn't turn the switch off he'll never know +what it means to die; you can't die if your own proper body has been stolen. +You can get over a cunt and work away like a billy-goat until eternity; you +can go to the trenches and be blown to bits; nothing will create that spark +of passion if there isn't the intervention of a human hand. Somebody has to +put his hand into the machine and let it be wrenched off if the cogs are to +mesh again. Somebody has to do this without hope of reward, without concern +over the fifteen francs; somebody whose chest is so thin that a medal would +make him hunchbacked. And somebody has to throw a feed into a starving cunt +without fear of pushing it out again. Otherwise this show'll go on forever. +There's no way out of the mess ... + +After sucking the boss's ass for a whole week -- it's the thing to do here -- +I managed to land Peckover's job. He died all right, the poor devil, a few +hours after he hit the bottom of the shaft. And just as I predicted, they +gave him a fine funeral, with solemn mass, huge wreaths, and everything. +Tout compris. And after the ceremonies they regaled themselves, the +upstairs guys, at a bistrot. It was too bad Peckover couldn't have had +just a little snack -- he would have appreciated it so much to sit with the +men upstairs and hear his own name mentioned so frequently. + +I must say, right at the start, that I haven't a thing to complain about. +It's like being in a lunatic asylum, with permission to masturbate for the +rest of your life. The world is brought right under my nose and all that is +requested of me is to punctuate the calamities. There is nothing in which +these slick guys upstairs do not put their fingers: no joy, no misery passes +unnoticed. They live among the hard facts of life, reality, as it is called. +It is the reality of a swamp and they are like frogs who have nothing better +to do than to croak. The more they croak the more real life becomes. Lawyer, +priest, doctor, politician, newspaper man -- these are the quacks who have +their fingers on the pulse of the world. A constant atmosphere of calamity. +It's marvellous. It's as if the barometer never changed, as if the flag were +always at half-mast. One can see now how the idea of heaven takes hold of +men's consciousness, how it gains ground even when all the props have been +knocked from under it. There must be another world beside this swamp in which +everything is dumped pell-mell. It's hard to imagine what it can be like, +this heaven that men dream about. A frog's heaven, no doubt. Miasma, scum, +pond lilies, stagnant water. Sit on a lily-pad unmolested and croak all day. +Something like that, I imagine. + +They have a wonderful therapeutic effect upon me, these catastrophes which I +proof-read. Imagine a state of perfect immunity, a charmed existence, a life +of absolute security in the midst of poison bacilli. Nothing touches me, +neither earthquakes nor explosions nor riots nor famine nor collisions nor +wars nor revolutions. I am inoculated against every disease, every calamity, +every sorrow and misery. It's the culmination of a life of fortitude. Seated +at my little niche all the poisons which the world gives off each day pass +through my hands. Not even a finger-nail gets stained. I am absolutely +immune. I am even better off than a laboratory attendant, because there are +no bad odors here, just the smell of lead burning. The world can blow +up -- I'll be here just the same to put in a comma or a semi-colon. I may even +touch a little overtime, for with an event like that there's bound to be a +final extra. When the world blows up and the final edition has gone to press +the proof-readers will quietly gather up all commas, semi-colons, hyphens, +asterisks, brackets, parentheses, periods, exclamation marks, etc., and put +them in a little box over the editorial chair. Comme, ca tout est regle +... + +None of my companions seem to understand why I appear so contented. They +grumble all the time, they have ambitions, they want to show their pride and +spleen. A good proof-reader has no ambitions, no pride, no spleen. A good +proof-reader is a little like God Almighty, he's in the world but not of it. +He's for Sundays only. Sunday is his night off. On Sundays he steps down from +his pedestal and shows his ass to the faithful. Once a week he listens in on +all the private grief and misery of the world; it's enough to last him for +the rest of the week. The rest of the week he remains in the frozen winter +marshes, an absolute, an impeccable absolute, with only a vaccination mark to +distinguish him from the immense void. + +The greatest calamity for a proof-reader is the threat of losing his job. +When we get together in the break the question that sends a shiver down our +spines is: what'll you do if you lose your job? For the man in the paddock, +whose duty it is to sweep up the manure, the supreme terror is the +possibility of a world without horses. To tell him that it is disgusting to +spend one's life shoveling up hot turds is a piece of imbecility. A man can +get to love shit if his livelihood depends on it, if his happiness is +involved. + +This life which, if I were still a man with pride, honor, ambition and so +forth, would seem like the bottom rung of degradation, I welcome now, as an +invalid welcomes death. It's a negative reality, just like death -- a sort of +heaven without the pain and terror of dying. In this chthonian world the +only thing of importance is orthography and punctuation. It doesn't matter +what the nature of the calamity is, only whether it is spelled right. +Everything is on one level, whether it be the latest fashion for evening +gowns, a new battleship, a plague, a high explosive, an astronomic +discovery, a bank run, a railroad wreck, a bull market, a hundred to one +shot, an execution, a stick-up, an assassination, or what. Nothing escapes +the proofreader's eye, but nothing penetrates his bullet-proof vest. To the +Hindoo Agha Mir, Madame Scheer (formerly Miss Esteve) writes saying she is +quite satisfied with his work. "I was married June 6th and I thank you. We +are very happy and I hope that thanks to your power it will be so forever. I +am sending you by telegraph money order the sum of ... to reward you ..." +The Hindoo Agha Mir foretells your future and reads all your thoughts in a +precise and inexplicable way. He will advise you, will help you rid +yourself of all your worries and troubles of all kinds, etc. Call or +write 20 Avenue Mac-Mahon, Paris. + +He reads all your thoughts in a marvellous way! I take it, that means +without exception, from the most trivial thoughts to the most shameless. He +must have a lot of time on his hands, this Agha Mir. Or does he only +concentrate on the thoughts of those who send money by telegraph money +order? In the same edition I notice a headline announcing that "the universe +is expanding so fast it may burst" and underneath it is the photograph of a +splitting headache. And then there is a spiel about the pearl, signed Tecla. +The oyster produces both, he informs all and sundry. Both the "wild" or +Oriental pearl, and the "cultured" pearl. On the same day, at the Cathedral +of Trier, the Germans are exhibiting the Coat of Christ; it's the first time +it's been taken out of the moth-balls in forty-two years. Nothing said about +the pants and vest. In Salzburg, also the same day, two mice were born in a +man's stomach, believe it or not. A famous movie actress is shown with her +legs crossed: she is taking a rest in Hyde Park, and underneath a well-known +painter remarks "I'll admit that Mrs. Coolidge has such charm and +personality that she would have been one of the 12 famous Americans, even +had her husband not been President." From an interview with Mr. Humhal, of +Vienna, I glean the following ... "Before I stop," said Mr. Humhal, "I'd +like to say that faultless cut and fit does not suffice; the proof of good +tailoring is seen in the wearing. A suit must bend to the body, yet keep its +line when the wearer is walking or sitting." And whenever there is an +explosion in a coal mine -- a British coal mine -- notice please that the +King and Queen always send their condolences promptly, by telegraph. +And they always attend the important races, though the other day, according +to the copy, it was at the Derby, I believe, "heavy rains began to fall, +much to the surprise of the King and Queen." More heartrending, however, is +an item like this: "It is claimed in Italy that the persecutions are not +against the Church, but nevertheless they are conducted against the most +exquisite parts of the Church. It is claimed that they are not against the +Pope, but they are against the very heart and eyes of the Pope." + + I had to travel precisely all around the world to find just such a +comfortable, agreeable niche as this. It seems incredible almost. How could I +have foreseen, in America, with all those firecrackers they put up your ass +to give you pep and courage, that the ideal position for a man of my +temperament was to look for orthographic mistakes? Over there you think of +nothing but becoming President of the United States some day. Potentially +every man is presidential timber. Here it's different. Here every man is +potentially a zero. If you become something or somebody it is an accident, a +miracle. The chances are a thousand to one that you will never leave your +native village. The chances are a thousand to one that you'll have your legs +shot off or your eyes blown out. Unless the miracle happens and you find +yourself a general or a rear-admiral. + +But it's just because the chances are all against you, just because there is +so little hope, that life is sweet over here. Day by day. No yesterdays and +no tomorrows. The barometer never changes, the flag is always at halfmast. +You wear a piece of black crape on your arm, you have a little ribbon in +your button-hole, and, if you are lucky enough to afford it, you buy +yourself a pair of artificial light-weight limbs, aluminium preferably. +Which does not prevent you from enjoying an aperitif or looking at +the animals in the zoo or flirting with the vultures who sail up and down +the boulevards always on the alert for fresh carrion. Time passes. If you're +a stranger and your papers are in order you can expose yourself to infection +without fear of being contaminated. It is better, if possible, to have a +proof-reader's job. Comme ca, tout s'arrange. That means, that if you +happen to be strolling home at three in the morning and you are intercepted +by the bicycle cops, you can snap your fingers at them. In the morning, +when the market is in swing, you can buy Belgian eggs, at fifty centimes a +piece. A proof-reader doesn't get up usually until noon, or a little after. +It's well to choose a hotel near a cinema, because if you have a tendency to +oversleep the bells will wake you up in time for the matinee. Or if you can't +find a hotel near a cinema, choose one near a cemetery, it comes to the same +thing. Above all, never despair. Il ne faut jamais desesperer. + +Which is what I try to din into Carl and Van Norden every night. A world +without hope, but no despair. It's as though I had been converted to a new +religion, as though I were making an annual novena every night to Our Lady of +Solace. I can't imagine what there would be to gain if I were made editor of +the paper, or even President of the United States. I'm up a blind alley, and +it's cosy and comfortable. With a piece of copy in my hand I listen to the +music around me, the hum and drone of voices, the tinkle of the linotype +machines, as if there were a thousand silver bracelets passing through a +wringer; now and then a rat scurries past our feet or a cockroach descends +the wall in front of us, moving nimbly and gingerly on his delicate legs. The +events of the day are slid under your nose, quietly, unostentatiously, with, +now and then, a by-line to mark the presence of a human hand, an ego, a touch +of vanity. The procession passes serenely, like a cortege entering the +cemetery gates. The paper under the copy desk is so thick that it almost +feels like a carpet with a soft nap. Under Van Norden's desk it is stained +with brown juice. Around eleven o'clock the peanut vendor arrives, a half-wit +of an Armenian who is also content with his lot in life. + +Now and then I get a cablegram from Mona saying that she's arriving on me +next boat. "Letter following," it always says. It's been going on like this +for nine months, but I never see her name in the list of boat arrivals, nor +does the garcon ever bring me a letter on a silver platter. I haven't +any more expectations in that direction either. If she ever does arrive she +can look for me downstairs, just behind the lavatory. She'll probably tell +me right away that it's unsanitary. That's the first thing that strikes an +American woman about Europe -- that it's unsanitary. Impossible for them to +conceive of a Paradise without modern plumbing. If they find a bed-bug they +want to write a letter immediately to the Chamber of Commerce. How am I ever +going to explain to her that I'm contented here? She'll say I've become a +degenerate. I know her line from beginning to end. She'll want to look for a +studio with a garden attached -- and a bath-tub to be sure. She wants to be +poor in a romantic way. I know her. But I'm prepared for her this time. + +There are days, nevertheless, when the sun is out and I get off the beaten +path and think about her hungrily. Now and then, despite my grim +satisfaction, I get to thinking about another way of life, get to wondering +if it would make a difference having a young, restless creature by my side. +The trouble is I can hardly remember what she looks like, nor even how it +feels to have my arms around her. Everything that belongs to the past seems +to have fallen into the sea; I have memories, but the images have lost their +vividness, they seem dead and desultory, like time-bitten mummies stuck in a +quagmire. If I try to recall my life in New York I get a few splintered +fragments, nightmarish and covered with verdigris. It seems as if my own +proper existence had come to an end somewhere, just where exactly I can't +make out. I'm not an American any more, nor a New Yorker, and even less a +European, or a Parisian. I haven't any allegiance, any responsibilities, any +hatreds, any worries, any prejudices, any passion. I'm neither for nor +against. I'm neutral. + +When we walk home of a night, the three of us, it often happens after the +first spasms of disgust that we get to talking about the condition of things +with the enthusiasm which only those who bear no active part in life can +muster. What seems strange to me sometimes, when I crawl into bed, is that +all this enthusiasm is engendered just to kill time, just to +annihilate the three-quarters of an hour which it requires to walk from the +office to Montparnasse. We might have the most brilliant, the most feasible +ideas for the amelioration of this or that, but there is no vehicle to hitch +them to. And what is more strange is that the absence of any relationship +between ideas and living causes us no anguish, no discomfort. We have become +so adjusted that, if tomorrow we were ordered to walk on our hands, we +would do so without the slightest protest. Provided, of course, that the +paper came out as usual. And that we touched our pay regularly. Otherwise +nothing matters. Nothing. We have become Orientalized. We have become +coolies, white collar coolies, silenced by a handful of rice each day. A +special feature in American skulls, I was reading the other day, is the +presence of the epactal bone, or os Incae, in the occiput. The +presence of this bone, so the savant went on to say, is due to a +persistence of the transverse occiputal suture which is usually closed in +foetal life. Hence it is a sign of arrested development and indicative of an +inferior race. "The average cubical capacity of +the American skull," so he went on to say, "falls below that of the white, +and rises above that of the black race. Taking both sexes, the Parisians of +to-day have a cranial capacity of 1.448 cubic centimeters; the Negroes 1.344 +centimeters: the American Indians 1.376." From all of which I deduce nothing +because I am an American and not an Indian. But it's cute to explain things +that way, by a bone, an os Incae, for example. It doesn't disturb his +theory at all to admit that single examples of Indian skulls have yielded +the extraordinary capacity of 1.920 cubic centimeters, a cranial capacity +not exceeded in any other race. What I note with satisfaction is that the +Parisians, of both sexes, seem to have a normal cranial capacity. The +transverse occiputal suture is evidently not so persistent with them. They +know how to enjoy an aperitif and they don't worry if the houses are +unpainted. There's nothing extraordinary about their skulls, so far as +cranial indices go. There must be some other explanation for the art of +living which they have brought to such a degree of perfection. + +At Monsieur Paul's, the bistrot across the way, there is a back room +reserved for the newspapermen where we can eat on credit. It is a pleasant +little room with saw-dust on the floor and flies in season and out. When I +say that it is reserved for the newspapermen I don't mean to imply that we +eat in privacy; on the contrary, it means that we have the privilege of +associating with the whores and pimps who form the more substantial element +of Monsieur Paul's clientele. The arrangement suits the guys upstairs to a +T, because they're always on the look-out for tail, and even those who have +a steady little French girl are not averse to making a switch now and then. +The principal thing is not to get a dose; at times it would seem as if an +epidemic had swept the office, or perhaps it might be explained by the fact +that they all sleep with the same woman. Anyhow, it's gratifying to observe +how miserable they can look when they are obliged to sit beside a pimp who, +despite the little hardships of his profession, lives a life of luxury by +comparison. + +I'm thinking particularly now of one tall, blonde fellow who delivers the +Havas messages by bicycle. He is always a little late for his meal, always +perspiring profusely and his face covered with grime. He has a fine, awkward +way of strolling in, saluting everybody with two fingers and making a bee +line for the sink which is just between the toilet and the kitchen. As he +wipes his face he gives the edibles a quick inspection; if he sees a nice +steak lying on the slab he picks it up and sniffs it, or he will dip the +ladle into the big pot and try a mouthful of soup. He's like a fine +bloodhound, his nose to the ground all the time. The preliminaries over, +having made pipi and blown his nose vigorously, he walks nonchalantly over to +his wench and gives her a big, smacking kiss together with an affectionate +pat on the rump. Her, the wench, I've never seen look anything but immaculate +-- even at three a.m., after an evening's work. She looks exactly as if she +had just stepped out of a Turkish Bath. It's a pleasure to look at such +healthy brutes, to see such repose, such affection, such appetite as they +display. It's the evening meal I'm speaking of now, the little snack that she +takes before entering upon her duties. In a little while she will be obliged +to take leave of her big blonde brute, to flop somewhere on the boulevard and +sip her digestif. If the job is irksome or wearing or exhaustive, she +certainly doesn't show it. When the big fellow arrives, hungry as a wolf, she +puts her arms around him and kisses him hungrily -- his eyes, nose, cheeks, +hair, the back of his neck ... she'd kiss his ass if it could be done +publicly. She's grateful to him, that's evident. She's no wage-slave. All +through the meal she laughs convulsively. You wouldn't think she had a care +in the world. And now and then, by way of affection, she gives him a +resounding slap in the face, such a whack as would knock a proofreader +spinning. + +They don't seem to be aware of anything but themselves and the food that +they pack away in shovelsful. Such perfect contentment, such harmony, such +mutual understanding, it drives Van Norden crazy to watch them. Especially +when she slips her hand in the big fellow's fly and caresses it, to which he +generally responds by grabbing her teat and squeezing it playfully. + +There is another couple who arrive usually about the same time and they +behave just like two married people. +They have their spats, they wash their linen in public and after they've +made things disagreeable for themselves and everybody else, after threats +and curses and reproaches and recriminations, they make up for it by billing +and cooing, just like a pair of turtle doves. Lucienne, as he calls her, is +a heavy, platinum blonde with a cruel, saturnine air. She has a full +under-lip which she chews venomously when her temper runs away with her. +And a cold, beady eye, a sort of faded china blue, which makes him sweat +when she fixes him with it. But she's a good sort, Lucienne, despite the +condor-like profile which she presents to us when the squabbling begins. +Her bag is always full of dough, and if she deals it out cautiously, it is +only because she doesn't want to encourage him in his bad habits. He has a +weak character; that is, if one takes Lucienne's tirades seriously. He will +spend fifty francs of an evening while waiting for her to get through. When +the waitress comes to take his order he has no appetite. "Ah, you're not +hungry again!" growls Lucienne. "Humpf! You were waiting for me, I suppose, +on the Faubourg Montmartre. You had a good time, I hope, while I slaved for +you. Speak, imbecile, where were you?" + +When she flares up like that, when she gets enraged, he looks up at her +timidly and then, as if he had decided that silence was the best course, he +lets his head drop and he fiddles with his napkin. But this little gesture, +which she knows so well and which of course is secretly pleasing to her +because she is convinced now that he is guilty, only increases Lucienne's +anger. "Speak, imbecile!" she shrieks. And with a squeaky, timid +little voice he explains to her woefully that while waiting for her he got +so hungry that he was obliged to stop off for a sandwich and glass of beer. +It was just enough to ruin his appetite -- he says it dolefully, though it's +apparent that food just now is the least of his worries. "But" -- and he tries +to make his voice sound more convincing -- "I was waiting for you all the +time," he blurts out. + +"Liar!" she screams. "Liar! Ah, fortunately, I too am a liar ... a good +liar. You make me ill with your petty little lies. Why don't you tell me +a big lie?" + +He hangs his head again and absent-mindedly he gathers a few crumbs and +puts them to his mouth. Whereupon she slaps his hand. "Don't do that! You +make me tired. You're such an imbecile. Liar! Just you wait! I have more to +say. I am a liar too, but I am not an imbecile." + +In a little while, however, they are sitting close together, their hands +locked, and she is murmuring softly: +"Ah, my little rabbit, it is hard to leave you now. Come here, kiss me! What +are you going to do this evening? Tell me the truth, my little one ... I am +sorry that I have such an ugly temper." He kisses her timidly, just like a +little bunny with long pink ears; gives her a little peck on the lips as if +he were nibbling a cabbage leaf. And at the same time his bright round eyes +fall caressingly on her purse which is lying open beside her on the bench. +He is only waiting for the moment when he can graciously give her the slip; +he is itching to get away, to sit down in some quiet cafe on the Rue du +Faubourg-Montmartre. + +I know him, the innocent little devil, with his round, frightened eyes of a +rabbit. And I know what a devil's street is the Faubourg Montmartre with its +brass plates and rubber goods, the lights twinkling all night and sex +running through the street like a sewer. To walk from the Rue Lafayette to +the boulevard is like running the gauntlet; they attach themselves to you +like barnacles, they eat into you like ants, they coax, wheedle, cajole, +implore, beseech, they try it out in German, English, Spanish, they show +you their torn hearts and their busted shoes, and long after you've chopped +the tentacles away, long after the fizz and sizzle has died out, the +fragrance of the lavabo clings to your nostrils -- it is the odor of +the Parfum de Danse whose effectiveness is guaranteed only for +a distance of twenty centimeters. One could piss away a whole lifetime in +that little stretch between the boulevard and the Rue Lafayette. Every bar +is alive, throbbing, the dice loaded; the cashiers are perched like vultures +on their high stools and the money they handle has a human stink to it. +There is no equivalent in the Banque de France for the blood money that +passes currency here, the money that glistens with human sweat, that passes +like a forest fire from hand to hand and leaves behind it a smoke and +stench. A man who can walk through the Faubourg Montmartre at night without +panting or sweating, without a prayer or a curse on his +lips, a man like that has no balls, and if he has, then he ought to be +castrated. + +Supposing the timid little rabbit does spend fifty francs of an evening +while waiting for his Lucienne? Supposing he does get hungry and buy a +sandwich and a glass of beer, or stop and chat with somebody else's trollop? +You think he ought to be weary of that round night after night? You think it +ought to weigh on him, oppress him, bore him to death? You don't think that +a pimp is inhuman, I hope? A pimp has his private grief and misery too, +don't you forget. Perhaps he would like nothing better than to stand on the +corner every night with a pair of white dogs and watch them piddle. Perhaps +he would like it if, when he opened the door, he would see her there reading +the Paris-Soir, her eyes already a little heavy with sleep. Perhaps +it isn't so wonderful, when he bends over his Lucienne, to taste another +man's breath. Better maybe to have only three francs in your pocket and a +pair of white dogs that piddle on the corner than to taste those bruised +lips. Bet you, when she squeezes him tight, when she begs for that little +package of love which only he knows how to deliver, bet you he fights like a +thousand devils to pump it up, to wipe out that regiment that has marched +between her legs. Maybe when he takes her body and practises a new tune, +maybe it isn't all passion and curiosity with him, but a fight in the dark, +a fight singlehanded against the army that rushed the gates, the army that +walked over her, trampled her, that left her with such a devouring hunger +that not even a Rudolph Valentine could appease her. When I listen to the +reproaches that are levelled against a girl like Lucienne, when I hear her +being denigrated or despised because she is cold and mercenary, because she +is too mechanical, or because she's in too great a hurry, or because this or +because that, I say to myself, hold on there bozo, not so fast! Remember +that you're far back in the procession; remember that a whole army corps +has laid siege to her, that she's been laid waste, plundered and pillaged. I +say to myself, listen, bozo, don't begrudge the fifty francs you hand her +because you know her pimp is pissing it away in the Faubourg Montmartre. +It's her money and her pimp. It's blood money. It's money +that'll never be taken out of circulation because there's nothing in the +Banque de Prance to redeem it with. + +That's how I think about it often when I'm seated in my little niche +juggling the Havas reports or untangling the cables from Chicago, London, +and Montreal. In between the rubber and silk markets and the Winnipeg +grains there oozes a little of the fizz and sizzle of the Faubourg +Montmartre. When the bonds go weak and spongy and the pivotals balk and the +volatiles effervesce, when the grain market slips and slides and the bulls +commence to roar, when every fucking calamity, every ad, every sport item +and fashion article, every boat arrival, every travelogue, every tag of +gossip has been punctuated, checked, revised, pegged and wrung through the +silver bracelets, when I hear the front page being hammered into whack and +see the frogs dancing around like drunken squibs, I think of Lucienne +sailing down the boulevard with her wings outstretched, a huge silver condor +suspended over the sluggish tide of traffic, a strange bird from the tips +of the Andes with a rose-white belly and a tenacious little knob. Sometimes +I walk home alone and I follow her through the dark streets, follow her +through the court of the Louvre, over the Pont des Arts, through the arcade, +through the fents and slits, the somnolence, the drugged whiteness, the +grill of the Luxembourg, the tangled boughs, the snores and groans, the +green slats, the strum and tinkle, the points of the stars, the spangles, +the jetties, the blue and white striped awnings that she brushed with the +tips of her wings. + +In the blue of an electric dawn the peanut shells look wan and crumpled; +along the beach at Montpamasse the waterlilies bend and break. When the tide +is on the ebb and only a few syphilitic mermaids are left stranded in the +muck, the Dome looks like a shooting gallery that's been struck by a +cyclone. Everything is slowly dribbling back to the sewer. For about an hour +there is a death-like calm during which the vomit is mopped up. Suddenly the +trees begin to screech. From one end of the boulevard to the other a +demented song rises up. It is like the signal that announces the close of +the exchange. What hopes there were are swept up. The moment has come to +void the last bagful of usine. The day is sneaking in like a leper ... + +One of the things to guard against when you work nights is not to break your +schedule; if you don't get to bed before the birds begin to screech it's +useless to go to bed at all. This morning, having nothing better to do, I +visited the Jardin des Plantes. Marvellous pelicans here from +Chapultepec and peacocks with studded fans that look at you with silly eyes. +Suddenly it began to rain. + +Returning to Montpamasse in the bus I noticed a little French woman opposite +me who sat stiff and erect as if she were getting ready to preen herself. +She sat on the edge of the seat as if she feared to crush her gorgeous tail. +Marvellous, I thought, if suddenly she shook herself and from her +derriere there sprung open a huge studded fan with long silken +plumes. + +At the Cafe de l'Avenue, where I stop for a bite, a woman with a swollen +stomach tries to interest me in her condition. She would like me to go to a +room with her and while away an hour or two. It is the first time I have +ever been propositioned by a pregnant woman: I am almost tempted to try it. +As soon as the baby is born and handed over to the authorities she will go +back to her trade, she says. She makes hats. Observing that my interest is +waning she takes my hand and puts it on her abdomen, I feel something +stirring inside. It takes my appetite away. + +I have never seen a place like Paris for varieties of sexual provender. As +soon as a woman loses a front tooth or an eye or a leg she goes on the +loose. In America she'd starve to death if she had nothing to recommend her +but a mutilation. Here it is different. A missing tooth or a nose eaten away +or a fallen womb, any misfortune that aggravates the natural homeliness of a +female, seems to be regarded as an added spice, a stimulant for the jaded +appetites of the male. + +I am speaking naturally of that world, which is peculiar to the big cities, +the world of men and women whose last drop of juice has been squeezed out by +the machine -- the martyrs of modern progress. It is this mass of bones and +collar buttons which the painter finds so difficult to put flesh on. + +It is only later, in the afternoon, when I find myself in an art gallery on +the Rue de Seze, surrounded by the men and women of Matisse, that I am drawn +back again to the proper precincts of the human world. On the threshold of +that big hall whose walls are now ablaze, I pause a moment to recover from +the shock which one experiences when the habitual gray of the world is rent +asunder and the color of life splashes forth in song and poem. I find myself +in a world so natural, so complete, that I am lost. I have the sensation of +being immersed in the very plexus of life, focal from whatever place, +position or attitude I take my stance. Lost as when once I sank into the +quick of a budding grove and seated in the dining room of that enormous +world of Balbec, I caught for the first time the profound meaning of those +interior stills which manifest their presence through the exorcism of sight +and touch. Standing on the threshold of that world which Matisse has created +I re-experienced the power of that revelation which had permitted Proust to +so deform the picture of life that only those who, like himself, are +sensible to the alchemy of sound and sense, are capable of transforming the +negative reality of life into the substantial and significant outlines of +art. Only those who can admit the light into their gizzards can translate +what is there in the heart. Vividly now I recall how the glint and sparkle +of light caroming from the massive chandeliers splintered and ran blood, +flecking the tips of the waves that beat monotonously on the dull gold +outside the windows. On the beach, masts and chimneys interlaced, and like a +fuliginous shadow the figure of Albertine gliding through the surf, fusing +into the mysterious quick and prism of a protoplasmic realm, uniting her +shadow to the dream and harbinger of death. With the close of day, pain +rising like a mist from the earth, sorrow closing in, shuttering the endless +vista of sea and sky. Two waxen hands lying lifelessly on the bedspread and +along the pale veins the fluted murmur of a shell repeating the legend of +its birth. + +In every poem by Matisse there is the history of a particle of human flesh +which refused the consummation of death. The whole run of flesh, from hair +to nails, expresses the miracle of breathing, as if the inner eye, in its +thirst for a greater reality, had converted the pores of the flesh into +hungry seeing mouths. By whatever vision one passes there is the odor and the +sound of voyage. It is impossible to gaze at even a corner of his dreams +without feeling the lift of the wave and the cool of the flying spray. He +stands at the helm peering with steady blue eyes into the portfolio, of time. +Into what distant corners has he not thrown his long, slanting gaze? Looking +down the vast promontory of his nose he has beheld everything -- the +Cordilleras falling away into the Pacific, the history of the diaspora done +in vellum, shutters fluting the froufrou of the beach, the piano curving like +a conch, corollas giving out diapasons of light, chameleons squirming under +the book-press, seraglios expiring in oceans of dust, music issuing like fire +from the hidden chromosphere of pain, spore and madrepore fructifying the +earth, navels vomiting their bright spawn of anguish ... He is a bright sage, +a dancing seer who, with a sweep of the brush, removes the ugly scaffold to +which the body of a man is chained by the incontrovertible facts of life. He +it is, if any man to-day possesses the gift, who knows where to dissolve the +human figure, who has the courage to sacrifice an harmonious line in order to +detect the rhythm and murmur of the blood, who takes the light that has been +refracted inside him and lets it flood the keyboard of color. Behind the +minutiae, the chaos, the mockery of life, he detects the invisible pattern; +he announces his discoveries in the metaphysical pigment of space. No +searching for formulae, no crucifixion of ideas, no compulsion other than to +create. Even as the world goes to smash there is one man who remains at the +core, who becomes more solidly fixed and anchored, more centrifugal as the +process of dissolution quickens. + +More and more the world resembles an entomologist's dream. The earth is +moving out of its orbit, the axis has shifted; from the north the snow blows +down in huge knife-blue drifts. A new ice age is setting in, the transverse +sutures are closing up and everywhere throughout the corn belt the foetal +world is dying, turning to dead mastoid. Inch by inch the deltas are drying +out and the river-beds are smooth as glass. A new day is dawning, a +metallurgical day, when the earth shall clink with showers of bright yellow +ore. As the thermometer drops, the form of the world grows blurred; osmosis +there still is, and here and there articulation, but at the periphery the +veins are all varicose, at the periphery the light-waves bend and the sun +bleeds like a broken rectum. + +At the very hub of this wheel which is falling apart, is Matisse. And he +will keep on rolling until everything that has gone to make up the wheel has +disintegrated. He has already rolled over a goodly portion of the globe, +over Persia and India and China, and like a magnet he has attached to +himself microscopic particles from Kurd, Beluchistan, Timbuctoo, Somaliland, +Angkor, Tierra del Fuego. The odalisques he has studded with malachite and +jasper, their flesh veiled with a thousand eyes, perfumed eyes dipped in the +sperm of whales. Wherever a breeze stirs there are breasts as cool as jelly, +white pigeons come to flutter and rut in the ice-blue veins of the +Himalayas. + +The wallpaper with which the men of science have covered the world of +reality is falling to tatters. The grand whorehouse which they have made of +life requires no decoration; it is essential only that the drains function +adequately. Beauty, that feline beauty which has us by the balls in +America, is finished. To fathom the new reality it is first necessary to +dismantle the drains, to lay open the gangrened ducts which compose the +genito-urinary system that supplies the excreta of art. The odor of the day +is permanganate and formaldehyde. The drains are clogged with strangled +embryos. + +The world of Matisse is still beautiful in an old-fashioned bedroom way. +There is not a ball-bearing in evidence, nor a boiler-plate, nor a piston, +nor a monkey-wrench. It is the same old world that went gayly to the Bois in +the pastoral days of wine and fornication. I find it soothing and refreshing +to move amongst these creatures with live, breathing pores whose background +is stable and solid as light itself. I feel it poignantly when I walk along +the Boulevard de la Madeleine and the whores rustle beside me, when just to +glance at them causes me to tremble. Is it because they are exotic or +well-nourished? No, it is rare to find a beautiful woman along the Boulevard +de la Madeleine. But in Matisse, in the exploration of his brush, there is the +trembling glitter of a worid which +demands only the presence of the female to crystallize the most fugitive +aspirations. To come upon a woman offering herself outside a urinal, where +there are advertised cigarette papers, rum, acrobats, horse-races, where the +heavy foliage of the trees breaks the heavy mass of walls and roofs, is an +experience that begins where the boundaries of the known world leave off. In +the evening now and then, skirting the cemetery walls, I stumble upon the +phantom odalisques of Matisse fastened to the trees, their tangled manes +drenched with sap. A few feet away, removed by incalculable aeons of time, +lies the prone and mummy-swathed ghost of Baudelaire, of a whole world that +will belch no more. In the dusky corners of cafes are men and women with +hands locked, their loins slather-flecked; nearby stands the garcon with his +apron full of sous, waiting patiently for the entr'acte in order to fall +upon his wife and gouge her. Even as the worid falls apart the Paris that +belongs to Matisse shudders with bright, gasping orgasms, the air itself is +steady with a stagnant sperm, the trees tangled like hair. On its wobbly +axle the wheel rolls steadily downhill; there are no brakes, no +ball-bearings, no balloon tires. The wheel is falling apart, but the +revolution is intact ... + + + + + + + + * * * + + +Out of a clear sky there comes one day a letter from Boris whom I have not +seen for months and months. It is a strange document and I don't pretend to +understand it all clearly. "What happened between us -- at any rate, as far +as I go -- is that you touched me, touched my life, that is, at the one point +where I am still alive: my death. By the emotional flow I went through +another immersion. I lived again, alive. No longer by reminiscence, as I do +with others, but alive." + +That's how it began. Not a word of greeting, no date, no address. Written in +a thin, pompous scrawl on ruled paper torn out of a blank book. "That is +why, whether you like me or not -- deep down I rather think you hate me -- you +are very close to me. By you I know how I died: I see myself dying again: I +am dying. That is something. More than to be dead simply. That may +be the reason why I am so afraid to see you: you may have played the trick +on me, and died. Things happen so fast nowadays." + +I'm reading it over, line by line, standing by the stones. It sounds nutty to +me, all this palaver about life and death and things happening so fast. +Nothing is happening that I can see, except the usual calamities on the front +page. He's been living all by himself for the last six months, tucked away in +a cheap little room -- probably holding telepathic communication with +Cronstadt. He talks about the line falling back, the sector evacuated, and so +on and so forth, as though he were dug into a trench and writing a report to +headquarters. He probably had his frock coat on when he sat down to pen his +missive, and he probably rubbed his hands a few times as he used to do when a +customer was calling to rent the apartment. + +"The reason I wanted you to commimt suicide ..." he begins again. At tnat I +burst out laughing. He used to walk up and down with one hand stuck in the +tail-flap of his frock coat at the Villa Borghese, or at Cronstadt's -- +wherever there was deck space, as it were -- and reel off this nonsense about +living and dying to his heart's content. I never understood a word of it, I +must confess, but it was a good show and, being a Gentile, I was naturally +interested in what went on in that menagerie of a brain-pan. Sometimes he +would lie on his couch full length, exhausted by the surge of ideas that +swept through his noodle. His feet just grazed the book rack where he kept +his Plato and Spinoza -- he couldn't understand why I had no use for them. I +must say he made them sound interesting, though what it was all about I +hadn't the least idea. Sometimes I would glance at a volume furtively, to +check up on these wild ideas which he imputed to them -- but the connection +was frail, tenuous. He had a language all his own, Boris, that is, when I had +him alone; but when I listened to Cronstadt it seemed to me that Boris had +plagiarized his wonderful ideas. They talked a sort of higher mathematics, +these two. Nothing of flesh and blood ever crept in; it was weird, ghostly, +ghoulishly abstract. When they got on to the dying business it sounded a +little more concrete: after all, a cleaver or a meat-axe has to have a +handle. I enjoyed those sessions immensely. It was the first time in my life +that death had ever seemed fascinating to me -- all these abstract deaths +which involved a bloodless sort of agony. Now and then they would compliment +me on being alive, but in such a way that I felt embarrassed. They made me +feel that I was alive in the nineteenth century, a sort of atavistic remnant, +a romantic shred, a soulful pithecanthropus erectus. Boris especially +seemed to get a great kick out of touching me: he wanted me to be alive so +that he could die to his heart's content. You would think that all those +millions in the street were nothing but dead cows the way he looked at me and +touched me. But the letter ... I'm forgetting the letter ... + +"The reason why I wanted you to commit suicide that evening at the +Cronstadts', when Moldorf became God, was that I was very close to you then. +Perhaps closer than I shall ever be. And I was afraid, terribly afraid, that +some day you'd go back on me, die on my hands. And I would be left high and +dry with my idea of you simply, and nothing to sustain it. I should never +forgive you for that." + +Perhaps you can visualize him saying a thing like that! Myself it's not +clear what his idea of me was, or at any rate, it's clear that I was just +pure idea, an idea that kept itself alive without food. He never attached +much importance, Boris, to the food problem. He tried to nourish me with +ideas. Everything was idea. Just the same, when he had his heart set on +renting the apartment, he wouldn't forget to put a new washer in the toilet. +Anyway, he didn't want me to die on his hands. "You must be life for me to +the very end," so he writes. "That is the only way in which you can sustain +my idea of you. Because you have gotten, as you see, tied up with something +so vital to me, I do not think I shall ever shake you off. Nor do I wish to. +I want you to live more vitally every day, as I am dead. That is why, when I +speak of you to others, I am just a bit ashamed. It's hard to talk of one's +self so intimately." + + * * * + +You would imagine perhaps that he was anxious to see me, or that he would +like to know what I was doing -- but no, not a line about the concrete or the +personal, except in this living-dying language, nothing but this little +message from the trenches, this whiff of poison gas to apprise all and +sundry that the war was still on. I sometimes ask myself how it happens that +I attract nothing but crack-brained individuals, neurasthenics, neurotics, +psychopaths -- and Jews especially. There must be something in a healthy +Gentile that excites the Jewish mind, like when he sees sour black bread. +There was Moldorf, for example, who had made himself God, according to +Boris and Cronstadt. He positively hated me, the little viper -- yet he +couldn't stay away from me. He came round regularly for his little dose of +insults -- it was like a tonic to him. In the beginning, it's true, I was +lenient with him; after all, he was paying me to listen to him. And though I +never displayed much sympathy I knew how to be silent when it involved a +meal and a little pin money. After a while, however, seeing what a masochist +he was, I permitted myself to laugh in his face now and then; that was like a +whip for him, it made the grief and agony gush forth with renewed vigor. And +perhaps everything would have gone smoothly between us if he had not felt it +his duty to protect Tania. But Tania being a Jewess, that brought up a moral +question. He wanted me to stick to Mlle. Claude for whom, I must admit, I had +a genuine affection. He even gave me money occasionally to sleep with her. +Until he realized that I was a hopeless lecher. + +I mention Tania now because she's just got back from Russia -- just a few +days ago. Sylvester remained behind to worm his way into a job. He's given up +literature entirely. He's dedicated himself to the new Utopia. Tania wants me +to go back there with her, to the Crimea preferably, and start a new life. We +had a fine drinking bout up in Carl's room the other day, discussing the +possibilities. I wanted to know what I could do for a living back there -- if +I could be a proof-reader, for example. She said I didn't need to worry about +what I would do -- they would find a job for me as long as I was earnest and +sincere. I tried to look earnest, but I only succeeded in looking pathetic. +They don't want to see sad faces, in Russia; they want you to be cheerful, +enthusiastic, light-hearted, optimistic. It sounded very much like America to +me. I wasn't born with this kind of enthusiasm. I didn't let on to her, of +course, but secretly I was praying to be left alone, to go back to my little +niche, and to stay there until the war breaks out. All this hocus-pocus about +Russia disturbed me a little. She got so excited about it, Tania, that we +finished almost a half dozen bottles of vin ordinaire. Carl was +jumping about like a cockroach. He has just enough Jew in him to lose his +head over an idea like Russia. Nothing would do but to many us off -- +immediately. "Hitch up!" he says, "you have nothing to lose!" And then he +pretends to run a little errand so that we can pull off a fast one. And while +she wanted it all right, Tania, still that Russia business had gotten so +solidly planted in her skull that she pissed the interval away chewing my ear +off, which made me somewhat grumpy and ill at ease. Anyway, we had to think +about eating and getting to the office, so we piled into a taxi on the +Boulevard Edgar-Quinet, just a stone's throw away from the cemetery, and off +we whizzed. It was just a nice hour to spin through Paris in an open cab, and +the wine rolling around in our tanks made it seem even more lovely than +usual. Carl was sitting opposite us, on the strapontin, his face as +red as a beet. He was happy, the poor bastard, thinking what a glorious new +life he would lead on the other side of Europe. And at the same time he felt +a bit wistful, too -- I could see that. He didn't really want to leave Paris, +any more than I did. Paris hadn't been good to him, any more than it had to +me, or to anybody, for that matter, but when you've suffered and endured +things here it's then that Paris takes hold of you, grabs you by the balls, +you might say, like some lovesick bitch who'd die rather than let you get out +of her hands. That's how it looked to him, I could see that. Rolling over the +Seine he had a big foolish grin on his face and he looked around at the +buildings and the statues as though he were seeing them in a dream. To me it +was like a dream too: I had my hand in Tania's bosom and I was squeezing her +titties with all my might and I noticed the water under the bridge and the +barges and Notre Dame down below, just like the post-cards show it, and I was +thinking drunkenly to myself that's how one gets fucked, but I was sly about +it too and I knew I wouldn't ever trade all this whirling about my head for +Russia or heaven or anything on earth. It was a fine afternoon, I was +thinking to myself, and soon we'd be pushing a feed down our bellies and what +could we order as a special treat, some good heavy wine that would drown out +all this Russia business. With a woman like Tania, full of sap and +everything, they don't give a damn what happens to you once they get an idea +in their heads. Let them go far enough and they'll pull the pants off you, +right in the taxi. It was grand though, milling through the traffic, our +faces all smudged with rouge and the wine gurgling like a sewer inside us, +especially when we swung into the Rue Laffitte which is just wide enough to +frame the little temple at the end of the street and above it the +Sacre-Coeur, a kind of exotic jumble of architecture, a lucid French idea +that gouges right through your drunkenness and leaves you swimming helplessly +in the past, in a fluid dream that makes you wide awake and yet doesn't jar +your nerves. + + +x x x + + + + +With Tania back on the scene, a steady job, the drunken talk about Russia, +the walks home at night, and Paris in full summer, life seems to lift its +head a little higher. That's why perhaps, a letter such as Boris sent me +seems absolutely cock-eyed. Most every day I meet Tania around five o'clock, +to have a Porto with her, as she calls it. I let her take me to places I've +never seen before, the swell bars around the Champs-Elysees where the sound +of jazz and baby voices crooning seems to soak right through the mahogany +woodwork. Even when you go to the lavabo these pulpy, sappy strains +pursue you, come floating into the cabinet through the ventilators and make +life all soft soap and iridescent bubbles. And whether it's because +Sylvester is away and she feels free now, or whatever it is, Tania certainly +tries to behave like an angel. "You treated me lousy just before I went +away," she says to me one day. "Why did you want to act that way? I never +did anything to hurt you, did I?" We were getting sentimental, what with the +soft lights and that creamy, mahogany music seeping through the place. It +was getting near time to go to work and we hadn't eaten yet. The stubs were +lying there in front of us -- six francs, four-fifty, seven francs, +two-fifty -- I was counting them up mechanically and wondering too at the same +time if I would like it better being a bartender. Often like that, when she +was talking to me, gushing about Russia, the future, love, and all that +crap, I'd get to thinking about the most irrelevant things, about shining +shoes or being a lavatory attendant, particularly I suppose because it was +so cosy in these joints that she dragged me to and it never occurred to me +that I'd be stone sober and perhaps old and bent ... no, I imagined always +that the future, however modest, would be in just this sort of ambiance, +with the same tunes playing through my head and the glasses clinking and +behind every shapely ass a trail of perfume a yard wide that would take the +stink out of life, even downstairs in the lavabo. + +The strange thing is it never spoiled me trotting around to the swell bars +with her like that. It was hard to leave her, certainly. I used to lead her +around to the porch of a church near the office and standing there in the +dark we'd take a last embrace, she whispering to me "Jesus, what am I going +to do now?" She wanted me to quit the job so as I could make love night and +day; she didn't even care about Russia any more, just so long as we were +together. But the moment I left her my head cleared. It was another kind of +music, not so croony but good just the same, which greeted my ears when I +pushed through the swinging door. And another kind of perfume, not just a +yard wide, but omnipresent, a sort of sweat and patchouli that seemed to come +from the machines. Coming in with a skinful, as I usually did, it was like +dropping suddenly to a low altitude. Generally I made a beeline for the +toilet -- that braced me up rather. It was a little cooler there, or else the +sound of water running made it seem so. It was always a cold douche, the +toilet. It was real. Before you got inside you had to pass a line of +Frenchmen peeling off their clothes. Ugh! but they stank, those devils! And +they were well paid for it, too. But there they were, stripped down, some in +long underwear, some with beards, most of them pale, skinny rats with lead in +their veins. Inside the toilet you could take an inventory of their idle +thoughts. The walls were crowded with sketches and epithets, all of them +jocosely obscene, easy to understand, and on the whole rather jolly and +sympathetic. It must have required a ladder to reach certain spots, but I +suppose it was worth while doing it even looking at it from just the +psychological viewpoint. Sometimes, as I stood there taking a leak, I +wondered what an impression it would make on those swell dames whom I +observed passing in and out of the beautiful lavatories on the +Champs-Elysees. I wondered if they would carry their tails so high if they +could see what was thought of an ass here. In their world, no doubt, +everything was gauze and velvet -- or they made you think so with the fine +scents they gave out, swishing past you. Some of them hadn't always been such +fine ladies either; some of them swished up and down like that just to +advertise their trade. And maybe, when they were left alone with themselves, +when they talked out loud in the privacy of their boudoirs, maybe some +strange things fell out of their mouths too; because in that world, just as +in every world, the greater part of what happens is just muck and filth, +sordid as any garbage can, only they are lucky enough to be able to put +covers over the can. + +As I say, that afternoon life with Tania never had any bad effect upon me. +Once in a while I'd get too much of a skinful and I'd have to stick my +finger down my throat -- because it's hard to read proof when you're not all +there. It requires more concentration to detect a missing comma than to +epitomize Nietzche's philosophy. You can be brilliant sometimes, when you're +drunk, but brilliance is out of place in the proof-reading department. +Dates, fractions, semi-colons -- these are the things that count. And these +are the things that are most difficult to track down when your mind is all +ablaze. Now and then I made some bad blunders, and if it weren't that I had +learned how to kiss the boss's ass, I would have been fired, that's certain. +I even got a letter one day from the big mogul upstairs, a guy I never even +met, so high up he was, and between a few sarcastic phrases about my more +than ordinary intelligence, he hinted pretty plainly that I'd better learn +my place and toe the mark or there'd be what's what to pay. Frankly, that +scared the shit out of me. After that I never used a polysyllabic word in +conversation; in fact, I hardly ever opened my trap all night. I played the +high-grade moron, which is what they wanted of us. Now and then, to sort of +flatter the boss, I'd go up to him and ask him politely what such and such a +word might mean. He liked that. He was a sort of dictionary and time-table, +that guy. No matter how much beer he guzzled during the break -- and he made +his own private breaks too, seeing as how he was running the show -- you could +never trip him up on a date or a definition. He was born to the job. My only +regret was that I knew too much. It leaked out now and then, despite all the +precautions I took. If I happened to come to work with a book under my arm +this boss of ours would notice it, and if it were a good book it made him +venomous. But I never did anything intentionally to displease him; I liked +the job too well to put a noose around my neck. Just the same it's hard to +talk to a man when you have nothing in common with him; you betray yourself, +even if you use only monosyllabic words. He knew god-damn well, the boss, +that I didn't take the least bit of interest in his yams; and yet, +explain it how you will, it gave him pleasure to wean me away from my dreams +and fill me full of dates and historical events. It was his way of taking +revenge, I suppose. + +The result was that I developed a bit of a neurosis. As soon as I hit the +air I became extravagant. It wouldn't matter what the subject of +conversation happened to be, as we started back to Montparnasse in the early +morning, I'd soon turn the fire-hose on it, squelch it, in order to trot out +my perverted dreams. I liked best talking about those things which none of +us knew anything about. I had cultivated a mild sort of insanity, echolalia, +I think it's called. All the tag-ends of a night's proofing danced on the +tip of my tongue. Dalmatia -- I had held copy of an ad for that +beautiful jewelled resort. All right, Dalmatia. You take a train and +in the morning your pores are perspiring and the grapes are bursting their +skins. I could reel it off about Dalmatia from the grand boulevard to +Cardinal Mazarin's palace, further, if I chose to. I don't even know where +it is on the map, and I don't want to know ever, but at three in the morning +with all that lead in your veins and your clothes saturated with sweat and +patchouli and the clink of bracelets passing through the wringer and those +beer yams that I was braced for, little things like geography, costume, +speech, architecture don't mean a god-damn thing. Dalmatia belongs to a +certain hour of the night when those high goings are snuffed out and the +court of the Louvre seems so wonderfully ridiculous that you feel like +weeping for no reason at all, just because it's so beautifully silent, so +empty, so totally unlike the front page and the guys upstairs rolling the +dice. With that little piece of Dalmatia resting on my throbbing nerves like +a cold knife-blade I could experience the most wonderful sensations of +voyage. And the funny thing is again that I could travel all around the +globe but America would never enter my mind; it was even further lost than +a lost continent, because with the lost continents I felt some mysterious +attachment, whereas with America I felt nothing, nothing at all. Now and +then, it's true, I did think of Mona, not as of a person in a definite aura +of time and space, but separately, detached, as though she had blown up into +a great cloud-like form that blotted out the past. I couldn't allow myself +to think about her very +long; if I had I would have jumped off the bridge. It's strange. I had +become so reconciled to this life without her, and yet if I thought about +her only for a minute it was enough to pierce the bone and marrow of my +contentment and shove me back again into the agonizing gutter of my +wretched past. + +For seven years I went about, day and night, with only one thing on my +mind -- her. Were there a Christian so faithful to his God as I was to +her we would all be Jesus Christs to-day. Day and night I thought of her, +even when I was deceiving her. And now sometimes, in the very midst of +things, sometimes when I feel that I am absolutely free of it all, +suddenly, in rounding a corner perhaps, there will bob up a little square, a +few trees and a bench, a deserted spot where we stood and had it out, where +we drove each other crazy with bitter, jealous scenes. Always some deserted +spot, like the Place de l'Estrapade, for example, or those dingy, mournful +streets off the Mosque or along that open tomb of an Avenue de Breteuil +which at ten o'clock in the evening is so silent, so dead, that it makes +one think of murder or suicide, anything that might create a vestige of +human drama. When I realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great +void opens up and I feel that I am falling, falling, falling into deep, +black space. And this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or +sorrow; it is the abyss into which Satan was plunged. There is no climbing +back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand. + +How many thousand times, in walking through the streets at night, have I +wondered if the day would ever come again when she would be at my side: all +those yearning looks I bestowed on the buildings and statues, I had looked +at them so hungrily, so desperately, that by now my thoughts must have +become a part of the very buildings and statues, they must be saturated with +my anguish. I could not help but reflect also that when we had walked side +by side through these mournful, dingy streets now so saturated with my dream +and longing, she had observed nothing, felt nothing: they were like any +other streets to her, a little more sordid perhaps, and that is all. She +wouldn't remember that at a certain corner I had +stopped to pick up her hairpin, or that, when I bent down to tie her laces, +I remarked the spot on which her foot had rested and that it would remain +there forever, even after the cathedrals had been demolished and the whole +Latin civilization wiped out forever and ever. + +Walking down the Rue Lhomond one night in a fit of unusual anguish and +desolation, certain things were revealed to me with poignant clarity. +Whether it was that I had so often walked this street in bitterness and +despair or whether it was the remembrance of a phrase which she had dropped +one night as we stood at the Place Lucien-Herr I do not know. "Why don't you +show me that Paris," she said, "that you have written about?" One thing I +know, that at the recollection of these words I suddenly realized the +impossibility of ever revealing to her that Paris which I had gotten to +know, the Paris whose arrondissements are undefined, a Paris that has +never existed except by virtue of my loneliness, my hunger for her. Such a +huge Paris! It would take a lifetime to explore it again. This Paris, to +which I alone had the key, hardly lends itself to a tour, even with the best +of intentions; it is a Paris that has to be lived, that has to be +experienced each day in a thousand different forms of torture, a Paris that +grows inside you like a cancer, and grows and grows until you are eaten away +by it. + +Stumbling down the Rue Mouffetard, with these reflections stirring in my +brain, I recalled another strange item out of the past, out of that +guide-book whose leaves she had asked me to turn but which, because the +covers were so heavy, I then found impossible to pry open. For no reason at +all -- because at the moment my thoughts were occupied with Salavin in whose +sacred precincts I was now meandering -- for no reason at all, I say, there +came to mind the recollection of a day when, inspired by the plaque which I +passed day in and day out, I impulsively entered the Pension Orfila and +asked to see the room Strindberg had occupied. Up to that time nothing very +terrible had befallen me, though I had already lost all my worldly +possessions and had known what it was to walk the streets in hunger and in +fear of the police. Up to then I had not found a single friend in Paris, a +circumstance which was not so much depressing as bewildering, for +wherever I have roamed in this world the easiest thing for me to discover +has been a friend. But in reality, nothing very terrible had happened to me +yet. One can live without friends, as one can live without love, or even +without money, that supposed sine qua non. One can live in Paris -- I +discovered that! --on just grief and anguish. A bitter nourishment -- perhaps +the best there is for certain people. At any rate, I had not yet come to the +end of my rope. I was only flirting with disaster. I had time and sentiment +enough to spare to peep into other people's lives, to dally with the dead +stuff of romance which, however morbid it may be, when it is wrapped between +the covers of a book, seems deliciously remote and anonymous. As I was +leaving the place I was conscious of an ironic smile hovering over my lips, +as though I were saying to myself "Not yet, the Pension Orfila! + +Since then, of course, I have learned what every madman in Paris discovers +sooner or later -- that there are no ready-made infernos for the tormented. + +It seems to me I understand a little better now why she took such huge +delight in reading Strindberg. I can see her looking up from her book after +reading a delicious passage and, with tears of laughter in her eyes, +saying to me: "You're just as mad as he was ... you want to be +punished!" What a delight that must be to the sadist when she discovers her +own proper masochist! When she bites herself, as it were, to test the +sharpness of her teeth. In those days, when I first knew her, she was +saturated with Strindberg. That wild carnival of maggots which he revelled +in, that eternal duel of the sexes, that spiderish ferocity which had +endeared him to the sodden oafs of the northland, it was that which had +brought us together. We came together in a dance of death and so quickly was +I sucked down into the vortex that when I came to the surface again I could +not recognize the world. When I found myself loose the music had ceased; the +carnival was over and I had been picked clean ... + +After leaving the Pension Orfila that afternoon I went to the library and +there, after bathing in the Ganges and pondering over the signs of the +zodiac, I began to reflect on the meaning of that inferno which Strindberg +had so mercilessly depicted. And, as I ruminated, it began to +grow clear to me, the mystery of his pilgrimage, the flight which the poet +makes over the face of the earth and then, as if he had been ordained to +re-enact a lost drama, the heroic descent to the very bowels of the earth, +the dark and fearsome sojourn in the belly of the whale, the bloody struggle +to liberate himself, to emerge clean of the past, a bright, gory sun-god +cast up on an alien shore. It was no mystery to me any longer why he and +others (Dante, Rabelais, Van Gogh, etc., etc.) had made their pilgrimage to +Paris. I understood then why it is that Paris attracts the tortured, the +hallucinated, the great maniacs of love. I understood why it is that here, +at the very hub of the wheel, one can embrace the most fantastic, the most +impossible theories, without finding them in the least strange; it is here +that one reads again the books of his youth and the enigmas take on new +meanings, one for every white hair. One walks the streets knowing that he +is mad, possessed, because it is only too obvious that these cold, +indifferent faces are the visages of one's keepers. Here all boundaries fade +away and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughter-house that it is. +The treadmill stretches away to infinitude, the hatches are closed down +tight, logic runs rampant, with bloody cleaver flashing. The air is chill +and stagnant, the language apocalyptic. Not an exit sign anywhere; no issue +save death. A blind alley at the end of which is a scaffold. + +An eternal city, Paris! More eternal than Rome, more splendorous than +Nineveh. The very navel of the world to which, like a blind and faltering +idiot, one crawls back on hands and knees. And like a cork that has drifted +finally to the dead center of the ocean, one floats here in the scum and +wrack of the seas, listless, hopeless, heedless even of a passing Columbus. +The cradles of civilization are the putrid sinks of the world, the +charnel-house to which the stinking wombs confide their bloody packages of +flesh and bone. + +The streets were my refuge. And no man can understand the glamor of the +streets until he is obliged to take refuge in them, until he has become a +straw that is tossed here and there by every zephyr that blows. One passes +along a street on a wintry day and, seeing a dog for sale, one is moved to +tears. While across the way, cheerful as a cemetery, stands a miserable hut +that calls itself "Hotel du Tombeau des Lapins." That makes one laugh, laugh +fit to die. Until one notices that there are hotels everywhere, for rabbits, +dogs, lice, emperors, cabinet ministers, pawnbrokers, horse-knackers, and so +on. And almost every other one is an "Hotel de l'Avenir." Which makes one +more hysterical still. So many hotels of the future! No hotels in the past +participle, no subjunctive modes, no conjunctivitis. Everything is hoary, +grisly, bristling with merriment, swollen with the future, like a gumboil. +Drunk with this lecherous eczema of the future, I stagger over to the Place +Violet, the colors all mauve and slate, the doorways so low that only dwarfs +and goblins could hobble in; over the dull cranium of Zola the chimneys are +belching pure coke, while the Madonna of Sandwiches listens with cabbage ears +to the bubbling of the gas tanks, those beautiful bloated toads which squat +by the roadside. + +Why do I suddenly recollect the Passage des Thermopyples? Because that day a +woman addressed her puppy in the apocalyptic language of the +slaughter-house, and the little bitch, she understood what this greasy slut +of a midwife was saying. How that depressed me! More even than the sight of +those whimpering curs that were being sold on the Rue Brancion, because it +was not the dogs which filled me so with pity, but the huge iron railing, +those rusty spikes which seemed to stand between me and my rightful life. In +the pleasant little lane near the Abattoir de Vaugirard (Abattoir +Hippophagique), which is called the Rue des Perichaux, I had noticed here +and there signs of blood. Just as Strindberg in his madness had recognized +omens and portents in the very flagging of the Pension Orfila, so, as I +wandered aimlessly through this muddy lane bespattered with blood, fragments +of the past detached themselves and floated listlessly before my eyes, +taunting me with the direst forebodings. I saw my own blood being spilled, +the muddy road stained with it, as far back as I could remember, from the +very beginning doubtless. One is ejected into the world like a dirty little +mummy; the roads are slippery with blood and no one knows why it should be +so. Each one is travelling his own way and, though the earth be rotting with +good things, there is no time to pluck the fruits; the procession scrambles +toward the exit sign, and such a panic is there, such a sweat to +escape, that the weak and the helpless are trampled into the mud and their +cries are unheard. + +My world of human beings had perished; I was utterly alone in the world and +for friends I had the streets, and the streets spoke to me in that sad, +bitter language compounded of human misery, yearning, regret, failure, +wasted effort. Passing under the viaduct along the Rue Broca, one night +after I had been informed that Mona was ill and starving, I suddenly +recalled that it was here in the squalor and gloom of this sunken street, +terrorized perhaps by a premonition of the future, that Mona clung to me +and with a quivering voice begged me to promise that I would never leave +her, never, no matter what happened. And, only a few days later, I stood on +the platform of the Gare St. Lazare and I watched the train pull out, the +train that was bearing her away; she was leaning out of the window, just as +she had leaned out of the window when I left her in New York, and there was +that same, sad, incrustable smile on her face, the last-minute look which is +intended to convey so much, but which is only a mask that is twisted by a +vacant smile. Only a few days before, she had clung to me desperately and +then something happened, something which is not even clear to me now, and +of her own volition she boarded the train and she was looking at me again +with that sad, enigmatic smile which baffles me, which is unjust, unnatural, +which I distrust with all my soul. And now it is I, standing in the shadow +of the viaduct, who reach out for her, who cling to her desperately and +there is that same inexplicable smile on my lips, the mask that I have +clamped down over my grief. I can stand here and smile vacantly, and no +matter how fervid my prayers, no matter how desperate my longing, there is +an ocean between us; there she will stay and starve, and here I shall walk +from one street to the next, the hot tears scalding my face. + +It is that sort of cruelty which is embedded in the streets, it is +that which stares out from the walls and terrifies us when suddenly +we respond to a nameless fear, when suddenly our souls are invaded by a +sickening panic. It is that which gives the lampposts their ghoulish +twists, which makes them beckon to us and lure us to +their strangling grip; it is that which makes certain houses appear +like the guardians of secret crimes and their blind windows like the empty +sockets of eyes that have seen too much. It is that sort of thing, written +into the human physiognomy of the streets which makes me flee when overhead +I suddenly see inscribed "Impasse Satan." That which makes me shudder when +at the very entrance to the Mosque I observe that it is written: "Mondays +and Thursdays tuberculosis; Wednesdays and Fridays syphilis." +In every Metro station there are grinning skulls that greet you with +"Defendez-vous centre la syphilis!" Wherever there are walls, there +are posters with bright venomous crabs heralding the approach of cancer. No +matter where you go, no matter what you touch, there is cancer and syphilis. +It is written in the sky; it flames and dances, like an evil portent. It has +eaten into our souls and we are nothing but a dead thing like the moon. + + * * * + +I think it was the fourth of July when they took the chair from under my ass +again. Not a word of warning. One of the big mucky-mucks from the other side +of the water had decided to make economies; cutting down on proofreaders +and helpless little dactylos enabled him to pay the expenses of his +trips back and forth and the palatial quarters he occupied at the Ritz. +After paying what little debts I had accumulated among the linotype +operators and a good-will token at the bistrot across the way, in +order to preserve my credit, there was scarcely anything left out of my +final pay. I had to notify the patron of the hotel that I would be +leaving; I didn't tell him why because he'd have been worried about his +measly two hundred francs. + +"What'll you do if you lose your job?" That was the phrase that rung in my +ears continually. Ca y est maintenant! Ausgespielt! Nothing to +do but get down into the street again, walk, hang around, sit on benches, +kill time. By now, of course, my face was familiar in Montparnasse; for a +while I could pretend that I was still working on the paper. That would make +it a little easier to bum a breakfast or a dinner. It was Summer time and +the tourists were pouring in. I had schemes up my sleeve for mulcting them. +"What'll you do ... ?" Well, I wouldn't starve, that's one thing. If I +should do nothing else but concentrate on food that would prevent me from +falling to pieces. For a week or two I could still go to Monsieur Paul's and +have a square meal every evening; he wouldn't know whether I was working or +not. The main thing is to eat. Trust to Providence for the rest! + +Naturally, I kept my ears open for anything that sounded like a little +dough. And I cultivated a whole new set of acquaintances -- bores whom I had +sedulously +avoided heretofore, drunks whom I loathed, artists who had a little money, +Guggenheim prize men, etc. It's not hard to make friends when you squat on a +terrasse twelve hours a day. You get to know every sot in +Montparnasse. They cling to you like lice, even if you have nothing to offer +them but your ears. + +Now that I had lost my job Carl and Van Norden had a new phrase for me: +"What if your wife should arrive now?" Well, what of it? Two mouths to feed, +instead of one. I'd have a companion in misery. And, if she hadn't lost her +good looks, I'd probably do better in double harness than alone: the world +never permits a good-looking woman to starve. Tania I couldn't depend on to +do much for me; she was sending money to Sylvester. I had thought at first +that she might let me share her room, but she was afraid of compromising +herself; besides, she had to be nice to her boss. + +The first people to turn to when you're down and out are the Jews. I had +three of them on my hands almost at once. Sympathetic souls. One of them was +a retired fur merchant who had an itch to see his name in the papers; +he proposed that I write a series of articles under his name for a Jewish +daily in New York. I had to scout around the Dome and the Coupole searching +for prominent Jews. The first man I picked on was a celebrated +mathematician; he couldn't speak a word of English. I had to write about the +theory of shock from the diagrams he left on the paper napkins; I had to +describe the movements of the astral bodies and demolish the Einsteinian +conception at the same time. All for twenty-five francs. When I saw my +articles in the newspaper I couldn't read them; but they looked impressive, +just the same, especially with the pseudonym of the fur merchant attached. + +I did a lot of pseudonymous writing during this period. When the big new +whorehouse opened up on the Boulevard Edgar-Quinet, I got a little +rake-off, for writing the pamphlets. That is to say, a bottle of champagne +and a free fuck in one of the Egyptian rooms. If I succeeded in bringing a +client I was to get my commission, just like Kepi got his in the old days. +One night I brought Van Norden; he was going to let me earn a little money +by enjoying himself upstairs. But when the Madame learned +that he was a newspaper man she wouldn't hear of taking money from him; it +was a bottle of champagne again and a free fuck. I got nothing out of it. As +a matter of fact, I had to write the story for him because he couldn't think +how to get round the subject without mentioning the kind of place it was. +One thing after another like that. I was getting fucked good and proper. + +The worst job of all was a thesis I undertook to write for a deaf and dumb +psychologist. A treatise on the care of crippled children. My head was full +of diseases and braces and work-benches and fresh air theories; it took +about six weeks off and on, and then, to rub it in, I had to +proof-read the god-damned thing. It was in French, such a French as I've +never in my life seen or heard. But it brought me in a good breakfast every +day, an American breakfast, with orange juice, oatmeal, cream, coffee, now +and then, ham and eggs for a change. It was the only period of my Paris +days that I ever indulged in a decent breakfast, thanks to the crippled +children of Rockaway Beach, the East Side, and all the coves and inlets +bordering on these sore points. + +Then one day I fell in with a photographer; he was making a collection of +the slimy joints of Paris for some degenerate in Munich. He wanted to know +if I would pose for him with my pants down, and in other ways. I thought of +those skinny little runts, who look like bell-hops and messenger boys, that +one sees on pornographic post-cards in little book-shop windows +occasionally, the mysterious phantoms who inhabit the Rue de la Lune and +other malodorous quarters of the city. I didn't like very much the idea of +advertising my physog in the company of these elite. But, since I was +assured that the photographs were for a strictly private collection, and +since it was destined for Munich, I gave my consent. When you're not in your +home town you can permit yourself little liberties, particularly for such a +worthy motive as earning your daily bread. After all, I hadn't been so +squeamish, come to think of it, even in New York. There were nights when I +was so damned desperate, back there, that I had to go out right in my own +neighborhood and panhandle. + +We didn't go to the show places familiar to the tourists, +but to the little joints where the atmosphere was more congenial, where we +could play a game of cards in the afternoon before getting down to work. He +was a good companion, the photographer. He knew the city inside out, the +walls particularly; he talked to me about Goethe often, and the days of the +Hohenstaufen, and the massacre of the Jews during the reign of the Black +Death. Interesting subjects, and always related in some obscure way to the +things he was doing. He had ideas for scenarios too, astounding ideas, but +nobody had the courage to execute them. The sight of a horse split-open like +a saloon door, would inspire him to talk of Dante or Leonardo da Vinci or +Rembrandt; from the slaughter-house at Villette he would jump into a cab and +rush me to the Trocadero Museum, in order to point out a skull or a mummy +that had fascinated him. We explored the 5th, the 13th, the 19th and the +20th arrondissements thoroughly. Our favorite resting places were +lugubrious little spots such as the Place Nationale, Place des Peupliers, +Place Contrescarpe, Place Paul-Verlaine. Many of these places were already +familiar to me, but all of them I now saw in a different light owing to the +rare flavor of his conversation. If today I should happen to stroll down +the Rue du Chateau-des-Renders, for example, inhaling the fetid stench of +the hospital beds with which the 13th arrondissement reeks, my +nostrils would undoubtedly expand with pleasure, because, compounded with +that odor of stale piss and formaldehyde, there would be the odors of our +imaginative voyages through the charnel house of Europe which the Black +Death had created. + +Through him I got to know a spiritual-minded individual named Kruger, who was +a sculptor and painter. Kruger took a shine to me for some reason or other; +it was impossible to get away from him once he discovered that I was willing +to listen to his "esoteric" ideas. There are people in this world for whom +the word "esoteric" seems to act as a divine ichor. Like "settled" for Herr +Peeperkorn of the Magic Mountain. Kruger was one of those saints who +have gone wrong, a masochist, an anal type whose law is scrupulousness, +rectitude and conscientiousness, who on an off day would knock a man's teeth +down his throat without a qualm. He seemed to think I was ripe to move on to +another plane, "a higher plane," as he put it. I was ready to move on +to any plane he designated, provided that one didn't eat less or drink less. +He chewed my head off about the "threadsoul," the "causal body," "ablation," +the Upanishads, Plodnus, Krishnamurti, "the Karmic vestiture of the soul," +"the nirvanic consciousness," all that flapdoodle which blows out of the East +like a breath from the plague. Sometimes he would go into a trance and talk +about his previous incarnations, how he imagined them to be, at least. Or he +would relate his dreams which, so far as I could see, were thoroughly +insipid, prosaic, hardly worth even the attention of a Freudian, but, for +him, there were vast esoteric marvels hidden in their depths which I had to +aid him to decipher. He had turned himself inside out, like a coat whose nap +is worn off. + +Little by little, as I gained his confidence, I wormed my way into his heart. +I had him at such a point that he would come running after me, in the street, +to inquire if he could lend me a few francs. He wanted to hold me together in +order to survive the transition to a higher plane. I acted like a pear that +is ripening on the tree. Now and then I had relapses and I would confess my +need for more earthly nourishment -- a visit to the Sphinx or the Rue St. +Apolline where I knew he repaired in weak moments when the demands of the +flesh had become too vehement. + +As a painter he was nil; as a sculptor less than nil. He was a good +housekeeper, that I'll say for him. And an economical one to boot. Nothing +went to waste, not even the paper that meat was wrapped in. Friday nights he +threw open his studio to his fellow artists; there was always plenty to +drink and good sandwiches, and if by chance there was anything left over I +would come round the next day to polish it off. + +Back of the Bal Bullier was another studio I got into the habit of +frequenting -- the studio of Mark Swift. If he was not a genius he was +certainly an eccentric, this caustic Irishman. He had for a model a Jewess +whom he had been living with for years; he was now tired of her and was +searching for a pretext to get rid of her. But as he had eaten up me dowry +which she had originally brought with her, he was puzzled as to how to +disembarrass himself of her without making restitution. The simplest thing +was to so antagonize her that she would choose starvation rather than support +his cruelties. + +She was rather a fine person, his mistress; the worst that one could say +against her was that she had lost her shape, and her ability to +support him any longer. She was a painter herself and, among those who +professed to know, it was said that she had far more talent than he. But no +matter how miserable he made life for her she was just; she would never allow +anyone to say that he was not a great painter. It was because he really has +genius, she said, that he was such a rotten individual. One never saw her +canvases on the wall -- only his. Her things were stuck away in the kitchen. +Once it happened, in my presence, that someone insisted on seeing her work. +The result was painful. "You see this figure," said Swift, pointing to one of +her canvases with his big foot. "The man standing in the doorway there is +just about to go out for a leak. He won't be able to find his way back +because his head is on wrong ... Now take that nude over there ... It was all +right until she started to paint the cunt. I don't know what she was thinking +about, but she made it so big that her brush slipped and she couldn't get it +out again." + +By way of showing us what a nude ought to be like he hauls out a huge canvas +which he had recently completed. It was a picture of her, a splendid +piece of vengeance inspired by a guilty conscience. The work of a madman -- +vicious, petty, malign, brilliant. You had the feeling that he had spied on +her through the keyhole, that he had caught her in an off moment, when she +was picking her nose absent-mindedly, or scratching her ass. She sat there +on the horsehair sofa, in a room without ventilation, an enormous room +without a window; it might as well have been the anterior lobe of the +pineal gland. Back of her ran the zigzag stairs leading to the balcony; they +were covered with a bilious-green carpet, such a green as could only emanate +from a universe that had been pooped out. The most prominent thing was her +buttocks, which were lop-sided and full of scabs; she seemed to have slightly +raised her ass from the sofa, as if to let a loud fart. Her face he had +idealized: it looked sweet and virginal, pure as a cough-drop. But her bosom +was distended, swollen with sewer-gas; she seemed + +to be swimming in a menstrual sea, an enlarged foetus with the dull, syrupy +look of an angel. + +Nevertheless one couldn't help but like him. He was an indefatigable worker, +a man who hadn't a single thought in his head but paint. And cunning as a +lynx withal. It was he who put it into my head to cultivate the friendship +of Fillmore, a young man in the diplomatic service who had found his way +into the little group that surrounded Kruger and Swift. "Let him help you," +he said. "He doesn't know what to do with his money." + +When one spends what he has on himself, when one has a thoroughly good time +with his own money, people are apt to say "he doesn't know what to do with +his money." For my part, I don't see any better use to which one can put +money. About such individuals one can't say that they're generous or stingy. +They put money into circulation -- that's the principal thing. Fillmore knew +that his days in France were limited; he was determined to enjoy them. And +as one always enjoys himself better in the company of a friend it was only +natural that he should turn to one like myself, who had plenty of time on +his hands, for that companionship which he needed. People said he was a +bore, and so he was, I suppose, but when you're in need of your food you can +put up with worse things than being bored. After all, despite the fact that +he talked incessantly, and usually about himself or the authors whom he +admired slavishly -- such birds as Anatole France and Joseph Conrad -- he +nevertheless made my nights interesting in other ways. He liked to dance, he +liked good wines, and he liked women. That he liked Byron also, and Victor +Hugo, one could forgive; he was only a few years out of college and he had +plenty of time ahead of him to be cured of such tastes. What he had that I +liked was a sense of adventure. + +We got even better acquainted, more intimate, I might say, due to a peculiar +incident that occurred during my brief sojourn with Kruger. It happened just +after the arrival of Collins, a sailor whom Fillmore had got to know on the +way over from America. The three of us used to meet regularly on the +terrasse of the Rotonde before going to dinner. It was always +Pernod, a drink which put Collins in good humor and provided a base, as it +were, +for the wine and beer and fines, etc., which had to be guzzled +afterwards. All during Collins's stay in Paris I lived like a duke; nothing +but fowl and good vintages and desserts that I hadn't even heard of before. +A month of this regimen and I should have been obliged to go to Baden-Baden +or Vichy or Aix-les-Bains. Meanwhile Kruger was putting me up at his studio. +I was getting to be a nuisance because I never showed up before three a.m. +and it was difficult to rout me out of bed before noon. Overtly Kruger never +uttered a word of reproach but his manner indicated plainly enough that I +was becoming a bum. + +One day I was taken ill. The rich diet was taking effect upon me. I don't +know what ailed me, but I couldn't get out of bed. I had lost all my +stamina, and with it whatever courage I possessed. Kruger had to look after +me, had to make broths for me, and so on. It was a trying period for him, +more particularly because he was just on the verge of giving an important +exhibition at his studio, a private showing to some wealthy connoisseurs +from whom he was expecting aid. The cot on which I lay was in the studio; +there was no other room to put me in. + +The morning of the day he was to give his exhibition, Kruger awoke +thoroughly disgruntled. If I had been able to stand on my feet I know he +would have given me a clout in the jaw and kicked me out. But I was +prostrate, and weak as a cat. He tried to coax me out of bed, with the idea +of locking me up in the kitchen upon the arrival of his visitors. I realized +that I was making a mess of it for him. People can't look at pictures and +statues with enthusiasm when a man is dying before their eyes. Kruger +honestly thought I was dying. So did I. That's why, despite my feeling of +guilt, I couldn't muster any enthusiasm when he proposed calling for the +ambulance and having me shipped to the American Hospital. I wanted to die +there, comfortably, right in the studio; I didn't want to be urged to get up +and find a better place to die in. I didn't care where I died, really, so +long as it wasn't necessary to get up. + +When he heard me talk this way Kruger became alarmed. Worse than having a +sick man in his studio should the visitors arrive, was to have a dead man. +That would completely ruin his prospects, slim as they were. He didn't +put it that way to me, of course, but I could see from his agitation that +that was what worried him. And that made me stubborn. I refused to let him +call the hospital. I refused to let him call a doctor. I refused everything. + +He got so angry with me finally that, despite my protestations, he began to +dress me. I was too weak to resist. All I could do was to murmur +weakly -- "you bastard, you!" Though it was warm outdoors I was shivering like +a dog. -- After he had completely dressed me he flung an overcoat over me and +slipped outside to telephone. "I won't go! I won't go!" I kept saying but he +simply slammed the door on me. He came back in a few minutes and, without +addressing a word to me, busied himself about the studio. Last minute +preparations. In a little while there was a knock on the door. It was +Fillmore. Collins was waiting downstairs, he informed me. + +The two of them, Fillmore and Kruger, slipped their arms under me and +hoisted me to my feet. As they dragged me to the elevator Kruger softened +up. "It's for your own good," he said. "And besides, it wouldn't be fair to +me. You know what a struggle I've had all these years. You ought to think +about me too." He was actually on the point of tears. + +Wretched and miserable as I felt, his words almost made me smile. He was +considerably older than I, and even though he was a rotten painter, a rotten +artist all the way through, he deserved a break -- at least once in a +lifetime. + +"I don't hold it against you," I muttered. "I understand how it is." + +"You know I always liked you," he responded. "When you get better you can +come back here again ... you can stay as long as you like." + +"Sure, I know ... I'm not going to croak yet," I managed to get out. + +Somehow, when I saw Collins down below my spirits revived. If ever any one +seemed to be thoroughly alive, healthy, joyous, magnanimous, it was he. He +picked me up as if I were a doll and laid me out on the seat of the cab -- +gently too, which I appreciated after the way Kruger had manhandled me. + +When we drove up to the hotel -- the hotel that Collins was stopping at -- +there was a bit of a discussion with the proprietor, during which I lay +stretched out on the sofa in the bureau. I could hear Collins saying to the +patron that it was nothing ... just a little breakdown ... be all +right in a few days. I saw him put a crisp bill in the man's hands and then, +turning swiftly and lithely, he came back to where I was and said: "Come on, +buck up! Don't let him think you're croaking." And with that, he yanked me to +my feet and, bracing me with one arm, escorted me to the elevator. + +Don't let him think you're croaking! Obviously it was bad taste to +die on people's hands. One should die in the bosom of his family, in +private, as it were. His words were encouraging. I began to see it all as a +bad joke. Upstairs, with the door closed, they undressed me and put me +between the sheets. "You can't die now, god-damn it!" said Collins warmly. +"You'll put me in a hole ... Besides, what the hell's the matter with you? +Can't stand good living? Keep your chin up! You'll be eating a porterhouse +steak in a day or two. You think you're ill! Wait, by Jesus until you get a +dose of syphilis! That's something to make you worry ..." And he began to +relate, in a humorous way, his trip down the Yangtsze-Kaing, with hair +falling out and teeth rotting away. In the feeble state that I was in, the +yam that he spun had an extraordinarily soothing effect upon me. It took me +completely out of myself. He had guts, this guy. Perhaps he put it on a bit +thick, for my benefit, but I wasn't listening to him critically at the +moment. I was all ears and eyes. I saw the dirty yellow mouth of the river, +the lights going up at Hankow, the sea of yellow faces, the sampans shooting +down through the gorges and the rapids flaming with the sulphurous breath of +the dragon. What a story! The coolies swarming around the boat each day, +dredging for the garbage that was flung overboard, Tom Slattery rising up on +his death-bed to take a last look at the lights of Hankow, the beautiful +Eurasian who lay in a dark room and filled his veins with poison, the +monotony of blue jackets and yellow faces, millions and millions of them +hollowed out by famine, ravaged by disease, subsisting on rats and dogs and +roots, chewing the grass off the earth, devouring their own children. It was +hard to imagine that this man's body had once been a mass of sores, that he +had been shunned like a leper; his voice was so quiet and gentle, it was as +though his spirit had been cleansed by all the suffering he had endured. As +he reached for his drink his face grew more and more soft and his words +actually seemed to caress me. And all the while China hanging over us like +Fate itself. A China rotting away, crumbling to dust like a huge dinosaur, +yet preserving to the very end the glamor, the enchantment, the mystery, the +cruelty of her hoary legends. + +I could no longer follow his story; my mind had slipped back to a Fourth of +July when I bought my first package of firecrackers and with it the long +pieces of punk which break so easily, the punk that you blow on to get a +good red glow, the punk whose smell sticks to your fingers for days and +makes you dream of strange things. The Fourth of July the streets are +littered with bright red paper stamped with black and gold figures and +everywhere there are tiny firecrackers which have the most curious +intestines; packages and packages of them, all strung together by their +thin, flat, little gutstrings, the color of human brains. All day long there +is the smell of powder and punk and the gold dust from the bright red +wrappers sticks to your fingers. One never thinks of China, but it is there +all the time on the tips of your fingers and it makes your nose itchy; and +long afterwards, when you have forgotten almost what a firecracker smells +like, you wake up one day with gold-leaf choking you and the broken pieces +of punk waft back their pungent odor and the bright red wrappers give you a +nostalgia for a people and a soil you have never known, but which is in your +blood, mysteriously there in your blood, like the sense of time or space, a +fugitive, constant value to which you turn more and more as you get old, +which you try to seize with your mind, but ineffectually, because in +everything Chinese there is wisdom and mystery and you can never grasp it +with two hands or with your mind but you must let it rub off, let it stick +to your fingers, let it slowly infiltrate your veins. + +A few weeks later, upon receipt of a pressing invitation from Collins who had +returned to Le Havre, Fillmore and I boarded the train one morning, prepared +to spend the week-end with him. It was the first time I had been outside of +Paris since my arrival here. We were in fine fettle, drinking Anjou all the +way to the coast. Collins had given us the address of a bar where we were to +meet; it was a place called Jimmie's Bar, which everyone in Le Havre was +supposed to know. + +We got into an open barouche at the station and started on a brisk trot for +the rendez-vous; there was still a half bottle of Anjou left which we +polished off as we rode along. Le Havre looked gay, sunny; the air was +bracing, with that strong salty tang which almost made me homesick for New +York. There were masts and hulls cropping up everywhere, bright bits of +bunting, big open squares and high-ceilinged cafes such as one only sees in +the provinces. A fine impression immediately; the city was welcoming us with +open arms. + +Before we ever reached the bar we saw Collins coming down the street on a +trot, heading for the station, no doubt, and a little late as usual. +Fillmore immediately suggested a Pernod; we were all slapping each other on +the back, laughing and spitting, drunk already from the sunshine and the +salt sea air. Collins seemed undecided about the Pernod at first. He had a +little dose of clap, he informed us. Nothing very serious -- "a strain" most +likely. He showed us a bottle he had in his pocket -- "Venetienne" it was +called, if I remember rightly. The sailors' remedy for clap. + +We stopped off at a restaurant to have a little snack before repairing to +Jimmie's place. It was a huge tavern with big, smoky rafters and tables +creaking with food. We drank copiously of the wines that Collins +recommended. Then we sat down on a terrasse and had coffee and +liqueurs. Collins was talking about the Baron de Charlus, a man after his +own heart, he said. For almost a year now he had been staying at Le Havre, +going through the money that he had accumulated during his bootlegging days. +His tastes were simple -- food, drink, women and books. And a private bath! +That he insisted on. + +We were still talking about the Baron de Charlus when we arrived at Jimmie's +Bar. It was late in the afternoon and the place was just beginning to fill +up. Jimmie was there, his face red as a beet, and beside him was his +spouse, a fine, buxom Frenchwoman with glittering eyes. We were given a +marvellous reception all around. There were Pernods in front of us again, +the gramophone was shrieking, people were jabbering away in English and +French and Dutch and Norwegian and Spanish, and Jimmie and his wife, both of +them looking very brisk and dapper, were slapping and kissing each other +heartily and raising their glasses and clinking them -- altogether such a +bubble and blabber of merriment that you felt like pulling off your clothes +and doing a war dance. The women at the bar had gathered around like flies. +If we were friends of Collins that meant we were rich. It didn't matter that +we had come in our old clothes; all Anglais dressed like that. I +hadn't a sou in my pocket, which didn't matter, of course, since I was the +guest of honor. Nevertheless I felt somewhat embarrassed with two +stunning-looking whores hanging on my arms waiting for me to order +something. I decided to take the bull by the horns. You couldn't tell any +more which drinks were on the house and which were to be paid for. I had to +be a gentleman, even if I didn't have a sou in my pocket. + +Yvette -- that was Jimmie's wife -- was extraordinarily gracious and friendly +with us. She was preparing a little spread in our honor. It would take a +little while yet. We were not to get too drunk -- she wanted us to +enjoy the meal. The gramophone was going like wild and Fillmore had begun to +dance with a beautiful mulatto who had on a tight velvet dress that revealed +all her charms. Collins slipped over to my side and whispered a few words +about the girl at my side. "The madame will invite her to dinner," +he said, "if you'd like to have her." She was an ex-whore who owned a +beautiful home on the outskirts of the city. The mistress of a sea captain +now. He was away and there was nothing to fear. "If she likes you she'll +invite you to stay with her," he added. + +That was enough for me. I turned at once to Marcelle and began to flatter the +ass off her. We stood at the corner of the bar, pretending to dance, and +mauled each other ferociously. Jimmie gave me a big horse-wink and nodded his +head approvingly. She was a lascivious bitch, this Marcelle, and pleasant at +the same time. She soon got rid of the other girl, I noticed, and then we +settled down for a long and intimate conversation which was interrupted +unfortunately by the announcement that dinner was ready. + +There were about twenty of us at the table, and Marcelle and I were placed +at one end opposite Jimmie and his wife. It began with the popping of +champagne corks and was quickly followed by drunken speeches, during the +course of which Marcelle and I played with each other under the table. When +it came my turn to stand up and deliver a few words I had to hold the napkin +in front of me. It was painful and exhilarating at the same time. I had to +cut the speech very short because Marcelle was tickling me in the crotch all +the while. + +The dinner lasted until almost midnight. I was looking forward to spending +the night with Marcelle in that beautiful home up on the cliff. But it was +not to be. Collins had planned to show us about and I couldn't very well +refuse. "Don't worry about her," he said. "You'll have a bellyful of it +before you leave. Tell her to wait here for you until we get back." + +She was a bit peeved at this, Marcelle, but when we informed her that we +had several days ahead of us she brightened up. When we got outdoors +Fillmore very solemnly took us by the arm and said he had a little +confession to make. He looked pale and worried. + +"Well, what is it?" said Collins cheerfully. "Spit it out!" + +Fillmore couldn't spit it out like that, all at once. He hemmed and hawed +and finally he blurted out -- "Well, when I went to the closet just a minute +ago I noticed something ..." + +"Then you've got it!" said Collins triumphantly, and with that he flourishes +the bottle of "Venetienne." + +"Don't go to a doctor," he added venomously. +"They'll bleed you to death, the greedy bastards. And don't stop drinking +either. That's all hooey. Take this twice a day ... shake it well before +using. And nothing's worse than worry, do you understand? Come on now. I'll +give you a syringe and some permanganate when we get back." + +And so we started out into the night, down towards the waterfront where there +was the sound of music and shouts and drunken oaths, Collins talking quietly +all the while about this and that, about a boy he had fallen in love with, +and the devil's time he had to get out of the scrape when the parents got +wise to it. From that he switched back to the Baron de Charlus and then to +Kurtz who had gone up the river and got lost. His favorite theme. I liked the +way Collins moved against this background of literature continuously; it was +like a millionaire who never stepped out of his Rolls Royce. There was no +intermediate realm for him between reality and ideas. When we entered the +whorehouse on the Quai Voltaire, after he had flung himself on the divan and +rung for girls and for drinks, he was still paddling up the river with Kurtz, +and only when the girls had flopped on the bed beside him and stuffed his +mouth with kisses did he cease his divagations. Then, as if he had suddenly +realized where he was, he turned to the old mother who ran the place and gave +her an eloquent spiel about his two friends who had come down from Paris +expressly to see the joint. There were about half a dozen girls in the room, +all naked and all beautiful to look at, I must say. They hopped about like +birds while the three of us tried to maintain a conversation with the +grandmother. Finally the latter excused herself and told us to make ourselves +at home. I was altogether taken in by her, so sweet and amiable she was, so +thoroughly gentle and maternal. And what manners! If she had been a little +younger I would have made overtures to her. Certainly you would not have +thought that we were in a "den of vice," as it is called. + +Anyway we stayed there an hour or so, and as I was the only one in condition +to enjoy the privileges of the house, Collins and Fillmore remained +downstairs chattering with the girls. When I returned I found the two of +them stretched out on the bed; the girls had formed a semi-circle about the +bed and were singing with the most angelic voices the chorus of Roses in +Picardy. We were sentimentally depressed when we left the house -- +Fillmore particularly. Collins swiftly steered us to a rough joint which was +packed with drunken sailors on shore leave and there we sat awhile enjoying +the homosexual rout that was in full swing. When we sallied out we had to +pass through the red-light district where there were more grandmothers with +shawls about their necks sitting +on the doorsteps fanning themselves and nodding pleasantly to the +passersby. All such good-looking, kindly souls, as if they were keeping +guard over a nursery. Little groups of sailors came swinging along and +pushed their way noisily inside the gaudy joints. Sex everywhere: it was +slopping over, a neap-tide that swept the props from under the city. We +piddled along at the edge of the basin where everything was jumbled and +tangled; you had the impression that all these ships, these trawls and +yachts and schooners and barges, had been blown ashore by a violent storm. + +In the space of forty-eight hours so many things had happened that it seemed +as if we had been in Le Havre a month or more. We were planning to leave +early Monday morning, as Fillmore had to be back on the job. We spent Sunday +drinking and carousing, clap or no clap. That afternoon Collins confided to +us that he was thinking of returning to his ranch in Idaho; he hadn't been +home for eight years and he wanted to have a look at the mountains again +before making another voyage East. We were sitting in a whorehouse at the +time, waiting for a girl to appear; he had promised to slip her some +cocaine. He was fed up with Le Havre, he told us. Too many vultures hanging +around his neck. Besides, Jimmie's wife had fallen in love with him and she +was making things hot for him with her jealous fits. There was a scene +almost every night. She had been on her good behavior since we arrived, but +it wouldn't last, he promised us. She was particularly jealous of a Russian +girl who came to the bar now and then when she got tight. A troublemaker. On +top of it all he was desperately in love with this boy whom he had told us +about the first day. "A boy can break your heart," he said. "He's so damned +beautiful! And so cruel!" We had to laugh at this. It sounded preposterous. +But Collins was in earnest. + +Around midnight Sunday Fillmore and I retired; we had been given a room +upstairs over the bar. It was sultry as the devil, not a breath of air +stirring. Through the open windows we could hear them shouting downstairs and +the gramophone going continually. All of a sudden a storm broke -- a regular +cloudburst. And between the thunderclaps and the squalls that lashed the +window-panes there came to our ears the sound of another storm raging +downstairs at the bar. It sounded frightfully close and sinister; the women +were shrieking at the tops of their lungs, bottles were crashing, tables were +upset and there was that familiar, nauseating thud that the human body makes +when it crashes to the floor. + +About six o'clock Collins stuck his head in the door. His face was all +plastered and one arm was stuck in a sling. He had a big grin on his face. + +"Just as I told you," he said. "She broke loose last night. Suppose you +heard the racket?" + +We got dressed quickly and went downstairs to say good-bye to Jimmie. The +place was completely demolished, not a bottle left standing, not a chair +that wasn't broken. The mirror and the show-window were smashed to bits. +Jimmie was making himself an egg-nog. + +On the way to the station we pieced the story together. The Russian girl had +dropped in after we toddled off to bed and Yvette had insulted her promptly, +without even waiting for an excuse. They had commenced to pull each other's +hair and in the midst of it a big Swede had stepped in and given the Russian +girl a sound slap in the jaw -- to bring her to her senses. That started the +fireworks. Collins wanted to know what right this big stiff had to interfere +in a private quarrel. He got a poke in the jaw for an answer, a good one that +sent him flying to the other end of the bar. "Serves you right!" screamed +Yvette, taking advantage of the occasion to swing a bottle at the Russian +girl's head. And at that moment the thunderstorm broke loose. For a while +there was a regular pandemonium, the women all hysterical and hungry to seize +the opportunity to pay off private grudges. Nothing like a nice bar-room +brawl ... so easy to stick a knife in a man's back or club him with a bottle +when he's lying under a table. The poor Swede had found himself in a hornet's +nest; everyone in the place hated him, particularly his shipmates. They +wanted to see him done in. And so they locked the door and pushing the tables +aside they made a little space in front of the bar where the two of them +could have it out. And they had it out! They had to carry the poor devil to +the hospital when it was over. Collins had come off rather lucky -- nothing +more than a sprained wrist and a couple of fingers out of joint, a bloody +nose and a black eye. Just a few scratches, as he put it. But if he ever +signed up with that Swede he was going to murder him. It wasn't finished yet. +He promised us that. + +And that wasn't the end of the fracas either. After that Yvette had to go +out and get liquored up at another bar. She had been insulted and she was +going to put an end to things. And so she hires a taxi and orders the driver +to ride out to the edge of the cliff overlooking the water. She was going to +kill herself, that's what she was going to do. But then she was so drunk +that when she tumbled out of the cab she began to weep and before any one +could stop her she had begun to peel her clothes off. The driver brought her +home that way, half-naked, and when Jimmie saw the condition she was in he +was so furious with her that he took his razorstrop and he belted the piss +out of her, and she liked it, the bitch that she was. "Do it some more!" she +begged, down on her knees as she was and clutching him around the legs with +her two arms. But Jimmie had enough of it. "You're a dirty old sow!" he said +and with his foot he gave her a shove in the guts that took the wind out of +her and -- a bit of her sexy nonsense too. + +It was high time we were leaving. The city looked different in me early +morning light. The last thing we talked about, as we stood there waiting for +the train to pull out, was Idaho. The three of us were Americans. We came +from different places, each of us, but we had something in common -- a whole +lot, I might say. We were getting sentimental, as Americans do when it comes +time to part. We were getting quite foolish about the cows and sheep and the +big open spaces where men are men and all that crap. If a boat had swung +along instead of the train we'd have hopped aboard and said good-bye to it +all. But Collins was never to see America again, as I learned later; and +Fillmore ... well, Fillmore had to take his punishment too, in a way that +none of us could have suspected then. It's best to keep America just like +that, always in the background, a sort of picture post-card which you look +at in a weak moment. Like that, you imagine it's always there waiting for +you, unchanged, unspoiled, a big patriotic open space with cows and sheep and +tenderhearted men ready to bugger everything in sight, man, woman or beast. +It doesn't exist, America. It's a name you give to an abstract idea ... + +x x x + + + + + +Paris is like a whore. From a distance she seems ravishing, you can't wait +until you have her in your arms. And five minutes later you feel empty, +disgusted with yourself. You feel tricked. + +I returned to Paris with money in my pocket -- a few hundred francs, which +Collins had shoved in my pocket just as I was boarding the train. It was +enough to pay for a room and at least a week's good rations. It was more +than I had had in my hands at one time for several years. I felt elated, as +though perhaps a new life was opening before me. I wanted to conserve it +too, so I looked up a cheap hotel over a bakery on the Rue du Chateau, just +off the Rue de Vanves, a place that Eugene had pointed out to me once. A few +yards away was the bridge that spans the Montparnasse tracks. A familiar +quarter. + +I could have had a room here for a hundred francs a month, a room without +any conveniences to be sure -- without even a window -- and perhaps I would +have taken it, just to be sure of a place to flop for a while, had it not +been for the fact that in order to reach this room I would have been obliged +to first pass through the room of a blind man. The thought of passing his +bed every night had a most depressing effect upon me. I decided to look +elsewhere. I went over to the Rue Cels, just behind the cemetery, and I +looked at a sort of rat-trap there with balconies, running around the +court-yard. There were bird-cages suspended from the balcony too, all along +the lower tier. A cheerful sight perhaps, but to me it seemed like the +public ward in a hospital. The proprietor didn't seem to have all his wits +either. I decided to wait for the night, to have a good look around, and +then choose some attractive little joint in a quiet side street. +At dinner time I spent fifteen francs for a meal, just about twice the +amount I had planned to allot myself. That made me so wretched that I +wouldn't allow myself to sit down for a coffee, even despite the fact that +it had begun to drizzle. No, I would walk about a bit and then go quietly to +bed, at a reasonable hour. I was already miserable, trying to husband my +resources this way. I had never in my life done it; it wasn't in my nature. + +Finally it began to come down in bucketsful. I was glad. That would give me +the excuse I needed to duck somewhere and stretch my legs out. It was still +too early to go to bed. I began to quicken my pace, heading back towards the +Boulevard Raspail. Suddenly a woman comes up to me and stops me, right in +the pouring rain. She wants to know what time it is. I told her I didn't +have a watch. And then she bursts out, just like this: "Oh, my good sir, do +you speak English by chance?" I nod my head. It's coming down in torrents +now. "Perhaps, my dear good man, you would be so kind as to take me to a +cafe. It is raining so and I haven't the money to sit down anywhere. You +will excuse me, my dear sir, but you have such a kind face ... I knew you +were English right away." And with this she smiles at me, a strange, +half-demented smile. "Perhaps you could give me a little advice, dear sir. +I am all alone in the world ... my God, it is terrible to have no money ..." + +This "dear sir" and "kind sir" and "my good man," etc., had me on the verge +of hysteria. I felt sorry for her and yet I had to laugh. I did laugh. I +laughed right in her face. And then she laughed too, a weird, high-pitched +laugh, off-key, an altogether unexpected piece of cachinnation. I caught her +by the arm and we made a bolt for it to the nearest cafe. She was still +giggling when we entered the bistrot. "My dear good sir," she began +again, "perhaps you think I am not telling you the truth. I am a good girl +... I come of a good family. Only" -- and here she gave me that wan, broken +smile again -- "only I am so misfortunate as not to have a place to sit down." +At this I began to laugh again. I couldn't help it -- the phrases she used, +the strange accent, the crazy hat she had on, that demented smile ... +"Listen," I interrupted, "what nationality are you?" +"I'm English," she replied. "That is, I was born in Poland, but my father +is Irish." + +"So that makes you English?" + +"Yes," she said, and she began to giggle again, sheepishly, and with a +pretense of being coy. + +"I suppose you know a nice little hotel where you could take me?" I said +this, not because I had any intention of going with her, but just to spare +her the usual preliminaries. + +"Oh, my dear sir," she said, as though I had made the most grievous error, +"I'm sure you don't mean that! I'm not that kind of a girl. You were joking +with me, I see that. You're so good ... you have such a kind face. I would +not dare to speak to a Frenchman as I did to you. They insult you right away +..." + +She went on in this vein for some time. I wanted to break away from her. But +she didn't want to be left alone. She was afraid -- her papers were not in +order. Wouldn't I be good enough to walk her to her hotel? Perhaps I could +"lend" her fifteen or twenty francs, to quiet the patron? I walked +her to the hotel where she said she was stopping and I put a fifty francs +bill in her hand. Either she was very clever, or very innocent -- it's hard to +tell sometimes -- but, at any rate, she wanted me to wait until she ran to +the bistrot for change. I told her not to bother. And with that she +seized my hand impulsively and raised it to her lips. I was flabbergasted. I +felt like giving her every damned thing I had. That touched me, that crazy +little gesture. I thought to myself, it's good to be rich once in a while, +just to get a new thrill like that. Just the same, I didn't lose my head. +Fifty francs! That was quite enough to squander on a rainy night. As I +walked off she waved to me with that crazy little bonnet which she didn't +know how to wear. It was as though we were old playmates. I felt foolish and +giddy. "My dear kind sir ... you have such a gentle face ... you are so +good, etc." I felt like a saint. + +When you feel all puffed up inside it isn't so easy to go to bed right away. +You feel as though you ought to atone for such unexpected bursts of +goodness. Passing the "Jungle" I caught a glimpse of the dance floor; women +with bare backs and ropes of pearls choking them -- or so it looked -- were +wiggling their beautiful bottoms at me. Walked right up to the bar and +ordered a coupe of champagne. When the music stopped, a beautiful +blonde -- she looked like a Norwegian -- took a seat right beside me. The place +wasn't as crowded or as gay as it had appeared from outside. There were only +a half dozen couples in the place -- they must have all been dancing at once. I +ordered another coupe of champagne in order not to let my courage +dribble away. + +When I got up to dance with the blonde there was no one on the floor but us. +Any other time I would have been self-conscious, but the champagne and the +way she clung to me, the dimmed lights and the solid feeling of security +which the few hundred francs gave me, well ... We had another dance +together, a sort of private exhibition, and then we fell into conversation. +She had begun to weep -- that was how it started. I thought possibly she had +had too much to drink, so I pretended not to be concerned. And meanwhile I +was looking around to see if there was any other timber available. But the +place was thoroughly deserted. + +The thing to do when you're trapped is to breeze -- at once. If you don't, +you're lost. What retained me, oddly enough, was the thought of paying for a +hat check a second time. One always lets himself in for it because of a +trifle. + +The reason she was weeping, I discovered soon enough, was because she had +just buried her child. She wasn't Norwegian either, but French, and a +midwife to boot. A chic midwife, I must say, even with the tears running +down her face. I asked her if a little drink would help to console her, +whereupon she very promptly ordered a whisky and tossed it off in the wink +of an eye. "Would you like another?" I suggested gently. She thought she +would, she felt so rotten, so terribly dejected. She thought she would like +a package of Camels too. "No, wait a minute," she said, "I think I'd rather +have les Pall Mall." Have what you like, I thought, but stop weeping, +for Christ's sake, it gives me the willies. I jerked her to her feet for +another dance. On her feet she seemed to be another person. Maybe grief makes +one more lecherous, I don't know. I murmured something about breaking away. +"Where to?" she said eagerly. "Oh, anywhere. Some quiet place where we can +talk." + +I went to the toilet and counted the money over again. I hid the hundred +franc notes in my fob pocket and kept a fifty franc note and the loose +change in my trousers pocket. I went back to the bar determined to talk +turkey. + +She made it easier for me because she herself introduced the subject. She +was in difficulties. It was not only that she had just lost her child, but +her mother was home, ill, very ill, and there was the doctor to pay and +medicine to be bought, and so on and so forth. I didn't believe a word of +it, of course. And since I had to find a hotel for myself, I suggested that +she come along with me and stay the night. A little economy there, I thought +to myself. But she wouldn't do that. She insisted on going home, said she +had an apartment to herself -- and besides she had to look after her mother. +On reflection I decided that it would be still cheaper sleeping at her +place, so I said yes and let's go immediately. Before going, however, I +decided it was best to let her know just how I stood, so that there +wouldn't be any squawking at the last minute. I thought she was going to +faint when I told her how much I had in my pocket. "The likes of it!" she +said. Highly insulted she was. I thought there would be a scene ... +Undaunted, however, I stood my ground. "Very well, then, I'll leave you," I +said quietly. "Perhaps I've made a mistake." + +"I should say you have!" she exclaimed, but clutching me by the sleeve at +the same time. "Ecoute, cheri... sois raisonnable!" When I heard that +all my confidence was restored. I knew that it would be merely a question of +promising her a little extra and everything would be O. K. "All right," I +said wearily, "I'll be nice to you, you'll see." + +"You were lying to me, then?" she said. + +"Yes," I smiled, "I was just lying ..." + +Before I had even put my hat on she had hailed a cab. I heard her give the +Boulevard de Clichy for an address. That was more than the price of a room, +I thought to myself. Oh well, there was time yet ... we'd see. I don't know +how it started any more but soon she was raving to me about Henry Bordeaux. +(I have yet to meet a whore who doesn't know of Henry Bordeaux!) But this one +was genuinely inspired; her language was beautiful now, so tender, so +discerning, that I was debating how much to give her. It seemed to me that I +had heard her say -- "quand il n'y aura plus de temps." It sounded like +that, anyway. In the state I was in, a phrase like that was worth a hundred +francs. I wondered if it was her own or if she had pulled it from Henry +Bordeaux. Little matter. It was just the right phrase with which to roll up +to the foot of Montmartre. "Good evening, mother," I was saying to myself, +"daughter and I will look after you -- quand il n 'y aura plus de +temps!" She was going to show me her diploma, too, I remembered that. + +She was all aflutter, once the door had closed behind us. Distracted. +Wringing her hands and striking Sarah Bernhardt poses, half undressed too, +and pausing between times to urge me to hurry, to get undressed, to do this +and do that. Finally, when she had stripped down and was poking about with a +chemise in her hand, searching for her kimono, I caught hold of her and gave +her a good squeeze. She had a look of anguish on her face when I released +her. "My God! My God! I must go downstairs and have a look at mother!" she +exclaimed. "You can take a bath if you like, cheri. There! I'll be +back in a few minutes." At the door I embraced her again. I was in my +underclothes and I had a tremendous erection. Somehow all this anguish and +excitement, all the grief and histrionics, only whetted my appetite. Perhaps +she was just going downstairs to quiet her maquereau. I had a feeling +that something unusual was happening, some sort of drama which I would read +about in the morning paper. I gave the place a quick inspection. There were +two rooms and a bath, not badly furnished. Rather coquettish. There was her +diploma on the wall -- "first class," as they all read. And there was the +photograph of a child, a little girl with beautiful locks, on the dresser. I +put the water on for a bath, and then I changed my mind. If something were +to happen and I were found in the tub ... I didn't like the idea. I paced +back and forth, getting more and more uneasy as the minutes rolled by. + +When she returned she was even more upset than before. "She's going to die +... she's going to die!" she kept wailing. For a moment I was almost on the +point of leaving. How the hell can you climb over a woman when her mother's +dying downstairs, perhaps right beneath you? I put my arms around her, half +in sympathy and half determined to get what I had come for. As we stood thus +she murmured, as if in real distress, her need for the money I had promised +her. It was for "maman." Shit, I didn't have the heart to haggle about +a few francs at that moment. I walked over to the chair where my clothes were +lying and I wiggled a hundred franc note out of my fob pocket, carefully +keeping my back turned to her just the same. And, as a further precaution, I +placed my pants on the side of the bed where I knew I was going to flop. The +hundred francs wasn't altogether satisfactory to her, but I could see from +the feeble way that she protested that it was quite enough. Then, with an +energy that astonished me, she flung off her kimono and jumped into bed. As +soon as I had put my arms around her and pulled her to me she reached for the +switch and out went the lights. She embraced me passionately, and she groaned +as all French cunts do when they get you in bed. She was getting me +frightfully roused with her carrying-on; that business of turning out the +lights was a new one to me ... it seemed like the real thing. But I was +suspicious too, and as soon as I could manage conveniently I put my hand out +to feel if my trousers were still there on the chair. + +I thought we were settled for the night. The bed felt very comfortable, +softer than the average hotel bed -- and the sheets were clean, I had noticed +that. If only she wouldn't squirm so! You would think she hadn't slept with +a man for a month. I wanted to stretch it out. I wanted full value for my +hundred francs. But she was mumbling all sorts of things in that crazy bed +language which goes to your blood even more rapidly when it's in the dark. I +was putting up a stiff fight, but it was impossible with her groaning and +gasping going on, and her muttering: "Vite cheri! Vite cheri! Oh, c'est +bon! Oh, oh! Vite, vite, cheri!" I tried to count but it was like a fire +alarm going off. "Vile, cheri!" and this time she gave such a gasping +shudder that bango! I heard the stars chiming and there was my hundred francs +gone and the fifty that I had forgotten all about and the lights were on +again and with the same alacrity that she had bounced into bed she was +bouncing out again and grunting and squealing like an old sow. I lay back and +puffed a cigarette, gazing ruefully at my pants the while; they were terribly +wrinkled. In a moment she was back again, wrapping the kimono around her, and +telling me in that agitated way which was getting on my nerves that I should +make myself at home. "I'm going downstairs to see mother," she said. "Mais +faites comme chez vous, cheri. Je reviens tout de suite." + +After a quarter of an hour had passed I began to feel thoroughly restless. I +went inside and I read through a letter that was lying on the table. It was +nothing on any account -- a love letter. In the bathroom I examined all the +bottles on the shelf; she had everything a woman requires to make herself +smell beautiful. I was still hoping that she would come back and give me +another fifty francs' worth. But time dragged on and there was no sign of +her. I began to grow alarmed. Perhaps there was someone dying +downstairs. Absent-mindedly, out of a sense of self-preservation, I suppose, +I began to put my things on. As I was buckling my belt it came to me like a +flash how she had stuffed the hundred franc note into her purse. In the +excitement of the moment she had thrust the purse in the wardrobe, on the +upper shelf. I remembered the gesture she made -- standing on her tip-toes +and reaching for the shelf. It didn't take me a minute to open the wardrobe +and feel around for the purse. It was still there. I opened it hurriedly and +saw my hundred franc note lying snugly between the silk coverlets. I put the +purse back just as it was, slipped into my coat and shoes, and then I went +to the landing and listened intently. I couldn't hear a sound. Where she had +gone to, Christ only knows. In a jiffy I was back at the wardrobe and +fumbling with her purse. I pocketed the hundred francs and all the loose +change besides. Then, closing the door silently. I tip-toed down the stairs +and when once I had hit the street I walked just as fast as my legs would +carry me. At the Cafe Boudon I stopped for a bite. The whores there having a +gay time pelting a fat man who had fallen asleep over his meal. He was sound +asleep; snoring, in fact, and yet his jaws were working away mechanically. +The place was in an uproar. + +There were shouts of "All aboard!" and then a concerted banging of knives +and forks. He opened his eyes for a moment, blinked stupidly, and then his +head rolled forward again on his chest. I put the hundred franc bill +carefully away in my fob pocket and counted the change. The din around me +was increasing and I had difficulty to recall exactly whether I had seen +"first-class" on her diploma or not. It bothered me. About her mother I +didn't give a damn. I hoped she had croaked by now. It would be strange if +what she had said were true. Too good to believe. Vite cheri ... vite. +vite! And that other half-wit with her "my good sir" and "you have such +a kind face"! I wondered if she had really taken a room in that hotel we +stopped by. + +x x x + + + +It was along toward the close of Summer when Fillmore invited me to come and +live with him. He had a studio apartment overlooking the cavalry barracks +just off the Place Dupleix. We had seen a lot of each other ever since the +little trip to Le Havre. If it hadn't been for Fillmore I don't know where I +should be to-day -- dead, most likely. + +"I would have asked you long before," he said, "if it hadn't been for that +little bitch Jackie. I didn't know how to get her off my hands." + +I had to smile. It was always like that with Fillmore. He had a genius for +attracting homeless bitches. Anyway, Jackie had finally cleared out of her +own accord. The rainy season was coming on the long, dreary stretch of +grease and fog and squirts of rain that make you damp and miserable. An +execrable place in the winter, Paris! A climate that eats into your soul, +that leaves you bare as the Labrador coast. I noticed with some anxiety +that the only means of heating the place was the little stove in the studio. +However, it was still comfortable. And the view from the studio window was +superb. + +In the morning Fillmore would shake me roughly and leave a ten franc note on +the pillow. As soon as he had gone I would settle back for a final snooze. +Sometimes I would lie abed till noon. There was nothing pressing, except to +finish the book, and that didn't worry me much because I was already +convinced that nobody would accept it anyway. Nevertheless, Fillmore was much +impressed by it. When he arrived in the evening with a bottle under his arm +the first thing he did was to go to the table and see how many pages I had +knocked off. At first I enjoyed the show of enthusiasm but later, when I was +running dry, it made me devilishly uneasy to see him poking around, searching +for the pages that were supposed to trickle out of me like water from a tap. +When there was nothing to show I felt exactly like some bitch whom he had +harbored. He used to say about Jackie, I remembered -- "it would have been +all right if only she had slipped me a piece of ass once in a while." If I +had been a woman I would have been only too glad to slip him a piece of ass: +it would have been much easier than to feed him the pages which he expected. + +Nevertheless, he tried to make me feel at ease. There was always plenty of +food and wine, and now and then he would insist that I accompany him to a +dancing. He was fond of going to a nigger joint on the Rue d'Odessa +where there was a good-looking mulatto who used to come home with us +occasionally. The one thing that bothered him was that he couldn't find a +French girl who liked to drink. They were all too sober to satisfy him -- He +liked to bring a woman back to the studio and guzzle it with her before +getting down to business. He also liked to have her think that he was an +artist. As the man from whom he had rented the place was a painter, it was +not difficult to create an impression; the canvases which we had found in +the armoire were soon stuck about the place and one of the unfinished +ones conspicuously mounted on the easel. Unfortunately they were all of a +Surrealistic quality and the impression they created was usually +unfavorable. Between a whore, a concierge and a cabinet minister there is +not much difference in taste where pictures are concerned. It was a matter +of great relief to Fillmore when Mark Swift began to visit us regularly with +the intention of doing my portrait. Fillmore had a great admiration for +Swift. He was a genius, he said. And though there was something ferocious +about everything he tackled nevertheless when he painted a man or an object +you could recognize it for what it was. + +At Swift's request I had begun to grow a beard. The shape of my skull, he +said, required a beard. I had to sit by the window with the Eiffel Tower in +back of me because he wanted the Eiffel Tower in the picture too. He also +wanted the typewriter in the picture. Kruger got the habit of dropping in +too about this time; he maintained that Swift knew nothing about painting. It +exasperated him to see things out of proportion. He believed in Nature's +laws, implicitly. Swift didn't give a fuck about Nature; he wanted to paint +what was inside his head. Anyway, there was Swift's portrait of me stuck on +the easel now, and though everything was out of proportion, even a cabinet +minister could see that it was a human head, a man with a beard. The +concierge, indeed, began to take a great interest in the picture; she thought +the likeness was striking. And she liked the idea of showing the Eiffel Tower +in the background. + +Things rolled along this way peacefully for about a month or more. The +neighborhood appealed to me, particularly at night when the full squalor +and lugubriousness of it made itself felt. The little Place, so charming and +tranquil at twilight, could assume the most dismal, sinister character when +darkness came on. There was that long, high wall covering one side of the +barracks against which there was always a couple embracing each other +furtively -- often in the rain. A depressing sight to see two lovers squeezed +against a prison wall under a gloomy street light: as if they had been +driven right to the last bounds. What went on inside the enclosure was also +depressing. On a rainy day I used to stand by the window and look down on +the activity below, quite as if it were something going on on another +planet. It seemed incomprehensible to me. Everything done according to +schedule, but a schedule that must have been devised by a lunatic. There +they were, floundering around in the mud, the bugles blowing, the horses +charging -- all within four walls. A sham battle. A lot of tin soldiers who +hadn't the least interest in learning how to kill or how to polish their +boots or curry-comb the horses. Utterly ridiculous the whole thing, but part +of the scheme of things. When they had nothing to do they looked even more +ridiculous; they scratched themselves, they walked about with their hands in +their pockets, they looked up at the sky. And when an officer came along +they clicked their heels and saluted. A madhouse, it seemed to me. Even the +horses looked silly. And then sometimes the artillery was dragged out and +they went clattering down the street on parade and people stood and gaped and +admired the fine uniforms. To me they always looked like an army corps in +retreat; something shabby, bedraggled, crestfallen about them, their uniforms +too big for their bodies, all the alertness, which as individuals they +possess to such a remarkable degree, gone now. + +When the sun came out, however, things looked different. There was a ray of +hope in their eyes, they walked more elastically, they showed a little +enthusiasm. Then the color of things peeped out graciously and there was that +fuss and bustle so characteristic of the French; at the bistrot on the +corner they chattered gaily over their drinks and the officers seemed more +human, more French, I might say. When the sun comes out, any spot in Paris +can look beautiful; and if there is a bistrot with an awning rolled +down, a few tables on the sidewalk and colored drinks in the glasses, then +people look altogether human. And they are human -- the finest people +in the world when the sun shines! So intelligent, so indolent, so carefree! +It's a crime to herd such a people into barracks, to put them through +exercises, to grade them into privates and sergeants and colonels and what +not. + +As I say, things were rolling along smoothly. Now and then Carl came along +with a job for me, travel articles which he hated to do himself. They only +paid fifty francs a piece, but they were easy to do because I had only to +consult the back issues and revamp the old articles. People only read these +things when they were sitting on a toilet or killing time in a waiting +room. The principal thing was to keep the adjectives well furbished -- the +rest was a matter of dates and statistics. If it was an important article +the head of the department signed it himself; he was a half-wit who couldn't +speak any language well, but who knew how to find fault. If he found a +paragraph that seemed to him well written he would say -- "Now that's the way +I want you to write! That's beautiful. You have my permission to use it in +your book." These beautiful paragraphs we sometimes lifted from the +encyclopaedia or an old guide book. Some of them Carl did put into his +book -- they had a Surrealistic character. + +Then one evening, after I had been out for a walk, I open the door and a +woman springs out of the bed-room. "So you're the writer!" she exclaims at +once, and she looks at my beard as if to corroborate her impression. "What a +horrid beard!" she says. "I think you people must be crazy around here." +Fillmore is trailing after her with a blanket in his hand. "She's a +princess," he says, smacking his lips as if he had just tasted some rare +caviar. The two of them were dressed for the street; I couldn't understand +what they were doing with the bed-clothes. And then it occurred to me +immediately that Fillmore must have dragged her into the bed-room to show her +his laundry bag. He always did that with a new woman, especially if she was a +Francaise. "No tickee, no shirtee!" that's what was stitched on the +laundry bag, and somehow Fillmore had an obsession for explaining this motto +to every female who arrived. But this dame was not a Francaise -- he +made that clear to me at once. She was Russian -- and a princess, no less. + +He was bubbling over with excitement, like a child that has just found a new +toy. "She speaks five languages!" he said, obviously overwhelmed by such an +accomplishment. + +"Non, four!" she corrected promptly. + +"Well, four then ... Anyway, she's a damned intelligent girl. You ought to +hear her speak." + +The princess was nervous -- she kept scratching her thigh and rubbing her +nose. "Why does he want to make his bed now?" she asked me abruptly. "Does he +think he will get me that way? He's a big child. He behaves disgracefully. I +took him to a Russian restaurant and he danced like a nigger." She wiggled +her bottom to illustrate. "And he talks too much. Too loud. He talks +nonsense." She swished about the room, examining the paintings and the books, +keeping her chin well up all the time but scratching herself intermittently. +Now and then she wheeled around like a battleship and delivered a broadside. +Fillmore kept following her about with a bottle in one hand and a glass in +the other. "Stop following me like that!" she exclaimed. "And haven't you +anything to drink but this? Can't you get a bottle of champagne? I must have +some champagne. My nerves! My nerves!" + +Fillmore tries to whisper a few words in my ear. "An actress ... a movie +star ... some guy jilted her and she can't get over it ... I'm going to get +her cockeyed ..." + +"I'll clear out then," I was saying, when the princess interrupted us with a +shout. + +"Why do you whisper like that?" she cried, stamping her foot. "Don't you know +that's not polite? And you, I thought you were going to take me out? I +must get drunk to-night, I have told you that already." + +"Yes, yes," said Fillmore, "we're going in a minute. I just want another +drink." + +"You're a pig!" she yelled. "But you're a nice boy too. Only you're loud. +You have no manners." She turned to me. "Can I trust him to behave himself? +I must get drunk to-night but I don't want him to disgrace me. Maybe I will +come back here afterwards. I would like to talk to you. You seem more +intelligent." + +As they were leaving the princess shook my hand cordially and promised to +come for dinner some evening -- "when I will be sober," she said. + +"Fine!" I said. "Bring another princess along -- or a countess, at least. We +change the sheets every Saturday." + +About three in the morning Fillmore staggers in ... alone. Lit up like an +ocean liner, and making a noise like a blind man with his cracked cane. Tap, +tap, tap, down the weary lane ... "Going straight to bed," he says, as he +marches past me. 'Tell you all about it tomorrow." He goes inside to his +room and throws back the covers. I hear him groaning -- "what a woman! what a +woman!" In a second he's out again, with his hat on and the cracked cane in +his hand. "I knew something like that was going to happen. She's crazy!" + +He rummages around in the kitchen a while and then comes back to the studio +with a bottle of Anjou. I have to sit up and down a glass with him. + +As far as I can piece the story together the whole thing started at the +Rond-Point des Champs Elysees where he had dropped off for a drink on his +way home. As usual at that hour the terrasse was crowded with +buzzards. This one was sitting right on the aisle with a pile of saucers in +front of her; she was getting drunk quietly all by herself when Fillmore +happened along and caught her eye. "I'm drunk," she giggled, "won't you sit +down?" And then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to +do, she began right off the bat with the yam about her movie +director, how he had given her the go-by and how she had thrown herself in +the Seine and so forth and so on. She couldn't remember any more which +bridge it was, only that there was a crowd around when they fished her out +of the water. Besides, she didn't see what difference it made which bridge +she threw herself from -- why did he ask such questions? She was laughing +hysterically about it, and then suddenly she had a desire to be off -- she +wanted to dance. Seeing him hesitate she opens her bag impulsively and pulls +out a hundred francs note. The next moment, however, she decided that a +hundred francs wouldn't go very far. "Haven't you any money at all?" she +said. No, he hadn't very much in his pocket, but he had a checkbook at home. +So they made a dash for the checkbook and then, of course, I had to happen +in just as he was explaining to her the "No tickee, no shirtee" business. + +On the way home they had stopped off at the Poisson d'Or for a little snack +which she had washed down with a few vodkas. She was in her element there +with everyone kissing her hand and murmuring Princesse, Princesse. +Drunk as she was, she managed to collect her dignity. "Don't wiggle your +behind like that!" she kept saying, as they danced. + +It was Fillmore's idea, when he brought her back to the studio, to stay +there. But, since she was such an intelligent girl and so erratic, he had +decided to put up with her whims and postpone the grand event. He had even +visualized the prospect of running across another princess and bringing the +two of them back. When they started out for the evening, therefore, he was +in a good humor and prepared, if necessary, to spend a few hundred francs +on her. After all, one doesn't run across a princess every day. + +This time she dragged him to another place, a place where she was still +better known and where there would be no trouble in cashing a check, as she +said. Everybody was in evening clothes and there was more spine-breaking, +hand-kissing nonsense as the waiter escorted them to a table. + +In the middle of a dance she suddenly walks off the floor, with tears in her +eyes. "What's the matter?" he said, "what did I do this time?" and +instinctively he put his +hand to his backside, as though perhaps it might still be wiggling. "It's +nothing," she said. "You didn't do anything. Come, you're a nice boy," and +with that she drags him on to the floor again and begins to dance with +abandon. "But what's the matter with you?" he murmured. "It's nothing," she +repeated. "I saw somebody, that's all." And then, with a sudden spurt of +anger -- "why do you get me drunk? Don't you know it makes me crazy?" + +"Have you got a check?" she says. "We must get out of here." She called the +waiter over and whispered to him in Russian. "Is it a good check?" she +asked, when the waiter had disappeared. And then, impulsively: "Wait for me +downstairs in the cloak-room. I must telephone somebody." + +After the waiter had brought the change Fillmore sauntered leisurely +downstairs to the cloak-room to wait for her. He strode up and down, humming +and whistling softly, and smacking his lips in anticipation of the caviar to +come. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Still whistling softly. When twenty +minutes had gone by and still no princess he at last grew suspicious. The +cloak-room attendant said that she had left long ago. He dashed outside. +There was a nigger in livery standing there with a big grin on his face. Did +the nigger know where she had breezed to? Nigger grins. Nigger says: "Ah +heerd Coupole, dassall sir!" + +At the Coupole, downstairs, he finds her sitting in front of a cocktail with +a dreamy, trance-like expression on her face. She smiles when she sees him. + +"Was that a decent thing to do," he says, "to run away like that? You might +have told me that you didn't like me ..." + +She flared up at this, got theatrical about it. And after a lot of gushing +she commenced to whine and slobber. "I'm crazy," she blubbered. "And you're +crazy too. You want me to sleep with you, and I don't want to sleep with +you." And then she began to rave about her lover, the movie director whom +she had seen on the dance floor. That's why she had to run away from the +place. That's why she took drugs and got drunk every night. That's why she +threw herself in the Seine. She babbled on this way about how crazy she was +and then suddenly she had an idea. "Let's go to +Bricktop's!" There was a man there whom she knew ... he had promised her a +job once. She was certain he would help her. + +"What's it going to cost?" asked Fillmore cautiously. + +It would cost a lot, she let him know that immediately. "But listen, if you +take me to Bricktop's, I promise to go home with you." She was honest enough +to add that it might cost him five or six hundred francs. "But I'm worth it! +You don't know what a woman I am. There isn't another woman like me in all +Paris ..." + +"That's what you think!" His Yankee blood was coming to the fore. +"But I don't see it. I don't see that you're worth anything. You're just a +poor crazy son-of-a-bitch. Frankly, I'd rather give fifty francs to some +poor French girl; at least they give you something in return." + +She hit me ceiling when he mentioned the French girls. "Don't talk to me +about those women! I hate them! They're stupid ... they're ugly ... they're +mercenary. Stop it, I tell you!" + +In a moment she had subsided again. She was on a new tack. "Darling," she +murmured, "you don't know what I look like when I'm undressed. I'm +beautiful!." And she held her breasts with her two hands. + +But Fillmore remained unimpressed. "You're a bitch!" he said coldly. "I +wouldn't mind spending a few hundred francs on you, but you're crazy. You +haven't even washed your face. Your breath stinks. I don't give a damn +whether you're a princess or not ... I don't want any of your high-assed +Russian variety. You ought to get out in the street and hustle for it. +You're no better than any little French girl. You're not as good. I wouldn't +piss away another sou on you. You ought to go to America -- that's the place +for a blood-sucking leech like you ..." + +She didn't seem to be at all put out by this speech. "I think you're just a +little afraid of me," she said. + +"Afraid of you? Of you?" + +"You're just a lime boy," she said. "You have no manners. When you know me +better you will talk differently ... Why don't you try to be nice? If you +don't want to go with me to-night, very well. I will be at the Rond-Point +tomorrow between five and seven. I like you." + +"I don't intend to be at the Rond-Point tomorrow, or any other night. I don't +want to see you again ... ever. I'm through with you. I'm going out and find +myself a nice little French girl. You can go to hell!" + +She looked at him and smiled wearily. "That's what you say now. But wait! +Wait until you've slept with me. You don't know yet what a beautiful body I +have. You think the French girls know how to make love ... wait! I will make +you crazy about me. I like you. Only you're uncivilized. You're just a boy. +You talk too much ..." + +"You're crazy," said Fillmore. "I wouldn't fall for you if you were +the last woman on earth. Go home and wash your face." He walked off without +paying for the drinks. + +In a few days, however, the princess was installed. She's a genuine +princess, of that we're pretty certain. But she has the clap. Anyway, life +is far from dull here. Fillmore had bronchitis, the princess, as I was +saying, has the clap, and I have the piles. Just exchanged six empty bottles +at the Russian epicene across the way. Not a drop went down my +gullet. No meat, no wine, no rich game, no women. Only fruit and paraffin +oil, arnica drops and adenalin ointment. And not a chair in the joint that's +comfortable enough. Right now, looking at the princess, I'm propped up like +a pasha. Pasha! That reminds me of her name: Macha. Doesn't sound so damned +aristocratic to me. Reminds me of The Living Corpse. + +At first I thought it was going to be embarrassing, a menage a trois, +but not at all. I thought when I saw her move in that it was all up with me +again, that I should have to find another place, but Fillmore soon gave me +to understand that he was only putting her up until she got on her feet. +With a woman like her I don't know what an expression like that means; as +far as I can see she's been standing on her head all her life. She says the +revolution drove her out of Russia, but I'm sure if it hadn't been the +revolution it would have been something else. She's under the impression +that she's a great actress; we never contradict her in anything she says +because it's time wasted. Fillmore finds her amusing. When he leaves for the +office in the morning he drops ten francs on her pillow and ten francs on +mine; at night the three of us go to the Russian restaurant down below. The +neighborhood is full of Russians and Macha has already found a place + +where she can run up a little credit. Naturally ten francs a day isn't +anything for a princess; she wants caviar now and then and champagne, and +she needs a complete new wardrobe in order to get a job in the movies again. +She has nothing to do now except to kill time. She's putting on fat. + +This morning I had quite a fright. After I had washed my face I grabbed her +towel by mistake. We can't seem to train her to put her towel on the right +hook. And when I bawled her out for it she answered smoothly: "My dear, if +one can become blind from that I would have been blind years ago." + +And then there's the toilet, which we all have to use. I try speaking to her +in a fatherly way about the toilet seat. "Oh zut!" she says. "If you are so +afraid I'll go to a cafe." But it's not necessary to do that, I explain. +Just use ordinary precautions. "Tut tut!" she says, "I won't sit down then +... I'll stand up." + +Everything is cockeyed with her around. First she wouldn't come across +because she had the monthlies. For eight days that lasted. We were beginning +to think she was faking it. But no, she wasn't faking. One day, when I was +trying to put the place in order, I found some cotton batting under the bed +and it was stained with blood. With her everything goes under the bed: +orange peel, wadding, corks, empty bottles, scissors, used condoms, books, +pillows ... She makes the bed only when it's time to retire. Most of the +time she lies abed reading her Russian papers. "My dear," she says to me, +"if it weren't for my papers I wouldn't get out of bed at all." That's it +precisely! Nothing but Russian newspapers. Not a scratch of toilet paper +around -- nothing but Russian newspapers with which to wipe your ass. + +Anyway, speaking of her idiosyncrasies, after the menstrual flow was over, +after she had rested properly and put a nice layer of fat around her belt, +still she wouldn't come across. Pretended that she only liked women. To take +on a man she had to first be properly stimulated. Wanted us to take her to a +bawdy house where they put on the dog and man act. Or better still, she +said, would be Leda and the swan: the flapping of the wings excited +her terribly. + +One night, to test her out, we accompanied her to a +place that she suggested. But before we had a chance to broach the subject +to the madame, a drunken Englishman, who was sitting at the next table, fell +into a conversation with us. He had already been upstairs twice but he +wanted another try at it. He had only about twenty francs in his pocket, and +not knowing any French, he asked us if we would help him to bargain with the +girl he had his eye on. Happened she was a negress, a powerful wench from +Martinique, and beautiful as a panther. Had a lovely disposition too. In +order to persuade her to accept the Englishman's remaining sous, Fillmore +had to promise to go with her himself soon as she got through with the +Englishman. The princess looked on, heard everything that was said, and +then got on her high horse. She was insulted. "Well," said Fillmore, "you +wanted some excitement -- you can watch me do it!" She didn't want to watch +him -- she wanted to watch a drake. "Well, by Jesus," he said, "I'm as good +as a drake any day ... maybe a little better." Like that, one word led to +another, and finally the only way we could appease her was to call one of +the girls over and let them tickle each other... When Fillmore came back +with the negress her eyes were smouldering. I could see from the way +Fillmore looked at her that she must have given an unusual performance and I +began to feel lecherous myself. Fillmore must have sensed how I felt, and +what an ordeal it was to sit and look on all night, for suddenly he pulled a +hundred franc note out of his pocket and slapping it in front of me, he +said: "Look here, you probably need a lay more than any of us. Take that and +pick someone out for yourself." Somehow that gesture endeared him more to me +than anything he had ever done for me, and he had done considerable. I +accepted the money in the spirit it was given and promptly signalled to the +negress to get ready for another lay. That enraged the Princess more than +anything, it appeared. She wanted to know if there wasn't anyone in the +place good enough for us except this negress. I told her bluntly NO. And it +was so -- the negress was the queen of the harem. You had only to look at her +to get an erection. Her eyes seemed to be swimming in sperm. She was drunk +with all the demands made upon her. She couldn't walk straight any more -- at +least, it seemed that way to me. Going up the narrow winding stairs behind +her I couldn't resist the temptation to slide my hand up her crotch; we +continued up the stairs that way, she looking back at me with a cheerful +smile and wiggling her ass a bit when it tickled her too much. + +It was a good session all around. Everyone was happy. Macha seemed to be in +a good mood too. And so the next evening, after she had had her ration of +champagne and caviar, after she had given us another chapter out of the +history of her life, Fillmore went to work on her. It seemed as though he +was going to get his reward at last. She had ceased to put up a fight any +more. She lay back with her legs apart and she let him fool around and fool +around and then, just as he was climbing over her, just as he was going to +slip it in, she informs him nonchalantly that she has a dose of clap. He +rolled off her like a log. I heard him fumbling around in the kitchen for +the black soap he used on special occasions, and in a few moments he was +standing by my bed with a towel in his hands and saying -- "can you beat that? +that son-of-a-bitch of a princess has the clap!" He seemed pretty well +scared about it. The princess meanwhile was munching an apple and calling +for her Russian newspapers. It was quite a joke to her. "There are worse +things than that," she said, lying there in her bed and talking to us +through the open door. Finally Fillmore began to see it as a joke too and +opening another bottle of Anjou he poured out a drink for himself and +quaffed it down. It was only about one in the morning and so he sat there +talking to me for a while. He wasn't going to be put off by a thing like +that, he told me. Of course, he had to be careful... there was the old dose +which had come on in Le Havre. He couldn't remember any more how that +happened. Sometimes when he got drunk he forgot to wash himself. It wasn't +anything very terrible, but you never knew what might develop later. He +didn't want any one massaging his prostate gland. No, that he didn't relish. +The first dose he ever got was at college. Didn't know whether the girl had +given it to him or he to the girl; there was so much funny work going on +about the campus you didn't know whom to believe. Nearly all the co-eds had +been knocked up some time or other. Too damned ignorant... even the profs +were ignorant. One of the profs had himself castrated, so the rumor went... + +Anyway, the next night he decided to risk it -- with a condom. Not much risk +in that, unless it breaks. He had bought himself some of the long fish-skin +variety -- they were the most reliable, he assured me. But then, that didn't +work either. She was too tight. "Jesus, there's nothing abnormal about me," +he said. "How do you make that out? Somebody got inside her all right to +give her that dose. He must have been abnormally small." + +So, one thing after another failing, he just gave it up altogether. They +lie there now like brother and sister, with incestuous dreams. Says Macha, +in her philosophic way: "In Russia it often happens that a man sleeps with a +woman without touching her. They can go on that way for weeks and weeks and +never think anything about it. Until paff! once he touches her ... paff! +paff! After that it's paff, paff, paff!" + +All efforts are concentrated now on getting Macha into shape. Fillmore +thinks if he cures her of the clap she may loosen up. A strange idea. So +he's bought her a douche bag, a stock of permanganate, a whirling syringe +and other little things which were recommended to him by a Hungarian doctor, +a little quack of an abortionist over near the Place d'Aligre. It seems his +boss had knocked up a sixteen year old girl once and she had introduced him +to the Hungarian; and then after that the boss had a beautiful chancre and +it was the Hungarian again. That's how one gets acquainted in +Paris -- genito-urinary friendships. Anyway, under our strict supervision, +Macha is taking care of herself. The other night, though, we were in a +quandary for a while. She stuck the suppository inside her and then she +couldn't find the string attached to it. "My God!" she was yelling, "where +is that string? My God! I can't find the string!" + +"Did you look under the bed?" said Fillmore. Finally she quieted down. But +only for a few minutes. The next thing was: "My God! I'm bleeding again. I +just had my period and now there are gouttes again. It must be that +cheap champagne you buy. My God, do you want me to bleed to death?" She comes +out with a kimono on and a towel stuck between her legs, trying to look +dignified as usual. "My whole life is just like that," she says. "I'm a +neurasthenic. The whole day running around and at night I'm drunk again. When +I came to Paris I was still an innocent girl. I read only Villon and +Beaudelaire. But as I had then 300,000 Swiss francs in the bank I was crazy +to enjoy myself, because in Russia they were always strict with me. And as I +was even more beautiful then than I am now I had all the men falling at my +feet." Here she hitched up the slack which had accumulated around her belt. +"You mustn't think I had a stomach like that when I came here ... that's from +all the poison I was given to drink ... those horrible aperitifs which +the French are so crazy to drink ... So then I met my movie director and he +wanted that I should play a part for him. He said I was the most gorgeous +creature in the world and he was begging me to sleep with him every night. I +was a foolish young virgin and so I permitted him to rape me one night. I +wanted to be a great actress and I didn't know that he was full of poison. So +he gave me the clap ... and now I want that he should have it back again. +It's all his fault that I committed suicide in the Seine ... Why are you +laughing? Don't you believe that I committed suicide? I can show you the +newspapers ... there is my picture in all the papers. I will show you the +Russian papers some day ... they wrote about me wonderfully ... But darling, +you know that first I must have a new dress. I can't vamp this man with these +dirty rags I am in. Besides, I still owe my dressmaker 12,000 francs ..." + +From here on it's a long story about the inheritance which she is trying to +collect. She has a young lawyer, a Frenchman, who is rather timid, it seems, +and he is trying to win back her fortune. From time to time he used to give +her a hundred francs or so on account. "He's stingy, like all the French +people," she says. "And I was so beautiful, too, that he couldn't keep his +eyes off me. He kept begging me always to fuck him. I got so sick and tired +of listening to him that one night I said yes, just to keep him quiet, and +so as I wouldn't lose my hundred francs now and then." She paused a moment +to laugh hysterically. "My dear," she continued, "it was too funny for words +what happened to him. He calls me up on the phone one day and he says: "I +must see you right away ... it's very important." And when I see him he shows +me a paper from the doctor -- and it's gonorrhea! My dear, I laughed in his +face. How should I know that I still had the clap? "You wanted to fuck me and +so I fucked you!" That made him quiet. That's how it goes in life: you don't +suspect anything, and then all of a sudden paff, paff, paff! He was such a +fool that he fell in love with me all over again. Only he begged me to behave +myself and not run around Montparnasse all night drinking and fucking. He +said I was driving him crazy. He wanted to marry me and then his family heard +about me and they persuaded him to go to Indo-China ..." + +From this Macha calmly switches to an affair she had with a Lesbian. "It was +very funny, my dear, how she picked me up one night. I was at the 'Fetiche' +and I was drunk as usual. She took me from one place to the other and she +made love to me under the table all night until I couldn't stand it any +more. Then she took me to her apartment and for two hundred francs I let her +suck me off. She wanted me to live with her but I didn't want to have her +suck me off every night ... it makes you too weak. Besides, I can tell you +that I don't care so much for Lesbians as I used to. I would rather sleep +with a man even though it hurts me. When I get terribly excited I can't hold +myself back any more ... three, four, five times ... just like that! Paff, +paff, paff! And then I bleed and that is very unhealthy for me because I am +inclined to be anaemic. So you see why once in a while I must let myself be +sucked by a Lesbian ..." + + * * * + +When the cold weather set in the princess disappeared. It was getting +uncomfortable with just a little coal stove in the studio; the bed-room was +like an ice-box and the kitchen was hardly any better. There was just a +little space around the stove where it was actually warm. So Macha had found +herself a sculptor who was castrated. She told us about him before she left. +After a few days she tried coming back to us, but Fillmore wouldn't hear of +it. She complained that the sculptor kept her awake all night kissing her. +And then there was no hot water for her douches. But finally she decided +that it was just as well she didn't come back. "I won't have that +candle-stick next to me any more," she said. "Always that candlestick ... +it made me nervous. If you had only been a fairy I would have stayed with +you ..." + +With Macha gone our evenings took on a different character. Often we sat by +the fire drinking hot toddies and discussing the life back there in the +States. We talked about it as if we never expected to go back there again. +Fillmore had a map of New York City which he had tacked on the wall; we used +to spend whole evenings discussing the relative virtues of Paris and New +York. And inevitably there always crept into our discussions the figure of +Whitman, that one lone figure which America has produced in the course of +her brief life. In Whitman the whole American scene comes to life, her past +and her future, her birth and her death. Whatever there is of value in +America Whitman has expressed, and there is nothing more to be said. The +future belongs to the machine, to the robots. He was the Poet of the Body +and the Soul, Whitman. The first and the last poet. He is almost +undecipherable today, a monument covered with rude hieroglyphs for which +there is no key. It seems strange almost to mention his +name over here. There is no equivalent in the languages of Europe for the +spirit which he immortalized. Europe is saturated with art and her soil is +full of dead bones and her museums are bursting with plundered treasures, +but what Europe has never had is a free, healthy spirit, what you might call +a MAN. Goethe was the nearest approach, but Goethe was a stuffed shirt, by +comparison. Goethe was a respectable citizen, a pedant, a bore, a universal +spirit, but stamped with the German trade-mark, with the double eagle. The +serenity of Goethe, the calm, Olympian attitude, is nothing more than the +drowsy stupor of a German bourgeois deity. Goethe is an end of something. +Whitman is a beginning. + +After a discussion of this sort I would sometimes put on my things and go +for a walk, bundled up in a sweater, a spring overcoat of Fillmore's and a +cape over that. A foul, damp cold against which there is no protection +except a strong spirit. They say America is a country of extremes, and it +is true that the thermometer registers degrees of cold which are practically +unheard of here; but the cold of a Paris winter is a cold unknown to +America, it is psychological, an inner as well as an outer cold. If it never +freezes here it never thaws either. Just as the people protect themselves +against the invasion of their privacy, by their high walls, their bolts and +shutters, their growling, evil-tongued, slatternly concierges, so they have +learned to protect themselves against the cold and heat of a bracing, +vigorous climate. They have fortified themselves: protection is the +keyword. Protection and security. In order that they may rot in comfort. On +a damp winter's night it is not necessary to look at the map to discover the +latitude of Paris. It is a northern city, an outpost erected over a swamp +filled in with skulls and bones. Along the boulevards there is a cold +electrical imitation of heat. Tout Va Bien in ultraviolet rays that +make the clients of the Dupont chain cafes look like gangrened cadavers. +Tout Via Bien! That's the motto that nourishes the forlorn beggars +who walk up and down all night under the drizzle of the violet rays. +Wherever there are lights there is a little heat. One gets warm from +watching the fat, secure bastards down their grogs, their steaming black +coffees. + +Where the lights are there are people on the sidewalks, jostling one +another, giving off a little animal heat through their dirty underwear and +their foul, cursing breaths. Maybe for a stretch of eight or ten blocks +there is a semblance of gaiety, and then it tumbles back into night, dismal, +foul, black night like frozen fat in a soup tureen. Blocks and blocks of +jagged tenements, every window closed tight, every shop front barred and +bolted. Miles and miles of stone prisons without the faintest glow of +warmth; the dogs and the cats are all inside with the canary birds. The +cockroaches and the bedbugs too are safely incarcerated. Tout Va +Bien. If you haven't a sou why just take a few old newspapers and make +yourself a bed on the steps of a cathedral. The doors are well bolted and +there will be no draughts to disturb you. Better still is to sleep outside +the Metro doors; there you will have company. Look at them on a rainy night, +lying there stiff as mattresses -- men, women, lice, all huddled together and +protected by the newspapers against spittle and the vermin that walks +without legs. Look at them under the bridges or under the market sheds. How +vile they look in comparison with the clean, bright vegetables stacked up +like jewels. Even the dead horses and the cows and sheep hanging from the +greasy hooks look more inviting. At least we will eat these tomorrow and +even the intestines will serve a purpose. But these filthy beggars lying in +the rain, what purpose do they serve? what good can they do us? They make us +bleed for five minutes, that's all. + +Oh, well, these are night thoughts produced by walking in the rain after two +thousand years of Christianity. At least now the birds are well provided +for, and the cats and dogs. Every time I pass the concierge's window and +catch the full icy impact of her glance I have an insane desire to throttle +all the birds in creation. At the bottom of every frozen heart there is a +drop or two of love -- just enough to feed the birds. + +Still I can't get it out of my mind what a discrepancy there is between +ideas and living. A permanent dislocation, though we try to cover the two +with a bright awning. And it won't go. Ideas have to be wedded to action; if +there is no sex, no vitality in them, there is no action. Ideas cannot exist +alone in the vacuum of the mind. Ideas are related to living: liver ideas, +kidney ideas, interstitial ideas, etc. If it were only for the sake of an +idea Copernicus would not have smashed the existent macrocosm and Columbus +would have foundered in the Sargasso Sea. The aesthetics of the idea breeds +flower-pots and flower-pots you put on the window-sill. But if there be no +rain or sun of what use putting flower-pots outside the window? + +Fillmore is full of ideas about gold. The "mythos" of gold, he calls it. I +like "mythos" and I like the idea of gold, but I am not obsessed by the +subject and I don't see why we should make flower-pots, even of gold. He +tells me that the French are hoarding their gold away in watertight +compartments deep below the surface of the earth; he tells me that there is a +little locomotive which runs around in these subterranean vaults and +corridors. I like the idea enormously. A profound, uninterrupted silence in +which the gold softly snoozes at a temperature of 17 ^ degrees Centigrade. He +says an army working 46 days and 37 hours would not be sufficient to count +all the gold that is sunk beneath the Bank of France, and that there is a +reserve supply of false teeth, bracelets, wedding rings, etc. Enough food +also to last for eighty days and a lake on top of the gold pile to resist the +shock of high explosives. Gold, he says, tends to become more and more +invisible, a myth, and no more defalcations. Excellent! I am wondering what +will happen to the world when we go off the gold standard in ideas, dress, +morals, etc. The gold standard of love! + +Up to the present, my idea in collaborating with myself has been to get off +the gold standard of literature. My idea briefly has been to present a +resurrection of the emotions, to depict the conduct of a human being in the +stratosphere of ideas, that is, in the grip of delirium. To paint a +pre-Socratic being, a creature part goat, part Titan. In short, to erect a +world on the basis of the omphalos, not on an abstract idea nailed to +a cross. Here and there you may have come across neglected statues, oases +untapped, windmills overlooked by Cervantes, rivers that run uphill, women +with five and six breasts ranged longitudinally along the torso. (Writing to +Gauguin, Strindberg said: "J'ai vu des arbres que ne retrouverait aucun +botaniste, des animaux que Cuvier n'a jamais soupconnes et des hommes que +vous seul avez pu creer.") + +When Rembrandt hit par he went below with the gold ingots and the pemmican +and the portable beds. Gold is a night word belonging to the chthonian mind: +it has dream in it and mythos. We are reverting to alchemy, to that fake +Alexandrian wisdom which produced our inflated symbols. Real wisdom is +being stored away in the sub-cellars by the misers of learning. The day is +coming when they will be circling around in the middle air with magnetizers; +to find a piece of ore you will have to go up ten thousand feet with a pair +of instruments -- in a cold latitude preferably -- and establish telepathic +communication with the bowels of the earth and the shades of the dead. No +more Klondikes. No more bonanzas. You will have to learn to sing and caper a +bit, to read the zodiac and study your entrails. All the gold that is being +tucked away in the pockets of the earth will have to be re-mined; +all this symbolism will have to be dragged out again from the bowels of men. +But first the instruments must be perfected. First it is necessary to +invent better airplanes, to distinguish where the noise comes from +and not go daffy just because you hear an explosion under your ass. And +secondly it will be necessary to get adapted to the cold layers of the +stratosphere, to become a cold-blooded fish of the air. No reverence. No +piety. No longing. No regrets. No hysteria. Above all, as Philippe Datz +says -- "NO DISCOURAGEMENT!" + +These are sunny thoughts inspired by a Vermouth Cassis at the Place de la +Trinite. A Saturday afternoon and a "misfire" book in my hands. Everything +swimming in a divine mucopus. The drink leaves a bitter herbish taste in my +mouth, the lees of our great Western civilization, rotting now like the +toe-nails of the saints. Women are passing by -- regiments of them -- all +swinging their asses in front of me; the chimes are ringing and the buses +are climbing the sidewalk and bussing one another. The garcon wipes the +table with a dirty rag while the patronne tickles the cash-register +with fiendish glee. A look of vacuity on my face, blotto, vague in acuity, +biting the asses that brush by me. In the belfry opposite a hunchback +strikes with a golden mallet and the pigeons scream alarum. I open the book +-- the book which Nietzsche called "the best German book there is" -- and it +says: + +"MEN WILL BECOME MORE CLEVER AND MORE ACUTE; BUT NOT BETTER, HAPPIER, AND +STRONGER IN ACTION ---- OR, AT LEAST, ONLY AT EPOCHS. I FORESEE THE TIME WHEN +GOD WILL HAVE NO MORE JOY IN THEM, BUT WILL BREAK UP EVERYTHING FOR A +RENEWED CREATION. I AM CERTAIN THAT EVERYTHING IS PLANNED TO THIS END, AND +THAT THE TIME AND HOUR IN THE DISTANT FUTURE FOR THE OCCURRENCE OF THIS +RENOVATING EPOCH ARE ALREADY FIXED. BUT A LONG TIME WILL ELAPSE FIRST, AND +WE MAY STILL FOR THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS OF YEARS AMUSE OURSELVES ON THIS +DEAR OLD SURFACE." + +Excellent! At least a hundred years ago there was a man who had vision +enough to see that the world was pooped out. Our Western world! -- When +I see the figures of men and women moving listlessly behind their prison +walls, sheltered, secluded for a few brief hours, I am appalled by the +potentialities for drama that are still contained in these feeble bodies. +Behind the gray walls there are human sparks, and yet never a conflagration. +Are these men and women, I ask myself, or are these shadows, shadows of +puppets dangled by invisible strings? They move in freedom apparently, but +they have nowhere to go. In one realm only are they free and there they may +roam at will -- but they have not yet learned how to take wing. So far there +have been no dreams that have taken wing. Not one man has been born light +enough, gay enough, to leave the earth! The eagles who flapped their +mighty pinions for a while came crashing heavily to earth. They made us +dizzy with the flap and whir of their wings. Stay on the earth, you eagles +of the future! The heavens have been explored and they are empty. And what +lies under the earth is empty too, filled with bones and shadows. Stay on +the earth and swim another few hundred thousand years! + +And now it is three o'clock in the morning and we have a couple of trollops +here who are doing somersaults on the bare floor. Fillmore is walking around +naked with a goblet in his hand, and that paunch of his is drumtight, hard as +a fistula. All the Pernod and champagne and cognac and Anjou which he guzzled +from three in the afternoon on, is gurgling in his trap like a sewer. The +girls are putting their ears to his belly as if it were a music-box. Open his +mouth with a button-hook and drop a slug in the slot. When the sewer gurgles +I hear the bats flying out of the belfry and the dream slides into artifice. + +The girls have undressed and we are examining the floor to make sure that +they won't get any splinters in their ass. They are still wearing their +high-heeled shoes. But the ass! The ass is worn down, scraped, sandpapered, +smooth, hard, bright as a billiard ball or the skull of a leper. On the wall +is Mona's picture: she is facing northeast on a line with Cracow written in +green ink. To the left of her is the Dordogne, encircled with a red pencil. +Suddenly I see a dark, hairy crack in front of me set in a bright, polished +billiard ball; the legs are holding me like a pair of scissors. A glance at +that dark, unstitched wound and a deep fissure in my brain opens up: all the +images and memories that had been laboriously or absent-mindedly assorted, +labelled, documented, filed, sealed and stamped break forth pellmell like +ants pouring out of a crack in the sidewalk; the world ceases to revolve, +time stops, the very nexus of my dreams is broken and dissolved and my guts +spill out in a grand schizophrenic rush, an evacuation that leaves me face +to face with the Absolute. I see again the great sprawling mothers of +Picasso, their breasts covered with spiders, their legend hidden deep in the +labyrinth. And Molly Bloom lying on a dirty mattress for eternity. On the +toilet door red chalk cocks and the madonna uttering the diapason of woe. I +hear a wild, hysterical laugh, a room full of lockjaw, and the body that was +black glows like phosphorus. Wild, wild, utterly uncontrollable laughter, +and that crack laughing at me too, laughing through the mossy whiskers, a +laugh that creases the bright, polished surface of the billiard ball. Great +whore and mother of man with gin in her veins. Mother of all harlots, spider +rolling us in your logarithmic grave, insatiable one, fiend whose laughter +rives me! I look down into that sunken crater, world lost and without +traces, and I hear the bells chiming, two nuns at the Palace Stanislas and +the smell of rancid butter under their dresses, manifesto never printed +because it was raining, war fought to further the cause of plastic surgery, +the Prince of Wales flying around the world decorating the graves of unknown +heroes. Every bat flying out of the belfry a lost cause, every whoop-la a +groan over the radio from the private trenches of the damned. Out of that +dark, unstitched wound, that sink of abominations, that cradle of +black-thronged cities where the music of ideas is drowned in cold fat, out of +strangled Utopias is born a clown, a being divided between beauty and +ugliness, between light and chaos, a clown who when he looks down and +sidelong is Satan himself and when he looks upward sees a buttered angel, a +snail with wings. + +When I look down into that crack I see an equation sign, the world at +balance, a world reduced to zero and no trace of remainder. Not the zero on +which Van Norden turned his flashlight, not the empty crack of the +prematurely disillusioned man, but an Arabian zero rather, the sign from +which spring endless mathematical worlds, the fulcrum which balances the +stars and the light dreams and the machines lighter than air and the +light-weight limbs and the explosives that produced them. Into that crack I +would like to penetrate up to the eyes, make them waggle ferociously, dear, +crazy, metallurgical eyes. When the eyes waggle then will I hear again +Dostoievski's words, hear them rolling on page after page, with minutest +observation, with maddest introspection, with all the undertones of misery +now lightly, humorously touched, now swelling like an organ note until the +heart bursts and there is nothing left but a blinding, scorching light, the +radiant light that carries off the fecundating seeds of the stars. The story +of art whose roots lie in massacre. + +When I look down into this fucked-out cunt of a whore I feel the whole world +beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished +like a leper's skull. If there were a man who dared to say all that he +thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to +stand on. When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his +back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much +festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the +foundation is a huge quaking fear. If at intervals of centuries there does +appear a man with a desperate, hungry look in his eye, a man who would turn +the world upside down in order to create a new race, the love +that he brings to the world is turned to bile and he becomes a scourge. If +now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, +that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with +his back up, a man whose only defense left are his words and his words are +always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than +all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle +of personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his +heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I +think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to +smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the +pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the +world. + +In the four hundred years since the last devouring soul appeared, the last +man to know the meaning of ecstasy, there has been a constant and steady +decline of man in art, in thought, in action. The world is pooped out: there +isn't a dry fart left. Who that has a desperate, hungry eye can have the +slightest regard for these existent governments, laws, codes, principles, +ideals, ideas, totems, and taboos? If anyone knew what it meant to read the +riddle of that thing which to-day is called a "crack" or a "hole," if any +one had the least feeling of mystery about the phenomena which are labelled +"obscene," this world would crack asunder. It is the obscene horror, the +dry, fucked-out aspect of things which makes this crazy civilization look +like a crater. It is this great yawning gulf of nothingness which the +creative spirits and mothers of the race carry between their legs. When a +hungry, desperate spirit appears and makes the guinea pigs squeal it is +because he knows where to put the live wire of sex, because he knows that +beneath the hard carapace of indifference there is concealed the ugly gash, +the wound that never heals. And he puts the live wire right between the +legs; he hits below the belt, scorches the very gizzards. It is no use +putting on rubber gloves; all that can be coolly and intellectually handled +belongs to the carapace and a man who is intent on creation always dives +beneath, to the open wound, to the festering obscene horror. He hitches his +dynamo to the tenderest parts; if only blood and pus +gush forth, it is something. The dry, fucked-out crater is obscene. More +obscene than anything is inertia. More blasphemous than the bloodiest oath +is paralysis. If there is only a gaping wound left then it must gush forth +though it produce nothing but toads and bats and homunculi. + +Everything is packed into a second which is either consummated or not +consummated. The earth is not an arid plateau of health and comfort, but a +great sprawling female with velvet torso that swells and heaves with ocean +billows; she squirms beneath a diadem of sweat and anguish. Naked and sexed +she rolls among the clouds in the violet light of the stars. All of her, +from the generous breasts to her glearning thighs, blazes with furious +ardor. She moves amongst the seasons and the years with a grand whoop-la +that seizes the torso with paroxysmal fury, that shakes the cobwebs out of +the sky; she subsides on her pivotal orbits with volcanic tremors. She is +like a doe at times, a doe that has fallen into a snare and lies waiting +with beating heart for the cymbals to crash and the dogs to bark. Love and +hate, despair, pity, rage, disgust -- what are these amidst the fornications +of the planets? What is war, disease, cruelty, terror, when night presents +the ecstasy of myriad blazing suns? What is this chaff we chew in our sleep +if it is not the remembrance of fang-whorl and star cluster? + +She used to say to me, Mona, in her fits of exaltation, "you're a great human +being," and though she left me here to perish, though she put beneath my feet +a great howling pit of emptiness, the words that lie at the bottom of my soul +leap forth and they light the shadows below me. I am one who was lost in the +crowd, whom the fizzing lights made dizzy, a zero who saw everything about +him reduced to mockery. Passed me men and women ignited with sulphur, porters +in calcium livery opening the jaws of hell, fame walking on crutches, +dwindled by the skyscrapers, chewed to a frazzle by the spiked mouth of the +machines. I walked between the tall buildings towards the cool of the river +and I saw the lights shoot up between the ribs of the skeletons like rockets. +If I was truly a great human being, as she said, then what was the meaning of +this slavering idiocy about me? I was a man with body and soul, I had a heart +that was not protected by a steel vault. I had moments of ecstasy and I sang +with burning sparks. I sang of the Equator, her red-feathered legs and the +islands dropping out of sight. But nobody heard. A gun fired across the +Pacific falls into space because the earth is round and pigeons fly upside +down. I saw her looking at me across the table with eyes turned to grief; +sorrow spreading inward flattened its nose against her spine; the marrow +churned to pity had turned liquid. She was light as a corpse that floats in +the Dead Sea. Her fingers bled with anguish and the blood turned to drool. +With the wet dawn came the tolling of bells and along the fibres of my nerves +the bells played ceaselessly and their tongues pounded in my heart and +clanged with iron malice. Strange that the bells should toll so, but stranger +still the body bursting, this woman turned to night and her maggot words +gnawing through the mattress. I moved along under the Equator, heard the +hideous laughter of the green-jawed hyaena, saw the jackal with silken tail +and the dick-dick and the spotted leopard, all left behind in the Garden of +Eden. And then her sorrow widened, like the bow of a dreadnought and the +weight of her sinking flooded my ears. Slime-wash and sapphires slipping, +sluicing through the gay neurones, and the spectrum spliced and the gunwales +dipping. Soft as lion-pad I heard the gun-carriages turn, saw them vomit and +drool: the firmament sagged and all the stars turned black. Black ocean +bleeding and the brooding stars breeding chunks of fresh-swollen flesh while +overhead the birds wheeled and out of the hallucinated sky fell the balance +with mortar and pestle and the bandaged eyes of justice. All that is here +related moves with imaginary feet along the parallels of dead orbs; all that +is seen with the empty sockets bursts like flowering grass. Out of +nothingness arises the sign of infinity; beneath the ever-rising spirals +slowly sinks the gaping hole. The land and the water make numbers joined, a +poem written with flesh and stronger than steel or granite. Through endless +night the earth whirls towards a creation unknown ... + +To-day I awoke from a sound sleep with curses of joy on my lips, with +gibberish on my tongue, repeating to myself like a litany -- "Fay ce que +vouldras! ... fay ce que vouldras!" Do anything, but let it produce joy. +Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy. So much crowds into my head when I say +this to myself: images, gay ones, terrible ones, maddening ones, the wolf and +the goat, the spider, the crab, syphilis with her wings outstretched and the +door of the womb always on the latch, always open, ready like the tomb. Lust, +crime, holiness: the lives of my adored ones, the failures of my adored ones, +the words they left behind them, the words they left unfinished; the good +they dragged after them and the evil, the sorrow, the discord, the rancor, +the strife they created. But above all, the ecstasy! + +Things, certain things about my old idols bring the tears to my eyes: the +interruptions, the disorder, the violence, above all, the hatred they +aroused. When I think of their deformities, of the monstrous styles they +chose, of the flatulence and tediousness of their works, of all the chaos +and confusion they wallowed in, of the obstacles they heaped up about them, +I feel an exaltation. They were all mired in their own dung. All men who +over-elaborated. So true is it that I am almost tempted to say: + +"Show me a man who over-elaborates and I will show you a great man!" What is +called their "over-elaboration" is my meat: it is the sign of struggle, it is +struggle itself with all the fibres clinging to it, the very aura and +ambiance of the discordant spirit. And when you show me a man who expresses +himself perfectly I will not say that he is not great, but I will say that I +am unattracted ... I miss the cloying qualities. When I reflect that the task +which the artist implicitly sets himself is to overthrow existing values, to +make of the chaos about him an order which is his own, to sow strife and +ferment so that by the emotional release those who are dead may be restored +to life, then it is that I run with joy to the great and imperfect ones, +their confusion nourishes me, their stuttering is like divine music to my +ears. I see in the beautifully bloated pages that follow the interruptions +the erasure of petty intrusions, of the dirty foot-prints, as it were, of +cowards, liars, thieves, vandals, calumniators. I see in the swollen muscles +of their lyric throats the staggering effort that must be made to turn the +wheel over, to pick up the pace where one has left off. I see that behind the +daily annoyances and intrusions, behind the cheap, glittering malice of the +feeble and inert, there stands the symbol of life's frustrating power, and +that he who would create order, he who would sow strife and discord, because +he is imbued with will, such a man must go again and again to the stake and +the gibbet. I see that behind the nobility of his gestures there lurks the +spectre of the ridiculousness of it all -- that he is not only sublime, but +absurd. + +Once I thought that to be human was the highest aim a man could have, but I +see now that it was meant to destroy me. To-day I am proud to say that I am +inhuman, that I belong not to men and governments, that I have nothing +to do with creeds and principles. I have nothing to do with the creaking +machinery of humanity -- I belong to the earth! I say that lying on my pillow +and I can feel the horns sprouting from my temples. I can see about me all +those cracked forbears of mine dancing around the bed, consoling me, egging +me on, lashing me with their serpent tongues, grinning and leering at me with +their skulking skulls. I am inhuman! I say it with a mad, hallucinated +grin, and I will keep on saying it though it rains crocodiles. Behind my +words are all those grinning, leering, skulking skulls, some dead and +grinning a long time, some grinning as if they had lock-jaw, some grinning +with the grimace of a grin, the foretaste and aftermath of what is always +going on. Clearer man all I see my own grinning skull, see the skeleton +dancing in the wind, serpents issuing from the rotted tongue and the bloated +pages of ecstasy slimed with excrement. And I join my slime, my excrement, my +madness, my ecstasy to the great circuit which flows through the subterranean +vaults of the flesh. All this unbidden, unwanted, drunken vomit will flow on +endlessly through the minds of those ho come in the inexhaustible vessel that +contains the history of the race. Side by side with the human race there runs +another race of beings, the inhuman ones, the race of artists who, goaded by +unknown impulses, take the listless mass of humanity and by the fever and +ferment with which they imbue it turn this soggy dough into bread and the +bread into wine and the wine into song. Out of the dead compost and the inert +slag they breed a song that contaminates. I see this other race of +individuals ransacking the universe, turning everything upside down, their +feet always moving in blood and tears, their hands always empty, always +clutching and grasping for the beyond, for the god out of reach: slaying +everything within reach in order to quiet the monster that gnaws at their +vitals. I see that when they tear hair with the effort to comprehend, to +seize this, forever unattainable, I see that when they bellow like crazed +beasts and rip and gore, I see that this is right, that there is no other +path to pursue. A man who belongs to this race must stand up on the high +place with gibberish in his mouth and rip out his entrails. It is right and +just, because he must! And anything that falls short of this frightening +spectacle, anything less shuddering, less terrifying, less mad, less +intoxicated, less contaminating, is not art. The rest is counterfeit. The +rest is human. The rest belongs to life and lifelessness. + +When I think of Stavrogin for example, I think of some divine monster +standing on a high place and flinging to us his torn bowels. In The +Possessed the earth quakes: it is not the catastrophe that befalls the +imaginative individual, but a cataclysm in which a large portion of humanity +is buried, wiped out for ever. Stavrogin was Dostoievski and Dostoievski was +the sum of all those contradictions which either paralyze a man or lead him +to the heights. There was no world too low for him to enter, no place too +high for him to fear to ascend. He went the whole gamut, from the abyss to +the stars. It is a pity that we shall never again have the opportunity to +see a man placed at the very core of mystery and, by his flashes, +illuminating for us the depth and immensity of the darkness. + +To-day I am aware of my lineage. I have no need to consult my horoscope or +my genealogical chart. What is written in the stars, or in my blood, I know +nothing of. I know that I spring from the mythological founders of the race. +The man who raises the holy bottle to his lips, the criminal who kneels in +the market-place, the innocent one who discovers that all corpses +stink, the madman who dances with lightning in his hands, the friar who +lifts his skirts to pee over the world, the fanatic who ransacks libraries +in order to find the Word -- all these are fused in me, all these make my +confusion, my ecstasy. If I am inhuman it is because my world has slopped +over its human bounds, because to be human seems like a poor, sorry, +miserable affair, limited by the senses, restricted by moralities and +codes, defined by platitudes and isms. I am pouring the juice of the grape +down my gullet and I find wisdom in it, but my wisdom is not born of the +grape, my intoxication owes nothing to wine.... + +I want to make a detour of those lofty arid mountain ranges where one dies +of thirst and cold, that "extra-temporal" history, that absolute of time and +space where there exists neither man, beast, nor vegetation, where one goes +crazy with loneliness, with language that is mere words, where everything is +unhooked, ungeared, out of joint with the times. I want a world of men and +women, of trees that do not talk (because there is too much talk in the +world as it is!) of rivers that carry you to places, not rivers that are +legends, but rivers that put you in touch with other men and women, with +architecture, religion, plants, animals -- rivers that have boats on them and +in which men drown, drown not in myth and legend and books and dust of the +past, but in time and space and history. I want rivers that make oceans +such as Shakespeare and Dante, rivers which do not dry up in the void of the +past. Oceans, yes! Let us have more oceans, new oceans that blot out the +past, oceans that create new geological formations, new topographical vistas +and strange, terrifying continents, oceans that destroy and preserve at the +same time, oceans that we can sail on, take off to new discoveries, new +horizons. Let us have more oceans, more upheavals, more wars, more +holocausts. Let us have a world of men and women with dynamos between their +legs, a world of natural fury, of passion, action, drama, dreams, madness, a +world that produces ecstasy and not dry farts. I believe that to-day more +than ever a book should be sought after even if it has only one great +page in it: we must search for fragments, splinters, toe-nails, anything +that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and +soul. + +It may be that we are doomed, that there is no hope for us, any of us, +but if that is so then let us set up a last agonizing, blood-curdling howl, a +screech of defiance, a war-whoop! Away with lamentation! Away with elegies +and dirges! Away with biographies and histories, and libraries and museums! +Let the dead eat the dead. Let us living ones dance about the rim of the +crater, a last expiring dance. But a dance! + +"I love everything that flows," said the great blind Milton of our times. I +was thinking of him this morning when I awoke with a great bloody shout of +joy: I was thinking of his rivers and trees and all that world of night +which he is exploring. Yes, I said to myself, I too love everything that +flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences. I love +the amniotic fluid when it spills out of the bag. I love the kidney with its +painful gallstones, its gravel and what-not; I love the urine that pours out +scalding and the clap that runs endlessly; I love the words of hysterics and +the sentences that flow on like dysentery and mirror all the sick images of +the soul; I love the great rivers like the Amazon and the Orinoco, where +crazy men like Moravagine float on through dream and legend in an open boat +and drown in the blind mouths of the river. I love everything that flows, +even the menstrual flow that carries away the seed unfecund. I love scripts +that flow, be they hieratic, esoteric, perverse, polymorph, or unilateral. I +love everything that flows, everything that has time in it and becoming, +that brings us back to the beginning where there is never end: the violence +of the prophets, the obscenity that is ecstasy, the wisdom of the fanatic, +the priest with his rubber litany, the foul words of the whore, the spittle +that floats away in the gutter, the milk of the breast and the bitter honey +that pours from the womb, all that is fluid, melting, dissolute and +dissolvent, all the pus and dirt that in flowing is purified, that loses its +sense of origin, that makes the great circuit toward death and dissolution. +The great incestuous wish is to flow on, one with time, to merge the great +image of the beyond with the here and now. A fatuous, suicidal wish that is +constipated by words and paralyzed by thought. + + + * * * + + + It was close to dawn on Christmas Day when we came home from the Rue +d'Odessa with a couple of negresses from the telephone company. The fire was +out and we were all so tired that we climbed into bed with our clothes on. +The one I had, who had been like a bounding leopard all evening, fell sound +asleep as I was climbing over her. For a while I worked over her as one +works over a person who has been drowned or asphyxiated. Then I gave it up +and fell sound asleep myself. + + All during the holidays we had champagne morning, noon and night -- the +cheapest and the best champagne. With the turn of the year I was to leave +for Dijon where I had been offered a trivial post as exchange professor of +English, one of those Franco-American amity arrangements which is supposed +to promote understanding and good will between sister republics. Fillmore +was more elated than I by the prospect -- he had good reason to be. For me it +was just a transfer from one purgatory to another. There was no future +ahead of me; there wasn't even a salary attached to the job. One was +supposed to consider himself fortunate to enjoy the privilege of spreading +the gospel of Franco-American amity. It was a job for a rich man's son. + +The night before I left we had a good time. About dawn it began to snow: we +walked about from one quarter to another taking a last look at Paris. +Passing through the Rue St. Dominique we suddenly fell upon a little square +and there was the Eglise Ste. Clotilde. People were going to mass. Fillmore, +whose head was still a little cloudy, was bent on going to mass too. "For +the fun of it!" as he put it. I felt somewhat uneasy about it; in the first +place I had never attended a mass, and in the second +place I looked seedy and felt seedy. Fillmore, too, looked rather battered, +even more disreputable than myself; his big slouch hat was on assways and +his overcoat was still full of sawdust from the last joint we had been in. +However, we marched in. The worst they could do would be to throw us out. + +I was so astounded by the sight that greeted my eyes that I lost all +uneasiness. It took me a little while to get adjusted to the dim light. I +stumbled around behind Fillmore, holding his sleeve. A weird, unearthly +noise assailed my ears, a sort of hollow drone that rose up out of the cold +flagging. A huge, dismal tomb it was with mourners shuffling in and out. A +sort of ante-chamber to the world below. Temperature about 55 or 60 +Fahrenheit. No music except this undefinable dirge manufactured in the +sub-cellar -- like a million heads of cauliflower wailing in the dark. People +in shrouds were chewing away with that hopeless, dejected look of beggars +who hold out their hands in a trance and mumble an unintelligible appeal. + +That this sort of thing existed I knew, but then one also knows that there +are slaughterhouses and morgues and dissecting rooms. One instinctively +avoids such places. In the street I had often passed a priest with a little +prayer book in his hands laboriously memorizing his lines. Idiot, I +would say to myself, and let it go at that. In the street one meets with all +forms of dementia and the priest is by no means the most striking. Two +thousand years of it has deadened us to the idiocy of it. However, when you +are suddenly transported to the very midst of his realm, when you see the +little world in which the priest functions like an alarm clock, you are apt +to have entirely different sensations. + +For a moment all this slaver and twitching of the lips almost began to have +a meaning. Something was going on, some kind of dumb show which, not +rendering me wholly stupefied, held me spellbound. All over the world, +wherever there are these dim-lit tombs, you have this incredible +spectacle -- the same mean temperature, the same crepuscular glow, the same +buzz and drone. All over Christendom, at certain stipulated hours, people in +black are grovelling before the altar where the priest stands up +with a little book in one hand and a dinner bell or atomizer in the other +and mumbles to them in a language which, even if it were comprehensible, no +longer contains a shred of meaning. Blessing them, most likely. Blessing the +country, blessing the ruler, blessing the firearms and the battleships and +the ammunition and the hand grenades. Surrounding him on the altar are +little boys dressed like angels of the Lord who sing alto and soprano. +Innocent lambs. All in skirts, sexless, like the priest himself who is +usually flat-footed and nearsighted to boot. A fine epicene caterwauling. +Sex in a jock-strap, to the tune of J.-mol. + +I was taking it in as best I could in the dim light. Fascinating and +stupefying at the same time. All over the civilized world, I thought to +myself. All over the world. Marvelous. Rain or shine, hail, sleet, snow, +thunder, lightning, war, famine, pestilence -- makes not the slightest +difference. Always the same mean temperature, the same mumbo-jumbo, the same +high-laced shoes and the little angels of the Lord singing soprano and alto. +Near the exit a little slot-box -- to carry on the heavenly work. So that +God's blessing may rain down upon king and country and battleships and high +explosives and tanks and aeroplanes, so that the worker may have more +strength in his arms, strength to slaughter horses and cows and sheep, +strength to punch holes in iron girders, strength to sew buttons on other +people's pants, strength to sell carrots and sewing machines and automobiles, +strength to exterminate insects and clean stables and unload garbage cans and +scrub lavatories, strength to write headlines and chop tickets in the subway. +Strength ... strength. All that lip-chewing and horn-swoggling just to +furnish a little strength! + +We were moving about from one spot to another, surveying the scene with +that clearheadedness which comes after an all-night session. We must have +made ourselves pretty conspicuous shuffling about that way with our coat +collars turned up and never once crossing ourselves and never once moving +our lips except to whisper some callous remark. Perhaps everything would +have passed off without notice if Fillmore hadn't insisted on walking past +the altar in the midst of the ceremony. He was looking for the exit, and he +thought while he was at it, I suppose, that he would take a good squint at +the holy of holies, get a close-up on it, as it were. We had gotten safely by +and were marching toward a crack of light which must have been the way out +when a priest suddenly stepped out of the gloom and blocked our path. Wanted +to know where we were going and what we were doing. We told him politely +enough that we were looking for the exit. We said "exit" because at the +moment we were so flabbergasted that we couldn't think of the French for +exit. Without a word of response he took us firmly by the arm and, opening +the door, a side door it was, he gave us a push and out we tumbled into the +blinding light of day. It happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that when we +hit the sidewalk we were in a daze. We walked a few paces, blinking our eyes, +and then instinctively we both turned round; the priest was still standing on +the steps, pale as a ghost and scowling like the devil himself. He must have +been sore as hell. Later, thinking back on it, I couldn't blame him for it. +But at that moment, seeing him with his long skirts and the little skull cap +on his cranium, he looked so ridiculous that I burst out laughing. I looked +at Fillmore and he began to laugh too. For a full minute we stood there +laughing right in the poor bugger's face. He was so bewildered, I guess, that +for a moment he didn't know what to do; suddenly, however, he started down +the steps on the run, shaking his fist at us as if he were in earnest. When +he swung out of the enclosure he was on the gallop. By this time some +preservative instinct warned me to get a move on. I grabbed Fillmore by the +coat sleeve and started to run. He was saying, like an idiot: "No, no! I +won't run!" -- "Come on!" I yelled, "we'd better get out of here. That guy's +mad clean through." And off we ran, beating it as fast as our legs would +carry us. + +On the way to Dijon, still laughing about the affair, my thoughts reverted +to a ludicrous incident, of a somewhat similar nature, which occurred during +my brief sojourn in Florida. It was during the celebrated boom when, like +thousands of others, I was caught with my pants down. Trying to extricate +myself I got caught, along with a friend of mine, in the very neck of the +bottle. Jacksonville, where we were marooned for about six weeks, was +practically in a state of siege. Every bum on earth, and a lot of guys who +had never been bums before, seemed to have drifted into Jacksonville. The +Y.M.C.A., the Salvation Army, the fire houses and police stations, the +hotels, the lodging houses, everything was full up. Complet +absolutely, and signs everywhere to that effect. The residents of +Jacksonville had become so hardened that it seemed to me as if they were +walking around in coats of mail. It was the old business of food again. Food +and a place to flop. Food was coming up from below in trainloads -- oranges and +grapefruit and all sorts of juicy edibles. We used to pass by the freight +sheds looking for rotten fruit -- but even that was scarce. + +One night, in desperation, I dragged my friend Joe to a synagogue, during +the service. It was a reformed congregation and the rabbi impressed me +rather favorably. The music got me too -- that piercing lamentation of the +Jews. As soon as the service was over I marched to the rabbi's study and +requested an interview with him. He received me decently enough -- until I +made clear my mission. Then he grew absolutely frightened. I had only asked +him for a hand-out on behalf of my friend Joe and myself. You would have +thought, from the way he looked at me, that I had asked to rent the +synagogue as a bowling alley. To cap it all, he suddenly asked me +point-blank if I was a Jew or not. When I answered no, he seemed perfectly +outraged. Why, pray, had I come to a Jewish pastor for aid? I told him +naively that I had always had more faith in the Jews than in the Gentiles. I +said it modestly, as if it were one of my peculiar defects. It was the truth +too. But he wasn't a bit flattered. No, siree. He was horrified. To get rid +of me he wrote out a note to the Salvation Army people. "That's the place +for you to address yourself," he said, and brusquely turned away to tend his +flock. + +The Salvation Army, of course, had nothing to offer us. If we had had a +quarter apiece we might have rented a mattress on the floor. But we hadn't a +nickel between us. We went to the park and stretched ourselves out on a +bench. It was raining and so we covered ourselves with newspapers. Weren't +there more than a half hour, I imagine, when a cop came along and, without +a word of warning, gave us such a sound fanning that we were up and on +our feet in a jiffy, and dancing a bit too, though we weren't in any mood +for dancing. I felt so goddamned sore and miserable, so dejected, so lousy, +after being whacked over the ass by that half-witted bastard, that I could +have blown up the City Hall. + +The next morning, in order to get even with these hospitable sons of +bitches, we presented ourselves bright and early at the door of a Catholic +priest. This time I let Joe do the talking. He was Irish and he had a bit of +brogue. He had very soft, blue eyes, too, and he could make them water a bit +when he wanted to. A sister in black opened the door for us; she didn't ask +us inside, however. We were to wait in the vestibule until she went and +called for the good father. In a few minutes he came, the good father, +puffing like a locomotive. And what was it we wanted disturbing his likes at +that hour of the morning? Something to eat and a place to flop, we answered +innocently. And where did we hail from, the good father wanted to know at +once. From New York. From New York, eh? Then ye'd better be gettin' back +there as fast as ye kin, me lads, and without another word the big, bloated +turnip-faced bastard shoved the door in our face. + +About an hour later, drifting around helplessly like a couple of drunken +schooners, we happened to pass by the rectory again. So help me God if the +big, lecherous-looking turnip wasn't backing out of the alley in a +limousine! As he swung past us he blew a cloud of smoke into our eyes. As +though to say -- "That for you!" A beautiful limousine it was, with a +couple of spare tires in the back, and the good father sitting at the wheel +with a big cigar in his mouth. Must have been a Corona-Corona, so fat and +luscious it was. Sitting pretty he was, and no two ways about it. I couldn't +see whether he had skirts on or not. I could only see the gravy trickling +from his lips -- and the big cigar with that fifty cent aroma. + +All the way to Dijon I got to reminiscing about the past. I thought of all +the things I might have said and done, which I hadn't said or done, in the +bitter, humiliating moments when just to ask for a crust of bread is to +make yourself less than a worm. Stone sober as I was, I was still smarting +from those old insults and injuries. I could still feel that whack over the +ass which the cop gave me in the park -- though that was a mere bagatelle, a +little dancing lesson, you might say. All over the States I wandered, and +into Canada and Mexico. The same story everywhere. If you want bread you've +got to get in harness, get in lock-step. Over all the earth a gray desert, a +carpet of steel and cement. Production! More nuts and bolts, more barbed +wire, more dog-biscuits, more lawn-mowers, more ball-bearings, more high +explosives, more tanks, more poison gas, more soap, more tooth-paste, more +newspapers, more education, more churches, more libraries, more museums. +Forward! Time presses. The embryo is pushing through the neck of the +womb, and there's not even a gob of spit to ease the passage, A dry, +strangulating birth. Not a wail, not a chirp. Salut au monde! Salute +of twenty-one guns bombinating from the rectum. "I wear my hat as I please, +indoors or out," said Walt. That was a time when you could still get a hat to +fit your head. But time passes. To get a hat that fits now you have to walk +to the electric chair. They give you a skull cap. A tight fit, what? But no +matter! It fits. + +You have to be in a strange country like France, walking the meridian that +separates the hemispheres of life and death, to know what incalculable +vistas yawn ahead. The body electric! The democratic soul! Flood-tide! +Holy Mother of God, what does this crap mean? The earth is parched and +cracked. Men and women come together like broods of vultures over a stinking +carcass, to mate and fly apart again. Vultures who drop from the clouds like +heavy stones. Talons and beak, that's what we are! A huge intestinal +apparatus with a nose for dead meat. Forward! Forward without pity, +without compassion, without love, without forgiveness. Ask no quarter and +give none! More battleships, more poison gas, more high explosives! More +gonococci! More streptococci! More bombing machines! More and more of +it -- until the whole fucking works is blown to smithereens, and the earth with +it! + +Stepping off the train I knew immediately that I had made a fatal mistake. +The Lycee was a little distance from the station; I walked down the main +street in the early dusk of winter, feeling my way towards my destination. +A light snow was falling, the trees sparkled with frost. Passed a couple of +huge, empty cafes that looked like dismal waiting rooms. Silent, empty +gloom -- that's how it impressed me. A hopeless, jerk-water town where mustard +is turned out in carload lots, in vats and tuns and barrels and pots and +cute-looking little jars. + +The first glance at the Lycee sent a shudder through me. I felt so undecided +that at the entrance I stopped to debate whether I would go in or not. But +as I hadn't the price of a return ticket there wasn't much use debating the +question. I thought for a moment of sending a wire to Fillmore, but then I +was stomped to know what excuse to make. The only thing to do was to walk in +with my eyes shut. + +It happened that M. le Proviseur was out -- his day off, so they said. A +little hunchback came forward and offered to escort me to the office of M. +le Censeur, second in charge. I walked a little behind him, fascinated by +the grotesque way in which he hobbled along. He was a little monster, such +as can be seen on the porch of any half-assed cathedral in Europe. + +The office of M. le Censeur was large and bare. I sat down in a stiff chair +to wait while the hunchback darted off to search for him. I almost felt at +home. The atmosphere of the place reminded me vividly of certain charity +bureaus back in the States where I used to sit by the hour waiting for some +mealy-mouthed bastard to come and cross-examine me. + +Suddenly the door opened and, with a mincing step, M. le Censeur came +prancing in. It was all I could do to suppress a titter. He had on just such +a frock coat as Boris used to wear, and over his forehead there hung a bang, +a sort of spitcurl such as Smerdiakov might have worn. Grave and brittle, +with a lynx-like eye, he wasted no words of cheer on me. At once he brought +forth the sheets on which were written the names of the students, the hours, +the classes, etc., all in a meticulous hand. He told me how much coal and +wood I was allowed and after that he promptly informed me that I was at +liberty to do as I pleased in my spare time. This last was the first good +thing I had heard him say. It sounded so reassuring that I quickly said a +prayer for France -- for the army and navy, the educational system, the +bistrots, the whole goddamned works. + +This fol-de-rol completed, he rang a little bell, whereupon the hunchback +promptly appeared to escort me to the office of M. l'Econome. Here +the atmosphere was somewhat different. More like a freight-station, +with bills of lading and rubber stamps everywhere, and pasty-faced clerks +scribbling away with broken pens in huge, cumbersome ledgers. My dole of +coal and wood portioned out, off we marched, the hunchback and I, with a +wheelbarrow, towards the dormitory. I was to have a room on the top floor, +in the same wing as the pions. The situation was taking on a humorous +aspect. I didn't know what the hell to expect next. Perhaps a spittoon. The +whole thing smacked very much of preparation for a campaign; the only things +missing were a knapsack and rifle -- and a brass slug. + +The room assigned to me was rather large, with a small stove to which was +attached a crooked pipe that made an elbow just over the iron cot. A big +chest for the coal and wood stood near the door. The windows gave out on a +row of forlorn little houses all made of stone in which lived the grocer, the +baker, the shoemaker, the butcher, etc. -- all imbecilic-looking clodhoppers. +I glanced over the rooftops towards the bare hills where a train was +clattering. The whistle of the locomotive screamed mournfully and +hysterically. + +After the hunchback had made the fire for me I inquired about the grub. It +was not quite time for dinner. I flopped on the bed, with my overcoat on, +and pulled the covers over me. Beside me was the eternal rickety night table +in which the piss pot is hidden away. I stood the alarm on the table and +watched the minutes ticking off. Into the well of the room a bluish light +filtered in from the street. I listened to the trucks rattling by as I gazed +vacantly at the stove pipe, at the elbow where it was held together with +bits of wire. The coal chest intrigued me. Never in my life had I occupied a +room with a coal chest. And never in my life had I built a fire or taught +children. Nor, for that matter, never in my life had I worked without pay. +I felt free and chained at the same time -- like one feels just before +election, when all the crooks have been nominated and you are beseeched to +vote for the right man. I felt like a hired man, like a jack-of-all-trades, +like a hunter, like a rover, like a galley-slave, like a pedagogue, like a +worm and a louse. I was free, but my limbs were shackled. A democratic soul +with a free meal ticket, but no power of locomotion, no voice. I felt like a +jelly-fish nailed to a plank. Above all, I felt hungry. The hands were +moving slowly. Still ten more minutes to kill before the fire alarm would go +off. The shadows in the room deepened. It grew frightfully silent, a tense +stillness that tautened my nerves. Little dabs of snow clung to the +window-panes. Far away a locomotive gave out a shrill scream. Then a dead +silence again. The stove had commenced to glow, but there was no heat +coming from it. I began to fear that I might doze off and miss the dinner. +That would mean lying awake on an empty belly all night. I got +panic-stricken. + +Just a moment before the gong went off I jumped out of bed and, locking the +door behind me, I bolted downstairs to the courtyard. There I got lost. One +quadrangle after another, one staircase after another. I wandered in and out +of the buildings searching frantically for the refectory. Passed a long +line of youngsters marching in a column to God knows where; they moved along +like a chain-gang, with a slave-driver at the head of the column. Finally I +saw an energetic-looking individual, with a derby, heading towards me. I +stopped him to ask the way to the refectory. Happened I stopped the right +man. It was M. le Proviseur, and he seemed delighted to have stumbled on +me. Wanted to know right away if I were comfortably settled, if there was +anything more he could do for me. I told him everything was O. K. Only it +was a bit chilly, I ventured to add. He assured me that it was rather +unusual, this weather. Now and then the fogs came on and a bit of snow, and +then it became unpleasant for a while, and so on and so forth. All the while +he had me by the arm, guiding me towards the refectory. He seemed like a +very decent chap. A regular guy, I thought to myself. I even went so far as +to imagine that I might get chummy with him later on, that he'd invite me to +his room on a bitter cold night and make a hot grog for me. I imagined all +sorts of friendly things in the few moments it required to reach the door of +the refectory. Here, my mind racing on at a mile a minute, he suddenly shook +hands with me and, doffing his hat, bade me good night. I was so bewildered +that I tipped my hat also. It was the regular thing to do, I soon found out. +Whenever you pass a prof, or even M. l'Econome, you doff the hat. Might pass +the same guy a dozen times a day. Makes no difference. You've got to give +the salute, even though your hat is worn out. It's the polite thing to do. + +Anyway, I had found the refectory. Like an East Side clinic it was, with +tiled walls, bare light, and marble-topped tables. And of course a big stove +with an elbow-pipe. The dinner wasn't served yet. A cripple was running in +and out with dishes and knives and forks and bottles of wine. In a corner +several young men conversing animatediy. I went up to them and introduced +myself. They gave me a most cordial reception. Almost too cordial, in fact. +I couldn't quite make it out. In a jiffy the room began to fill up; I was +presented from one to the other quickly. Then they formed a circle about me +and, filling the glasses, they began to sing.... + +"L'autre soir l'idee m'est venue Cre nom de Zeus d'enculer un pendu; +Le vent se leve sur la potence, Voila. mon pendu qui se balance, J'ai du +l'enculer en sautant, Cre nom de Zeus, on est jamais content. + +"Baiser dans un con trop petit, Cre nom de Zeus, on s'ecorche le vit; +Baiser dans un con trop large, On ne sail pas oil l'on decharge; +Se branler etant bien emmerdant, Cre nom de Zeus, on est jamais content." + +With this, Quasimodo announced the dinner. They were a cheerful group, les +surveillants. There was Kroa who belched like a pig and always let out a +loud fart when he sat down to table. He could fart thirteen times in +succession, they informed me. He held the record. Then there was Monsieur le +Prince, an athlete who was fond of wearing a tuxedo in the evening when he +went to town; he had a beautiful complexion, just like a girl, and never +touched the wine nor read anything that might tax his brain. Next him sat +Petit Paul, from the Midi, who thought of nothing but cunt all the time; he +used to say every day -- "a partir de jeudi je ne parlerai plus de +femmes." He and Monsieur le Prince were inseparable. Then there was +Passeleau, a veritable young scallywag who was studying medicine and who +borrowed right and left; he talked incessantly of Ronsard, Villon and +Rabelais. Opposite me sat Mollesse, agitator and organizer of the +pions, who insisted on weighing the meat to see if it wasn't short a +few grams. He occupied a little room in the infirmary. His supreme enemy was +Monsieur l'Econome, which was nothing particularly to his credit since +everybody hated this individual. For companion Mollesse had one called Le +Penible, a dour-looking chap with a hawk-like profile who practised the +strictest economy and acted as money-lender. He was like an engraving by +Albrecht Durer -- a composite of all the dour, sour, morose, bitter, +unfortunate, unlucky and introspective devils who compose the pantheon of +Germany's medieval knights. A Jew, no doubt. At any rate, he was killed in an +automobile accident shortly after my arrival, a circumstance which left me +twenty-three francs to the good. With the exception of Renaud who sat beside +me, the others have faded out of my memory; they belonged to that category of +colorless individuals who make up the world of engineers, architects, +dentists, pharmacists, teachers, etc. There was nothing to distinguish them +from the clods whom they would later wipe their boots on. They were zeros in +every sense of the word, ciphers who form the nucleus of a respectable and +lamentable citizenry. They ate with their heads down and were always the +first to clamor for a second helping. They slept soundly and never +complained; they were neither gay nor miserable. The indifferent ones whom +Dante consigned to the vestibule of Hell. The upper-crusters. + +It was the custom after dinner to go immediately to town, unless one was on +duty in the dormitories. In the center of town were the cafes -- huge, dreary +halls where the somnolent merchants of Dijon gathered to play cards and +listen to music. It was warm in the cafes, that is the best I can say for +them. The seats were fairly comfortable, too. And there were always a few +whores about who, for a glass of beer or a cup of coffee, would sit and chew +the fat with you. The music, on the other hand, was atrocious. Such music! On +a winter's night, in a dirty hole like Dijon, nothing can be more harassing, +more nerve-racking, than the sound of a French orchestra. Particularly one of +those lugubrious female orchestras with everything coming in squeaks and +farts, with a dry, algebraic rhythm and the hygienic consistency of +tooth-paste. A wheezing and scraping performed at so many francs the hour -- +and the devil take the hindmost! The melancholy of it! As if old Euclid had +stood up on his hind legs and swallowed Prussic acid. The whole realm of Idea +so thoroughly exploited by the reason that there is nothing left of which to +make music except the empty slats of the accordion, through which the wind +whistles and tears the ether to tatters. However, to speak of music in +connection with this outpost is like dreaming of champagne when you are in +the death-cell. Music was the least of my worries. I didn't even think of +cunt, so dismal, so chill, so barren, so gray was it all. On the way home the +first night I noticed on the door of a cafe an inscription from the +Gargantua. Inside the cafe it was like a morgue. However, +forward! + +I had plenty of time on my hands and not a sou to spend. Two or three hours +of conversational lessons a day, and that was all. And what use was it, +teaching these poor bastards English? I felt sorry as hell for them. All +morning plugging away on John Gilpin's Ride, and in the afternoon +coming to me to practise a dead language. I thought of the good time I had +wasted reading Vergil or wading through such incomprehensible nonsense as +Hermann und Dorotea. The insanity of it! Learning, the empty +bread-basket! I thought of Carl who can recite Faust backwards, who +never writes a book without praising the shit out of his immortal, +incorruptible Goethe. And yet he hadn't sense enough to take on a rich cunt +and get himself a change of underwear. There's something obscene in this +love of the past which ends in bread-lines and dug-outs. Something obscene +about this spiritual racket which permits an idiot to sprinkle holy water +over Big Berthas and dreadnoughts and high explosives. Every +man with a bellyful of the classics is an enemy to the human race. + +Here was I, supposedly to spread the gospel of Franco-American amity -- the +emissary of a corpse who, after he had plundered right and left, after he +had caused untold suffering and misery, dreamed of establishing universal +peace. Pfui! What did they expect me to talk about, I wonder? About +Leaves of Grass, about the tariff walls, about the Declaration of +Independence, about the latest gang war? What? Just what, I'd like to know. +Well, I'll tell you -- I never mentioned these things. I started right off the +bat with a lesson in the physiology of love. How the elephants make +love -- that was it! It caught like wildfire. After the first day there were +no more empty benches. After that first lesson in English they were standing +at the door waiting for me. We got along swell together. They asked all +sorts of questions, as though they had never learned a damned thing. I let +them fire away. I taught them to ask still more ticklish questions. Ask +anything! -- that was my motto. I'm here as a plenipotentiary from the +realm of free spirits. I'm here to create a fever and a ferment. "In some +way," says an eminent astronomer, "the material universe appears to be +passing away like a tale that is told, dissolving into nothingness like a +vision." That seems to be the general feeling underlying the empty +bread-basket of learning. Myself, I don't believe it. I don't believe a +fucking thing these bastards try to shove down our throats. + +Between sessions, if I had no book to read, I would go upstairs to the +dormitory and chat with the pions. They were delightfully ignorant of +all that was going on -- especially in the world of art. Almost as ignorant +as the students themselves. It was as if I had gotten into a private little +madhouse with no exit signs. Sometimes I snooped around under the arcades, +watching the kids marching along with huge hunks of bread stuck in their +dirty mugs. I was always hungry myself, since it was impossible for me to +go to breakfast which was handed out at some ungodly hour of the morning, +just when the bed was getting toasty. Huge bowls of blue coffee with chunks +of white bread and no butter to go with it. For lunch, beans or lentils with +bits of meat thrown in to make it look appetizing. Food fit for a chain-gang, +for rock-breakers. Even the wine was lousy. Things were either diluted or +bloated. There were calories, but no cuisine. M. l'Econome was responsible +for it all. So they said. I don't believe that, either. He was paid to keep +our heads just above the water line. He didn't ask if we were suffering from +piles or carbuncles; he didn't inquire if we had delicate palates or the +intestines of wolves. Why should he? He was hired at so many grams the plate +to produce so many kilowatts of energy. Everything in terms of horse power. +It was all carefully reckoned in the fat ledgers which the pasty-faced clerks +scribbled in morning, noon and night. Debit and credit, with a red line down +the middle of the page. + +Roaming around the quadrangle with an empty belly most of the time I got to +feel slightly mad. Like Charles the Silly, poor devil -- only I had no Odette +Champsdivers with whom to play stink-finger. Half the time I had to grub +cigarettes from the students, and during the lessons sometimes I munched a +bit of dry bread with them. As the fire was always going out on me I soon +used up my allotment of wood. It was the devil's own time coaxing a little +wood out of the ledger clerks. Finally I got so riled up about it that I +would go out in the street and hunt for firewood, like an Arab. Astonishing +how little firewood you could pick up in the streets of Dijon. However, +these little foraging expeditions brought me into strange precincts: Got to +know the little street named after a M. Philibert Papillon -- a dead musician, +I believe -- where there was a cluster of whorehouses. It was always more +cheerful hereabouts; there was the smell of cooking, and wash hanging out to +dry. Once in a while I caught a glimpse of the poor half-wits who lounged +about inside. They were better off than the poor devils in the center of +town whom I used to bump into whenever I walked through a department store. +I did that frequently in order to get warm. They were doing it for the same +reason, I suppose. Looking for someone to buy them a coffee. They looked a +little crazy, with the cold and the loneliness. The whole town looked a bit +crazy when the blue of evening settled over it. You could walk up and down +the main drive any Thursday in the week till doomsday and never meet an +expansive soul. Sixty or seventy thousand people -- perhaps more -- wrapped in +woolen underwear and nowhere to go and nothing to do. Turning out mustard by +the carload. Female orchestras grinding out The Merry Widow. Silver +service in the big hotels. The ducal palace rotting away, stone by stone, +limb by limb. The trees screeching with frost. A ceaseless clatter of wooden +shoes. The University celebrating the death of Goethe, or the birth, I don't +remember which. (Usually it's the deaths that are celebrated.) Idiotic +affair, anyway. Everybody yawning and stretching. + +Coming through the high driveway into the quadrangle a sense of abysmal +futility always came over me. Outside bleak and empty; inside, bleak and +empty. A scummy sterility hanging over the town, a fog of book-learning. +Slag and cinders of the past. Around the interior courts were ranged the +class rooms, little shacks such as you might see in the North woods, where +the pedagogues gave free rein to their vices. On the black-board the futile +abracadabra which the future citizens of the republic would have to spend +their lives forgetting. Once in a while the parents were received in the big +reception room just off the driveway, where there were busts of the heroes +of antiquity, such as Moliere, Racine, Corneille, Voltaire, etc., all the +scarecrows whom the cabinet ministers mention with moist lips whenever an +immortal is added to the waxworks. (No bust of Villon, no bust of Rabelais, +no bust of Rimbaud.) Anyway, they met here in solemn conclave, the parents +and the stuffed shirts whom the State hires to bend the minds of the young. +Always this bending process, this landscape gardening to make the mind more +attractive. And the youngsters came too, occasionally -- the little sunflowers +who would soon be transplanted from the nursery in order to decorate the +municipal grassplots. Some of them were just rubber plants easily dusted +with a torn chemise. All of them jerking away for dear life in the +dormitories as soon as night came on. The dormitories! where the red lights +glowed, where the bell rang like a fire-alarm, where the treads were +hollowed out in the scramble to reach the educational cells. + +Then there were the profs! During the first few days I got so far as to shake +hands with a few of them, and of course there was always the salute with the +hat when we passed under the arcades. But as for a heart-to-heart talk, as +for walking to the corner and having a drink together, nothing doing. It was +simply unimaginable. Most of them looked as though they had had the shit +scared out of them. Anyway, I belonged to another hierarchy. They wouldn't +even share a louse with the likes of me. They made me so damned irritated, +just to look at them, that I used to curse them under my breath when I saw +them coming. I used to stand there, leaning against a pillar, with a +cigarette in the corner of my mouth and my hat down over my eyes, and when +they got within hailing distance I would let squirt a good gob and up with +the hat I didn't even bother to open my trap and bid them the time of the +day. Under my breath I simply said: "Fuck you, Jack!" and let it go at that. + +After a week it seemed as if I had been here all my life. It was like a +bloody, fucking nightmare that you can't throw off. Used to fall into a coma +thinking about it. Just a few days ago I had arrived. Nightfall. People +scurrying home like rats under the foggy lights. The trees glittering with +diamond-pointed malice. I thought it all out, a thousand times or more. +From the station to the Lycee it was like a promenade through the Danzig +Corridor, all deckle-edged, crannied, nerve-ridden. A lane of dead bones, of +crooked, cringing figures buried in shrouds. Spines made of sardine bones. +The Lycee itself seemed to rise up out of a lake of thin snow, an inverted +mountain that pointed down toward the center of the earth where God or the +Devil works always in a strait-jacket grinding grist for that paradise which +is always a wet dream. If the sun ever shone I don't remember it. I remember +nothing but the cold greasy fogs that blew in from the frozen marshes over +yonder where the railroad tracks burrowed into the lurid hills. Down near +the station was a canal, or perhaps it was a river, hidden away under a +yellow sky, with little shacks pasted slap-up against the rising ledge of +the banks. There was a barracks too somewhere, it struck me, because every +now and then I met little yellow men from Cochin-China -- squirmy, opium-faced +runts peeping out of their baggy uniforms like dyed skeletons packed in +excelsior. The whole god-damned medievalism of the place was infernally +ticklish and restive, rocking back and forth with low moans, jumping out at +you from the eaves, hanging like broken-necked criminals from the gargoyles. +I kept looking back all the time, kept walking like a crab that you prong +with a dirty fork. All those fat little monsters, those slab-like effigies +pasted on the facade of the Eglise St. Michel, they were following me down +the crooked lanes and around corners. The whole facade of St. Michel seemed +to open up like an album at night, leaving you face to face with the horrors +of the printed page. When the lights went out and the characters faded away +flat, dead as words, then it was quite magnificent, the facade; in every +crevice of the old gnarled front there was the hollow chant of the nightwind +and over the lacy rubble of cold stiff vestments there was a cloudy +absinthe-like drool of fog and frost. + +Here, where the church stood, everything seemed turned hind side front. The +church itself must have been twisted off its base by centuries of progress +in the rain and snow. It lay in the Place Edgar-Quinet, squat against the +wind, like a dead mule. Through the Rue de la Monnaie the wind rushed like +white hair streaming wild: it whirled around the white hitching posts which +obstructed the free passage of omnibuses and twenty-mule teams. Swinging +through this exit in the early morning hours I sometimes stumbled upon +Monsieur Renaud who, wrapped in his cowl like a gluttonous monk, made +overtures to me in the language of the 16th century. Falling in step with +Monsieur Renaud, the moon busting through the greasy sky like a punctured +balloon, I fell immediately into the realm of the transcendental. M. Renaud +had a precise speech, dry as apricots, with a heavy Brandenburger base. Used +to come at me full tilt from Goethe or Fichte, with deep base notes that +rumbled in the windy corners of the Place like claps of last year's +thunder. Men of Yucatan, men of Zanzibar, men of Tierra del Fuego, save me +from this glaucous hog-rind! The North piles up about me, the glacial fjords, +the blue-tipped spines, the crazy lights, the obscene Christian chant that +spread like an avalanche from Aetna to the Aegean. Everything frozen tight as +scum, the mind locked and rimed with frost, and through the melancholy bales +of chitterwit the choking gargle of louse-eaten saints. White I am and +wrapped in wool, swaddled, fettered, ham-strung, but in this I have no part. +White to the bone, but with a cold alkali base, with saffron-tipped fingers. +White, aye, but no brother of learning, no Catholic heart. White and +ruthless, as the men before me who sailed out of the Elbe. I look to the sea, +to the sky, to what is unintelligible and distantly near. + +The snow under foot scurries before the wind, blows, tickles, stings, lisps +away, whirls aloft, showers, splinters, sprays down. No sun, no roar of +surf, no breaker's surge. The cold north wind pointed with barbed shafts, +icy, malevolent, greedy, blighting, paralyzing. The streets turn away on +their crooked elbows; they break from the hurried sight, the stem glance. +They hobble away down the drifting lattice-work, wheeling the church hind +side front, mowing down the statues, flattening the monuments, uprooting +the trees, stiffening the grass, sucking the fragrance out of the earth. +Leaves dull as cement; leaves no dew can bring to glisten again. No moon will +ever silver their listless plight. The seasons are come to a stagnant stop, +the trees blench and wither, the wagons roll in the mica ruts with slithering +harp-like thuds. In the hollow of the white-tipped hills, lurid and boneless +Dijon slumbers. No man alive and walking through the night except the +restless spirits moving southward towards the sapphire grids. Yet I am up and +about, a walking ghost, a white man terrorized by the cold sanity of this +slaughter house geometry. Who am I? What am I doing here? I fall between the +cold walls of human malevolence, a white figure fluttering, sinking down +through the cold lake, a mountain of skulls above me. I settle down to the +cold latitudes, the chalk steps washed with indigo. The earth in its dark +corridors knows my step, feels a foot abroad, a wing stirring, a gasp and a +shudder. I hear the learning chaffed and chuzzled, the figures mounting +upward, bat-slime dripping aloft and clanging with pasteboard golden wings; I +hear the trains collide, the chains rattle, the locomotive chugging, +snorting, sniffing, steaming and pissing. All things come to me through the +clear fog with the odor of repetition, with yellow hangovers and gadzooks and +whettikins. In the dead center, far below Dijon, far below the hyperborean +regions, stands God Ajax, his shoulders strapped to the mill wheel, the +olives crunching, the green marsh water alive with croaking frogs. + +The fog and snow, the cold latitude, the heavy learning, the blue coffee, +the unbuttered bread, the soup and lentils, the heavy pork-packer beans, the +stale cheese, the soggy chow, the lousy wine has put the whole penitentiary +into a state of constipation. And just when everyone has become shit-tight +the toilet pipes freeze. The shit piles up like ant-hills; one has to move +down from the little pedestals and leave it on the floor. It lies there +stiff and frozen, waiting for the thaw. On Thursdays the hunchback comes +with his little wheelbarrow, shovels the cold, stiff turds with a broom and +pan, and trundles off dragging his withered leg. The corridors are littered +with toilet paper; it sticks to your feet like fly-paper. When the weather +moderates the odor gets ripe; you can smell it in Winchester forty miles +away. Standing over that ripe dung in the morning, with a toothbrush, the +stench is so powerful that it makes your head spin. We stand around in red +flannel shirts, waiting to spit down the hole; it is like an aria from one +of Verdi's operas -- an anvil chorus with pulleys and syringes. In the night, +when I am taken short, I rush down to the private toilet of M. le Censeur, +just off the driveway. My stool is always full of blood. His toilet doesn't +flush either but at least there is the pleasure of sitting down. I leave my +little bundle for him as a token of esteem. + +Towards the end of the meal each evening the veilleur de nuit drops in +for his bit of cheer. This is the only human being in the whole institution +with whom I feel a kinship. He is a nobody. He carries a lantern and a bunch +of keys. He makes the rounds through the night, stiff as an automaton. About +the time the stale cheese is being passed around, in he pops for his glass of +wine. He stands there, with paw outstretched, his hair stiff and wiry, like a +mastiff's, his cheeks ruddy, his moustache gleaming with snow. He mumbles a +word or two and Quasimodo brings him the bottle. Then, with feet solidly +planted, he throws back his head and down it goes, slowly in one long +draught. To me it's like he's pouring rubies down his gullet. Something about +this gesture which seizes me by the hair. It's almost as if he were drinking +down the dregs of human sympathy, as if all the love and compassion in the +world could be tossed off like that, in one gulp -- as if that were all that +could be squeezed together day after day. A little less than a rabbit they +have made him. In the scheme of things he's not worth the brine to pickle a +herring. He's just a piece of live manure. And he knows it. When he looks +around after his drink and smiles at us, the world seems to be falling to +pieces. It's a smile thrown across an abyss. The whole stinking civilized +world lies like a quagmire at the bottom of the pit, and over it, like a +mirage, hovers this wavering smile. + +It was the same smile which greeted me at night when I returned from my +rambles. I remember one such night when, standing at the door waiting for the +old fellow to finish his rounds, I had such a sense of well-being that I +could have waited thus forever. I had to wait perhaps half an hour before he +opened the door. I looked about me calmly and leisurely, drank everything in, +the dead tree in front of the school with its twisted rope branches, the +houses across the street which had changed color during the night, which +curved now more noticeably, the sound of a train rolling through the Siberian +wastes, the railings painted by Utrillo, the sky, the deep wagon-ruts. +Suddenly, out of nowhere, two lovers appeared; every few yards they stopped +and embraced, and when I could no longer follow them with my eyes I followed +the sound of their steps, heard the abrupt stop, and then the slow, +meandering gait. I could feel the sag and slump of their bodies when they +leaned against a rail, heard their shoes creak as the muscles tightened for +the embrace. Through the town they wandered, through the crooked streets, +towards the glassy canal where the water lay black as coal. There was +something phenomenal about it. In all Dijon not two like them. + +Meanwhile the old fellow was making the rounds; I could hear the jingle of +his keys; the crunching of his boots, the steady, automatic tread. Finally I +heard him coming through the driveway to open the big door, a monstrous, +arched portal without a moat in front of it. I heard him fumbling at +the lock, his hands stiff, his mind numbed. As the door swung open I +saw over his head a brilliant constellation crowning the chapel. Every door +was locked, every cell bolted. The books were closed. The night hung close, +dagger-pointed, drunk as a maniac. There it was, the infinitude of emptiness. +Over the chapel, like a bishop's mitre, hung the constellation, every night, +during the winter months, it hung there low over the chapel. Low and bright, +a handful of dagger points, a dazzle of pure emptiness. The old fellow +followed me to the turn of the drive. The door closed silently. As I bade him +good night I caught that desperate, hopeless smile again, like a meteoric +flash over the rim of a lost world. And again I saw him standing in the +refectory, his head thrown back and the rubies pouring down his gullet. The +whole Mediterranean seemed to be buried inside him -- the orange groves, the +cypress trees, the winged statues, the wooden temples, the blue sea, the +stiff masks, the mystic numbers, the mythological birds, the sapphire skies, +the eaglets, the sunny coves, the blind bards, the bearded heroes. Gone all +that. Sunk beneath the avalanche from the North. Buried, dead forever. A +memory. A wild hope. + +For just a moment I linger at the carriageway. The shroud, the pall, the +unspeakable, clutching emptiness of it all. Then I walk quickly along the +gravel path near the wall, past the arches and columns, the iron staircases, +from one quadrangle to the other. Everything is locked tight. Locked for the +winter. I find the arcade leading to the dormitory. A sickish light spills +down over the stairs from the grimy, frosted windows. Everywhere the paint +is peeling off. The stones are hollowed out, the bannister creaks; a damp +sweat oozes from the flagging and forms a pale, fuzzy aura pierced by the +feeble red light at the head of the stairs. I mount the last flight, the +turret, in a sweat and terror. In pitch darkness I grope my way through the +deserted corridor, every room empty, locked, moulding away. My hand slides +along the wall seeking the keyhole. A panic comes over me as I grasp the +door-knob. Always a hand at my collar ready to yank me back. Once inside the +room I bolt the door. It's a miracle which I perform each night, the miracle +of getting inside without being strangled, without being struck down by an +axe. I can hear the rats scurrying through the corridor, gnawing away over my +head between the thick rafters. The light glares like burning sulphur and +there is the sweet, sickish stench of a room which is never ventilated. In +the corner stands the coal-box, just as I left it. The fire is out. A silence +so intense that it sounds like Niagara Falls in my ears. + +Alone, with a tremendous empty longing and dread. The whole room for my +thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, what I fear. Could think the +most fantastic thoughts, could dance, spit, grimace, curse, wail -- nobody +would ever know, nobody would ever hear. The thought of such absolute +privacy is enough to drive me mad. It's like a clean birth. Everything cut +away. Separate, naked, alone. Bliss and agony simultaneously. Time on your +hands. Each second weighing on you like a mountain. You drown in it. +Deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. Time beating away like a meat-axe. +Nothingness. The world. The me and the not-me. Oomaharamooma. +Everything has to have a name. Everything has to be learned, tested, +experienced. Faites comme chez. vous, cheri. + +The silence descends in volcanic chutes. Yonder, in the barren hills, +rolling onward towards the great metallurgical regions, the locomotives are +pulling their merchant products. Over steel and iron beds they roll, the +ground sown with slag and cinders and purple ore. In the baggage car, kelps, +fishplate, rolled iron, sleepers, wire rods, plates and sheets, laminated +articles, hot rolled hoops, splints and mortar carriages, and Zores ore. The +wheels U-80 millimetres or over. Pass splendid specimens of Anglo-Norman +architecture, pass pedestrians and pederasts, open hearth furnaces, basic +Bessemer mills, dynamos and transformers, pig iron castings and steel +ingots. The public at large, pedestrians and pederasts, gold-fish and +spun-glass palm trees, donkeys sobbing, all circulating freely through +quincuncial alleys. At the Place du Bresil a lavender eye. + +Going back in a flash over the women I've known. It's like a chain which I've +forged out of my own misery. Each one bound to the other. A fear of living +separate, of staying born. The door of the womb always on the latch. Dread +and longing. Deep in the blood the pull of Paradise. The beyond. Always the +beyond. It must have all started with the navel. They cut the umbilical cord, +give you a slap on the ass, and presto! you're out in the world, adrift, a +ship without a rudder. You look at the stars and then you look at your navel. +You grow eyes everywhere -- in the armpits, between your lips, in the roots +of your hair, on the soles of your feet. What is distant becomes near, what +is near becomes distant. Inner-outer, a constant flux, a shedding of skins, a +turning inside out. You drift around like that for years and years, until you +find yourself in the dead center, and there you slowly rot, slowly crumble to +pieces, get dispersed again. Only your name remains. + + * * * + +It was spring before I managed to escape from the penitentiary, and then +only by a stroke of fortune. A telegram from Carl informed me one day that +there was a vacancy "upstairs;" he said he would send me the fare back if I +decided to accept. I telegraphed back at once and as soon as the dough +arrived I beat it to the station. Not a word to M. le Proviseur or anyone. +French leave, as they say. + +I went immediately to the hotel at 1 bis, where Carl was staying. He +came to the door stark naked. It was his night off and there was a cunt in +the bed as usual. "Don't mind her," he says, "she's asleep. If you need a lay +you can take her on. She's not bad." He pulls the covers back to show me what +she looks like. However, I wasn't thinking about a lay right away. I was too +excited. I was like a man who has just escaped from jail. I just wanted to +see and hear things. Coming from the station it was like a long dream. I felt +as though I had been away for years. + +It was not until I had sat down and taken a good look at the room that I +realized I was back again in Paris. It was Carl's room and no mistake about +it. Like a squirrel-cage and shit-house combined. There was hardly room on +the table for the portable machine he used. It was always like that, whether +he had a cunt with him or not. Always a dictionary lying open on a gilt-edged +volume of Faust, always a tobacco pouch, a beret, a bottle of vin +rouge, letters, manuscripts, old newspapers, water colors, teapot, dirty +socks, toothpicks, Kruschen Salts, condoms, etc. In the bidet were +orange peels and the remnants of a ham sandwich. + +"There's some food in the closet," he said. "Help yourself! I was just +going to give myself an injection." + +I found the sandwich he was talking about and a piece of cheese that he had +nibbled at beside it. While he sat on the edge of the bed, dosing himself +with his argyrol, I put away the sandwich and cheese with the aid of a +little wine. + +"I liked that letter you sent me about Goethe," he said, wiping his prick +with a dirty pair of drawers. + +"I'll show you the answer to it in a minute -- I'm putting it in my book. The +trouble with you is that you're not a German. You have to be German to +understand Goethe. Shit, I'm not going to explain it to you now. I've put it +all in the book ... By the way, I've got a new cunt now -- not this one -- +this one's a half-wit. At least, I had her until a few days ago. I'm not sure +now whether she'll come back or not. She was living here with me all the time +you were away. The other day her parents came and took her away. They said +she was only fifteen. Can you beat that? They scared the shit out of me +too...." + +I began to laugh. It was like Carl to get himself into a mess like that. + +"What are you laughing for?" he said. "I may go to prison for it. Luckily, I +didn't knock her up. And that's funny, too, because she never took care of +herself properly. But do you know what saved me? So I think, at least. It +was Faust. Yeah! Her old man happened to see it lying on the table. +He asked me if I understood German. One thing led to another and before I +knew it he was looking through my books. Fortunately I happened to have the +Shakespeare open too. That impressed him like hell. He said I was evidently +a very serious guy." + +"What about the girl -- what did she have to say?" + +"She was frightened to death. You see, she had a little watch with her when +she came; in the excitement we couldn't find the watch, and her mother +insisted that the watch be found or she'd call the police. You see how +things are here. I turned the whole place upside down -- but I couldn't find +the god-damned watch. The mother was furious. I liked her too, in spite of +everything. She was even better-looking than the daughter. Here -- I'll show +you a letter I started to write her. I'm in love with her..." + +"With the mother?" + +"Sure. Why not? If I had seen the mother first I'd never have looked at the +daughter. How did I know she was only fifteen? You don't ask a cunt how old +she is before you lay her. do you?" + +"Joe, there's something funny about this. You're not shitting me, are you?" + +"Am I shitting you? Here -- look at this!" And he shows me the water colors +the girl had made -- cute little things -- a knife and a loaf of bread, the +table and teapot, everything running uphill. "She was in love with me," he +said. "She was just like a child. I had to tell her when to brush her teeth +and how to put her hat on. Here -- look at the lollypops! I used to buy her a +few lollypops every day -- she liked them." + +"Well, what did she do when her parents came to take her away? Didn't she +put up a row?" + +"She cried a little, that's all. What could she do? She's under +age.... I had to promise never to see her again, never to write her either. +That's what I'm waiting to see now -- whether she'll stay away or not. She was +a virgin when she came here. The thing is, how long will she be able to go +without a lay? She couldn't get enough of it when she was here. She almost +wore me out." + +By this time the one in bed had come to and was rubbing her eyes. She +looked pretty young to me, too. Not bad looking, but dumb as hell. Wanted to +know right away what we were talking about. + +"She lives here in the hotel," said Carl. "On the third floor. Do you want +to go to her room? I'll fix it up for you." + +I didn't know whether I wanted to or not, but when I saw Carl mushing it up +with her again I decided I did want to. I asked her first if she was too +tired. Useless question. A whore is never too tired to open her legs. Some of +them can fall asleep while you diddle them. Anyway, it was decided we would +go down to her room. Like that I wouldn't have to pay the patron for +the night. + +In the morning I rented a room overlooking the little park down below where +the sandwich-board men always came to eat their lunch. At noon I called for +Carl to have breakfast with him. He and Van Norden had developed a new habit +in my absence -- they went to the Coupole for breakfast every day. "Why the +Coupole?" I asked. "Why the Coupole?" says Carl. "Because the Coupole serves +porridge at all hours and porridge makes you shit." -- "I see," said I. + +So it's just like it used to be again. The three of us walking back and forth +to work. Petty dissensions, petty rivalries. Van Norden still belly-aching +about his cunts and about washing the dirt out of his belly. Only now he's +found a new diversion. He's found that it's less annoying to masturbate. I +was amazed when he broke the news to me. I didn't think it possible for a guy +like that to find any pleasure in jerking himself off. I was still more +amazed when he explained to me how he goes about it. He had "invented" a new +stunt, so he put it. "You take an apple," he says, "and you bore out the +core. Then you rub some cold cream on the inside so as it doesn't melt too +fast. Try it some time! It'll drive you crazy at first. Anyway, it's cheap +and you don't have to waste much time." + +"By the way," he says, switching the subject, "that friend of yours, +Fillmore, he's in the hospital. I think he's nuts. Anyway, that's what his +girl told me. He took on a French girl, you know, while you were away. They +used to fight like hell. She's a big, healthy bitch -- wild like. I wouldn't +mind giving her a tumble, but I'm afraid she'd claw the eyes out of me. He +was always going around with his face and hands scratched up. She looks +bunged up too once in a while -- or she used to. You know how these French +cunts are -- when they love they lose their minds." + +Evidently things had happened while I was away. I was sorry to hear about +Fillmore. He had been damned good to me. When I left Van Norden I jumped a +bus and went straight to the hospital. + +They hadn't decided yet whether he was completely off his base or not, I +suppose, for I found him upstairs in a private room, enjoying all the +liberties of the regular patients. He had just come from the bath when I +arrived. When he caught sight of me he burst into tears. "It's all over," he +says immediately. "They say I'm crazy -- and I may have syphilis too. They say +I have delusions of grandeur." He fell over onto the bed and wept quietly. +After he had wept a while he lifted his head up and smiled -- just like a +bird coming out of a snooze. "Why do they put me in such an expensive room?" +he said. "Why don't they put me in the ward -- or in the bughouse? I can't +afford to pay for this. I'm down to my last five hundred dollars." + +"That's why they're keeping you here," I said. "They'll transfer you quickly +enough when your money runs out. Don't worry." + +My words must have impressed him, for I had no sooner finished than he +handed me his watch and chain, his wallet, his fraternity pin, etc. "Hold on +to them," he said. "These bastards'll rob me of everything I've got." And +then suddenly he began to laugh, one of those weird, mirthless laughs which +makes you believe a guy's goofy whether he is or not. "I know you'll think +I'm crazy," he said, "but I want to atone for what I did. I want to get +married. You see, I didn't know I had the clap. I gave her the clap and then +I knocked her up. I told the doctor I don't care what happens to me, but I +want him to let me get married first. He keeps telling me to wait until I +get better -- but I know I'm never going to get better. This is the end." + +I couldn't help laughing myself, hearing him talk that way. I couldn't +understand what had come over him. Anyway, I had to promise him to see the +girl and explain things to her. He wanted me to stick by her, comfort her. +Said he could trust me, etc. I said yes to everything in order to soothe +him. He didn't seem exactly nuts to me -- just caved-in like. Typical +Anglo-Saxon crisis. An eruption of morals. I was rather curious to see the +girl, to get the lowdown on the whole thing. + +The next day I looked her up. She was living in the Latin Quarter. As soon as +she realized who I was she became exceedingly cordial. Ginette she called +herself. Rather big, raw-boned, healthy, peasant type with a front tooth +half-eaten away. Full of vitality and a kind of crazy fire in her eyes. The +first thing she did was to weep. Then, seeing that I was an old friend of her +Jo-Jo -- that was how she called him -- she ran downstairs and brought back a +couple of bottles of white wine. I was to stay and have dinner with her -- +she insisted on it. As she drank she became by turns gay and maudlin. I +didn't have to ask her any questions -- she went on like a self-winding +machine. The thing that worried her principally was -- would he get his job +back when he was released from the hospital? She said her parents were well +off, but they were displeased with her. They didn't approve of her wild ways. +They didn't approve of him particularly -- he had no manners, and he was an +American. She begged me to assure her that he would get his job back, which I +did without hesitancy. And then she begged me to know if she could believe +what he said -- that he was going to marry her. Because now, with a child +under her belt, and a dose of clap besides, she was in no position to strike +a match -- with a Frenchman anyway. That was clear, wasn't it? Of course, I +assured her. It was all clear as hell to me -- except how in Christ's name +Fillmore had ever fallen for her. However, one thing at a time. It was my +duty now to comfort her, and so I just filled her up with a lot of baloney, +told her everything would turn out all right and that I would stand godfather +to the child, etc. Then suddenly it struck me as strange that she should have +the child at all -- especially as it was likely to be born blind. I told her +that as tactfully as I could. "It doesn't make any difference," she said. "I +want a child by him." + +"Even if it's blind?" I asked. + +"Mon Dieu, ne dites pas ca!" she groaned. "Ne dites pas ca!" + +Just the same, I felt it was my duty to say it. She got hysterical and began +to weep like a walrus, poured out more wine. In a few moments she was +laughing boisterously. She was laughing to think how they used to fight when +they got in bed. "He liked me to fight with him," she said. "He was a brute." + +As we sat down to eat a friend of hers walked in -- a little tart who lived +at the end of the hall. Ginette immediately sent me down to get some more +wine. When I came back they had evidently had a good talk. Her friend, +Yvette, worked in the police department. A sort of stool pigeon, as far as I +could gather. At least that was what she was trying to make me believe. It +was fairly obvious that she was just a little whore. But she had an obsession +about the police and their doings. Throughout the meal they were urging me to +accompany them to a bal musette. They wanted to have a gay time -- it +was so lonely for Ginette with Jo-Jo in the hospital. I told them I had to +work, but that on my night off I'd come back and take them out. I made it +clear too that I had no dough to spend on them. Ginette, who was really +thunderstruck to hear this, pretended that that didn't matter in the least. +In fact, just to show what a good sport she was, she insisted on driving me +to work in a cab. She was doing it because I was a friend of Jo-Jo's. And +therefore I was a friend of hers. "And also," thought I to myself, "if +anything goes wrong with your Jo-Jo you'll come to me on the double-quick. +Then you'll see what a friend I can be!" I was as nice as pie to her. In +fact, when we got out of the cab in front of the office, I permitted them to +persuade me into having a final Pernod together. Yvette wanted to know if she +couldn't call for me after work. She had a lot of things to tell me in +confidence, she said. But I managed to refuse without hurting her feelings. +Unfortunately I did unbend sufficiently to give her my address. + +Unfortunately, I say. As a matter of fact, I'm rather glad of it when +I think back on it. Because the very next day things began to happen. The +very next day, before I had even gotten out of bed, the two of them called +on me. Jo-Jo had been removed from the hospital -- they had incarcerated him +in a little chateau in the country, just a few miles out of Paris. The +chateau, they called it. A polite way of saying "the bughouse." They +wanted me to get dressed immediately and go with them. They were in a panic. + +Perhaps I might have gone alone -- but I just couldn't make up my mind to go +with these two. I asked them to wait for me downstairs while I got dressed, +thinking that it would give me time to invent some excuse for not going. +But they wouldn't leave the room. They sat there and watched me wash and +dress, just as if it were an everyday affair. In the midst of it, Carl +popped in. I gave him the situation briefly, in English, and then we hatched +up an excuse that I had some important work to do. However, to smooth things +over, we got some wine in and we began to amuse them by showing them a book +of dirty drawings. Yvette had already lost all desire to go to the +chateau. She and Carl were getting along famously. When it came time to go +Carl decided to accompany them to the chateau. He thought it would be funny +to see Fillmore walking around with a lot of nuts. He wanted to see what it +was like in the nuthouse. So off they went, somewhat pickled, and in the +best of humor. + +All the time that Fillmore was at the chateau I never once went to see him. +It wasn't necessary, because Ginette visited him regularly and gave me all +the news. They had hopes of bringing him around in a few months, so she +said. They thought it was alcoholic poisoning -- nothing more. Of course, he +had a dose -- but that wasn't difficult to remedy. So far as they could see, +he didn't have syphilis. That was something. So, to begin with, they used +the stomach pump on him. They cleaned his system out thoroughly. He was so +weak for a while that he couldn't get out of bed. He was depressed, too. He +said he didn't want to be cured -- he wanted to die. And he kept repeating +this nonsense so insistently that finally they grew alarmed. I suppose it +wouldn't have been a very good recommendation if he had committed suicide. +Anyway, they began to give him mental treatment. And in between times they +pulled out his teeth, more and more of them, until he didn't have a tooth +left in his head. He was supposed to feel fine after that, yet strangely he +didn't. He became more despondent than ever. And then his hair began to fall +out. Finally he developed a paranoid streak -- began to accuse them of all +sorts of things, demanded to know by what right he was being detained, what +he had done to warrant being locked up, etc. After a terrible fit of +despondency he would suddenly become energetic and threaten to blow up the +place if they didn't release him. And to make it worse, as far as Ginette +was concerned, he had gotten all over his notion of marrying her. He told +her straight up and down that he had no intention of marrying her, and that +if she was crazy enough to go and have a child then she could support it +herself. + +The doctors interpreted all this as a good sign. They said he was coming +round. Ginette, of course, thought he was crazier than ever, but she was +praying for him to be released so that she could take him to the country +where it would be quiet and peaceful and where he would come to his right +senses. Meanwhile her parents had come to Paris on a visit and had even gone +so far as to visit the future son-in-law at the chateau. In their canny way +they had probably figured it out that it would be better for their daughter +to have a crazy husband than no husband at all. The father thought he could +find something for Fillmore to do on the farm. He said that Fillmore wasn't +such a bad chap at all. When he learned from Ginette that Fillmore's parents +had money he became even more indulgent, more understanding. + +The thing was working itself out nicely all around. Ginette returned to the +provinces for a while with her parents. Yvette was coming regularly to the +hotel to see Carl. She thought he was the editor of the paper. And little by +little she became more confidential. When she got good and tight one day, +she informed us that Ginette had never been anything but a whore, that +Ginette was a blood-sucker, that Ginette never had been pregnant and was not +pregnant now. About the other accusations we hadn't much doubt, Carl and I, +but about not being pregnant, that we weren't so sure of. + +"How did she get such a big stomach, then?" asked Carl. + +Yvette laughed. "Maybe she uses a bicycle pump," she said. "No, seriously," +she added, "the stomach comes from drink. She drinks like a fish, Ginette. +When she comes back from the country, you will see, she will be blown up +still more. Her father is a drunkard. Ginette is a drunkard. Maybe she had +the clap, yes -- but she is not pregnant." + +"But why does she want to marry him? Is she really in love with him?" + +"Love? Pfoboh! She has no heart, Ginette. She wants someone to look +after her. No Frenchman would ever marry her -- she has a police record. No, +she wants him because he's too stupid to find out about her. Her parents +don't want her any more -- she's a disgrace to them. But if she can get +married to a rich American, then everything will be all right.... You think +maybe she loves him a little, eh? You don't know her. When they were living +together at the hotel, she had men coming to her room while he was at work. +She said he didn't give her enough spending money. He was stingy. That fur +she wore -- she told him her parents had given it to her, didn't she? +Innocent fool! Why, I've seen her bring a man back to the hotel right while +he was there. She brought the man to the floor below. I saw it with my own +eyes. And what a man! An old derelict! He couldn't get an erection!" + +If Fillmore, when he was released from the chateau, had returned to Paris, +perhaps I might have tipped him off about his Ginette. While he was still +under observation I didn't think it well to upset him by poisoning his mind +with Yvette's slanders. As things turned out, he went directly from the +chateau to the home of Ginette's parents. There, despite himself, he was +inveigled into making public his engagement. The banns were published in the +local papers and a reception was given to the friends of the family. Fillmore +took advantage of the situation to indulge in all sorts of escapades. Though +he knew quite well what he was doing he pretended to be still a little daffy. +He would borrow his father-in-law's car, for example, and tear about the +countryside all by himself; if he saw a town that he liked he would plank +himself down and have a good time until Ginette came searching for him. +Sometimes the father-in-law and he would go off together -- on a fishing +trip, presumably -- and nothing would be heard of them for days. He became +exasperatingly capricious and exacting. I suppose he figured he might as well +get what he could out of it. + +When he returned to Paris with Ginette he had a complete new wardrobe and a +pocketful of dough. He looked cheerful and healthy, and had a fine coat of +tan. He looked sound as a berry to me. But as soon as we had gotten away +from Ginette he opened up. His job was gone and his money had all run out. +In a month or so they were to be married. Meanwhile the parents were +supplying the dough. "Once they've got me properly in their clutches," he +said, "I'll be nothing but a slave to them. The father thinks he's going to +open up a stationery store for me. Ginette will handle the customers, take +in the money, etc., while I sit in the back of the store and write -- or +something. Can you picture me sitting in the back of a stationery store +for the rest of my life? Ginette thinks it's an excellent idea. She likes to +handle money. I'd rather go back to the chateau than submit to such a +scheme." + +For the time being, of course, he was pretending that everything was +hunky-dory. I tried to persuade him to go back to America but he wouldn't +hear of that. He said he wasn't going to be driven out of France by a lot of +ignorant peasants. He had an idea that he would slip out of sight for a +while and then take up quarters in some outlying section of the city where +he'd not be likely to stumble upon her. But we soon decided that that was +impossible: you can't hide away in France as you can in America. + +"You could go to Belgium for a while," I suggested. "But what'll I do for +money?" he said promptly. "You can't get a job in these god-damned +countries." + +"Why don't you marry her and get a divorce, then?" I asked. + +"And meanwhile she'll be dropping a kid. Who's going to take care of the +kid, eh?" + +"How do you know she's going to have a kid?" I said, determined now that the +moment had come to spill the beans. + +"How do I know?" he said. He didn't quite seem to know what I was +insinuating. + +I gave him an inkling of what Yvette had said. He listened to me in complete +bewilderment. Finally he interrupted me. "It's no use going on with that," he +said. "I know she's going to have a kid, all right. I've felt it kicking +around inside. Yvette's a dirty little slut. You see, I didn't want to tell +you, but up until the time I went to the hospital I was shelling out for +Yvette too. Then when the crash came I couldn't do any more for her. I +figured out that I had done enough for the both of them.... I made up my mind +to look after myself first. That made Yvette sore. She told Ginette that she +was going to get even with me.... No, I wish it were true, what she said. +Then I could get out of this thing more easily. Now I'm in a trap. I've +promised to marry her and I'll have to go through with it. After that I don't +know what'll happen to me. They've got me by the balls now." + +Since he had taken a room in the same hotel with me I was obliged to see them +frequently, whether I wanted to or not. Almost every evening I had dinner +with them, preceded, of course, by a few Pernods. All through the meal they +quarrelled noisily. It was embarrassing because I had sometimes to take one +side and sometimes the other. One Sunday afternoon, for example, after we had +had lunch together, we repaired to a cafe on the corner of the Boulevard +Edgar-Quinet. Things had gone unusually well this time. We were sitting +inside at a little table, one alongside the other, our backs to a mirror. +Ginette must have been passionate or something for she had suddenly gotten +into a sentimental mood and was fondling him and kissing him in front of +everybody, as the French do so naturally. They had just come out of a long +embrace when Fillmore said something about her parents which she interpreted +as an insult. Immediately her cheeks flushed with anger. We tried to mollify +her by telling her that she had misunderstood the remark and then, under his +breath, Fillmore said something to me in English -- something about giving +her a little soft soap. That was enough to set her completely off the handle. +She said we were making fun of her. I said something sharp to her which +angered her still more and then Fillmore tried to put in a word. "You're too +quicktempered," he said, and he tried to pat her on the cheek. But she, +thinking that he had raised his hand to slap her face, she gave him a sound +crack in the jaw with that big peasant hand of hers. For a moment he was +stunned. He hadn't expected a wallop like that, and it stung. I saw his face +go white and the next moment he raised himself from the bench and with the +palm of his hand he gave her such a crack that she almost fell off her seat. +"There! that'll teach you how to behave!" he said -- in his broken French. +For a moment there was a dead silence. Then, like a storm breaking, she +picked up the cognac glass in front of her and hurled it at him with all her +might. It smashed against the mirror behind us. Fillmore had already grabbed +her by the arm, but with her free hand she grabbed the coffee glass and +smashed it on the floor. She was squirming around like a maniac. It was all +we could do to hold her down. Meanwhile, of course, the patron had +come running in and ordered us to beat it. "Loafers!" he called us. "Yes, +loafers; That's it!" screamed Ginette. "Dirty foreigners! Thugs! Gangsters! +Striking a pregnant woman!" We were getting black looks all around. A poor +Frenchwoman with two American toughs. Gangsters. I was wondering how the hell +we'd ever get out of the place without a fight. Fillmore, by this time, was +as silent as a clam. Ginette was bolting it through the door, leaving us to +face the music. As she sailed out she turned back with fist upraised and +shouted; "I'll pay you back for this, you brute! You'll see! No foreigner can +treat a decent Frenchwoman like that! Ah, no! Not like that!" + +Hearing this the patron, who had now been paid for his drinks and his +broken glasses, felt it incumbent to show his gallantry toward a splendid +representative of French motherhood such as Ginette, and so, without more +ado, he spat at our feet and shoved us out of the door. "Shit on you, you +dirty loafers!" he said, or some such pleasantry. + +Once in the street and nobody throwing things after us, I began to see the +funny side of it. It would be an excellent idea, I thought to myself, if +the whole thing were properly aired in court. The whole thing! With +Yvette's little stories as a side dish. After all, the French have a sense +of humor. Perhaps the judge, when he heard Fillmore's side of the story, +would absolve him from marriage. + +Meanwhile, Ginette was standing across the street brandishing her fist and +yelling at the top of her lungs. People were stopping to listen in, to take +sides, as they do in street brawls. Fillmore didn't know what to do -- +whether to walk away from her, or to go over to her and try to pacify her. +He was standing in the middle of the street with his arms outstretched, +trying to get a word in edgewise. And Ginette still yelling: "Gangster! +Brute! Tu verras, salaud!" and other complimentary things. Finally +Fillmore made a move towards her and she, probably thinking that he was +going to give her another good cuff, took it on a trot down the street. +Fillmore came back to where I was standing and said: "Come on, let's follow +her quietly." We started off with a thin crowd of stragglers behind us. +Every once in a while she turned back towards us and brandished her fist. +We made no attempt to catch up with her, just followed her leisurely down +the street to see what she would do. Finally she slowed up her pace and we +crossed over to the other side of the street. She was quiet now. We kept +walking behind her, getting closer and closer. There were only about a dozen +people behind us now -- the others had lost interest. When we got near the +corner she suddenly stopped and waited for us to approach. "Let me do the +talking," said Fillmore, "I know how to handle her." + +The tears were streaming down her face as we came up to her. Myself, I +didn't know what to expect of her. I was somewhat surprised therefore when +Fillmore walked up to her and said in an aggrieved voice: "Was that a nice +thing to do? Why did you act that way?" Whereupon she threw her arms around +his neck and began to weep like a child, calling him her little this and her +little that. Then she turned to me imploringly. "You saw how he struck me," +she said. "Is that the way to behave towards a woman?" I was on the point of +saying yes when Fillmore took her by the arm and started leading her off. +"No more of that," he said. "If you start again I'll crack you right here in +the street." + +I thought it was going to start up all over again. She had fire in her eyes. +But evidently she was a bit cowed, too, for it subsided quickly. However, as +she sat down at the cafe she said quietly and grimly that he needn't think +it was going to be forgotten so quickly; he'd hear more about it later on +... perhaps to-night. + +And sure enough she kept her word. When I met him the next day his face and +hands were all scratched up. Seems she had waited until he got to bed and +then, without a word, she had gone to the wardrobe and, dumping all his +things out on the floor, she took them one by one and tore them to ribbons. +As this had happened a number of times before, and as she had always sewn +them up afterwards, he hadn't protested very much. And that made her +angrier than ever. What she wanted was to get her nails into him, and she +did, to the best of her ability. Being pregnant she had a certain advantage +over him. + +Poor Fillmore! It was no laughing matter. She had him terrorized. If he +threatened to run away she retorted by a threat to kill him. And she said it +as if she meant it. "If you go to America," she said, "I'll follow you! You +won't get away from me. A French girl always knows how to get vengeance." +And the next moment she would be coaxing him to be "reasonable," to be +"sage," etc. Life would be so nice once they had the stationery store. +He wouldn't have to do a stroke of work. She would do everything. He could +stay in back of the store and write -- or whatever he wanted to do. + +It went on like this, back and forth, a seesaw, for a few weeks or so. I was +avoiding them as much as possible, sick of the affair and disgusted with the +both of them. Then one fine summer's day, just as I was passing the Credit +Lyonnais, who comes marching down the steps but Fillmore. I greeted him +warmly, feeling rather guilty because I had dodged him for so long. I asked +him, with more than ordinary curiosity, how things were going. He answered +me rather vaguely and with a note of despair in his voice. + +"I've just gotten permission to go to the bank," he said, in a peculiar, +broken, abject sort of way. "I've got about half an hour, no more. She keeps +tabs on me." And he grasped my arm as if to hurry me away from the spot. + +We were walking down towards the Rue de Rivoli. It was a beautiful day, +warm, clear, sunny -- one of those days when Paris is at its best. A mild +pleasant breeze blowing, just enough to take that stagnant odor out of your +nostrils. Fillmore was without a hat. Outwardly he looked the picture of +health -- like the average American tourist who slouches along with money +jingling in his pockets. + +"I don't know what to do any more," he said quietly. "You've got to do +something for me. I'm helpless. I can't get a grip on myself. If I could +only get away from her for a little while perhaps I'd come round all right. +But she won't let me out of her sight. I just got permission to run to the +bank -- I had to draw some money. I'll walk around with you a bit and then I +must hurry back -- she'll have lunch waiting for me." + +I listened to him quietly, thinking to myself that he did need someone to +pull him out of the hole he was in. He had completely caved in, there wasn't +a speck of courage left in him. He was just like a child -- like a child who +is beaten every day and doesn't know any more how to behave, except to cower +and cringe. As we turned under the colonnade of the Rue de Rivoli he burst +out into a long diatribe against France. He was fed up with the French. "I +used to rave about them," he said, "but that was all literature. I know them +now ... I know what they're really like. They're cruel and mercenary. At +first it seems wonderful, because you have a feeling of being free. After a +while it palls on you. Underneath it's all dead: there's no feeling, no +sympathy, no friendship. They're selfish to the core. The most selfish people +on earth! They think of nothing but money, money, money. And so god-damned +respectable, so bourgeois! That's what drives me nuts. When I see her mending +my shirts I could club her. Always mending, mending. Saving, saving. Faut +faire des economies! That's all I hear her say all day long. You hear it +everywhere. Sois raisonnable, mon cheri! Sois raisonnable! I don't +want to be reasonable and logical. I hate it! I want to bust loose, I want to +enjoy myself. I want to do something. I don't want to sit in a care +and talk all day long. Jesus, we've got our faults -- but we've got +enthusiasm. It's better to make mistakes than not do anything. I'd rather be +a bum in America than to be sitting pretty here. Maybe it's because I'm a +Yankee. I was born in New England and I belong there, I guess. You can't +become a European overnight. There's something in your blood that makes you +different. It's the climate -- and everything. We see things with different +eyes. We can't make ourselves over, however much we admire the French. We're +Americans and we've got to remain Americans. Sure, I hate those puritanical +buggers back home -- I hate 'em with all my guts. But I'm one of them myself. +I don't belong here. I'm sick of it." + +All along the arcade he went on like this. I wasn't saying a word. I let +him spill it all out -- it was good for him to get it off his chest. Just the +same, - I was thinking how strange it was that this same guy, had it been a +year ago, would have been beating his chest like a gorilla and saying: +"What a marvellous day! What a country! What a people!" And if an American +had happened along and said one word against France Fillmore would have +flattened his nose. He would have died for France -- a year ago. I never saw +a man who was so infatuated with a country, who was so happy under a foreign +sky. It wasn't natural. When he said France it meant wine, women, +money in the pocket, easy come, easy go. It meant being a bad boy, being on +a holiday. And then, when he had had his fling, when the tent-top blew off +and he had a good look at the sky, he saw that it wasn't just a circus, but +an arena, just like everywhere. And a damned grim one. I often used to +think, when I heard him rave about glorious France, about liberty and all +that crap, what it would have sounded like to a French workman, could he +have understood Fillmore's words. No wonder they think we're all crazy. We +are crazy to them. We're just a pack of children. Senile idiots. +What we call life is a five-and-ten-cent store romance. That enthusiasm +underneath -- what is it? That cheap optimism which turns the stomach of any +ordinary European? It's illusion. No, illusion's too good a word for it. +Illusion means something. No, it's not that -- it's delusion. It's +sheer delusion, that's what. We're like a herd of wild horses with blinders +over our eyes. On the rampage. Stampede. Over the precipice. Bango! Anything +that nourishes violence and confusion. On! On! No matter where. And foaming +at the lips all the while. Shouting Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Why? God +knows. It's in the blood. It's the climate. It's a lot of things. It's the +end, too. We're pulling the whole world down about our ears. We don't know +why. It's our destiny. The rest is plain shit.... + +At the Palais Royal I suggested that we stop and have a drink. He hesitated +a moment. I saw that he was worrying about her, about the lunch, about the +bawling out he'd get. + +"For Christ's sake," I said, "forget about her for a while. I'm going to +order something to drink and I want you to drink it. Don't worry, I'm going +to get you out of this fucking mess." I ordered two stiff whiskies. + +When he saw the whiskies coming he smiled at me just like a child again. + +"Down it!" I said, "and let's have another. This is going to do you good. I +don't care what the doctor says -- this time it'll be all right. Come on, +down with it!" + +He put it down all right and while the garcon disappeared to fetch +another round he looked at me with brimming eyes, as though I were the last +friend in the world. His lips were twitching a bit, too. There was something +he wanted to say to me and he didn't quite know how to begin. I looked at +him easily, as though ignoring the appeal and, shoving the saucers aside, I +leaned over on my elbow and I said to him earnestly: "Look here, Fillmore, +what is it you'd really like to do? Tell me!" + +With that the tears gushed up and he blurted out: "I'd like to be home with +my people. I'd like to hear English spoken." The tears were streaming down +his face. He made no effort to brush them away. He just let everything gush +forth. Jesus, I thought to myself, that's fine to have a release like that. +Fine to be a complete coward at least once in your life. To let go that way. +Great! Great! It did me so much good to see him break down that way that I +felt as though I could solve any problem. I felt courageous and resolute. I +had a thousand ideas in my head at once. + +"Listen," I said, bending still closer to him, "if you mean what you said +why don't you do it ... why don't you go? Do you know what I would do, if I +were in your shoes? I'd go to-day. Yes, by Jesus, I mean it ... I'd go right +away, without even saying good-bye to her. As a matter of fact that's the +only way you can go -- she'd never let you say good-bye. You know that." + +The garcon came with the whiskies. I saw him reach forward with a +desperate eagerness and raise the glass to his lips. I saw a glint of hope +in his eyes -- far-off, wild, desperate. He probably saw himself swimming +across the Atlantic. To me it looked easy, simple as rolling off a log. The +whole thing was working itself out rapidly in my mind. I knew just what each +step would be. Clear as a bell, I was. + +"Whose money is that in the bank?" I asked. "Is it her father's or is it +yours?" + +"It's mine!" he exclaimed. "My mother sent it to me. I don't want any of her +god-damned money." + +"That's swell!" I said. "Listen, suppose we hop a cab and go back there. Draw +out every cent. Then we'll go to the British Consulate and get a visa. You're +going to hop the train this afternoon for London. From London you'll take the +first boat to America. I'm saying that because then you won't be worried +about her trailing you. She'll never suspect that you went via London. If she +goes searching for you she'll naturally go to Le Havre first, or +Cherbourg.... And here's another thing -- you're not going back to get your +things. You're going to leave everything here. Let her keep them. With that +French mind of hers she'll never dream that you scooted off without bag or +baggage. It's incredible. A Frenchman would never dream of doing a thing like +that ... unless he was as cracked as you are." + +"You're right!" he exclaimed. "I never thought of that. Besides, you might +send them to me later on -- if she'll surrender them! But that doesn't matter +now. Jesus, though, I haven't even got a hat!" + +"What do you need a hat for? When you get to London you can buy everything +you need. All you need now is to hurry. We've got to find out when the train +leaves." + +"Listen," he said, reaching for his wallet, "I'm going to leave everything +to you. Here, take this and do whatever's necessary. I'm too weak.... I'm +dizzy." + +I took the wallet and emptied it of the bills he had just drawn from the +bank. A cab was standing at the curb. We hopped in. There was a train +leaving the Gare du Nord at four o'clock, or thereabouts. I was figuring it +out -- the bank, the Consulate, the American Express, the station. Fine! Just +about make it. + +"Now buck up!" I said, "and keep your shirt on! Shit, in a few hours you'll +be crossing the channel. Tonight you'll be walking around in London and +you'll get a good bellyful of English. tomorrow you'll be on the open sea -- +and then, by Jesus, you're a free man and you needn't give a fuck what +happens. By the time you get to New York this'll be nothing more than a bad +dream." + +This got him so excited that his feet were moving convulsively, as if he were +trying to run inside the cab. At the bank his hand was trembling so that he +could hardly sign his name. That was one thing I couldn't do for him -- sign +his name. But I think, had it been necessary, I could have sat him on the +toilet and wiped his ass. I was determined to ship him off, even if I had to +fold him up and put him in a valise. + +It was lunch hour when we got to the British Consulate, and the place was +closed. That meant waiting until two o'clock. I couldn't think of anything +better to do, by way of killing time, than to eat. Fillmore, of course, +wasn't hungry. He was for eating a sandwich. "Fuck that!" I said. "You're +going to blow me to a good lunch. It's the last square meal you're going to +have over here -- maybe for a long while." I steered him to a cosy little +restaurant and ordered a good spread. I ordered the best wine on the menu, +regardless of price or taste. I had all his money in my pocket -- oodles of it, +it seemed to me. Certainly never before had I had so much in my fist at one +time. It was a treat to break a thousand-franc note. I held it up to the +lights first to look at the beautiful watermark. Beautiful money! One of the +few things the French make on a grand scale. Artistically done, too, as if +they cherished a deep affection even for the symbol. + +The meal over, we went to a cafe. I ordered Chartreuse with the coffee. Why +not? And I broke another bill -- a five-hundred-franc note this time. It was a +clean, new, crisp bill. A pleasure to handle such money. The waiter handed me +back a lot of dirty old bills that had been patched up with strips of gummed +paper; I had a stack of five and ten-franc notes and a bagful of chicken +feed. Chinese money, with holes in it. I didn't know in which pocket to stuff +the money any more. My trousers were bursting with coins and bills. It made +me slightly uncomfortable also, hauling all that dough out in public. I was +afraid we might be taken for a couple of crooks. + +When we got to the American Express, there wasn't a devil of a lot of time +left. The British, in their usual fumbling, farting way, had kept us on +pins and needles. Here everybody was sliding around on castors. They were so +speedy that everything had to be done twice. After all the checks were +signed and clipped together in a neat little holder, it was discovered that +he had signed in the wrong place. Nothing to do but start all over again. I +stood over him, with one eye on the clock, and watched every stroke of the +pen. It hurt to hand over the dough. Not all of it, thank God -- but a good +part of it. I had roughly about 2,500 francs in my pocket. Roughly, I say. I +wasn't counting by francs any more. A hundred, or two hundred, more or +less -- it didn't mean a god-damned thing to me. As for him, he was going +through the whole transaction in a daze. He didn't know how much money he +had. All he knew was that he had to keep something aside for Ginette. He +wasn't certain yet how much -- we were going to figure that out on the way to +the station. + +In the excitement we had forgotten to change all the money. We were already +in the cab, however, and there wasn't any time to be lost. The thing was to +find out how we stood. We emptied our pockets quickly and began to whack it +up. Some of it was lying on the floor, some of it was on the seat. It was +bewildering. There was French, American and English money. And all that +chicken feed besides. I felt like picking up the coins and chucking them out +of the window -- just to simplify matters. Finally we sifted it all out; he +held on to the English and American money, and I held on to the French +money. + +We had to decide quickly now what to do about Ginette -- how much to give her, +what to tell her, etc. He was trying to fix up a yam for me to hand her -- +didn't want her to break her heart and so forth. I had to cut him short. + +"Never mind what to tell her," I said. "Leave that to me. How much are you +going to give her, that's the thing? Why give her anything?" + +That was like setting a bomb under his ass. He burst into tears. Such tears! +It was worse than before. I thought he was going to collapse on my hands. +Without stopping to think, I said: "All right, let's give her all this +French money. That ought to last her for a while." + +"How much is it?" he asked feebly. "I don't know -- about 2,000 francs or so. +More than she deserves anyway." + +"Christ! Don't say that!" he begged. "After all, it's a rotten break I'm +giving her. Her folks'll never take her back now. No, give it to her. Give +her the whole damned business.... I don't care what it is." + +He pulled a handkerchief out to wipe the tears away. "I can't help it," he +said. "It's too much for me." I said nothing. Suddenly he sprawled himself +out full length -- I thought he was taking a fit or something -- and he said: + +"Jesus, I think I ought to go back. I ought to go back and face the music. If +anything should happen to her I'd never forgive myself." That was a rude jolt +for me. "Christ!" I shouted, "you can't do that! Not now. It's too late. +You're going to take the train and I'm going to tend to her myself. I'll go +see her just as soon as I leave you. Why, you poor boob, if she ever thought +you had tried to run away from her she'd murder you, don't you realize that? +You can't go back any more. It's settled." + +Anyway, what could go wrong? I asked myself. Kill herself? Tant +mieux. + +When we rolled up to the station we had still about twelve minutes to kill. +I didn't dare to say good-bye to him yet. At the last minute, raided as he +was, I could see him jumping off the train and scooting back to her. +Anything might swerve him. A straw. So I dragged him across the street to a +bar and I said: "Now you're going to have a Pernod -- your last Pernod +and I'm going to pay for it ... with your dough." + +Something about this remark made him look at me uneasily. He took a big +gulp of the Pernod and then, turning to me like an injured dog, he said: "I +know I oughtn't to trust you with all that money, but... but.... Oh, well, +do what you think best. I don't want her to kill herself, that's all." + +"Kill herself?" I said. "Not her! You must think a hell of a lot of +yourself if you can believe a thing like that. As for the money, though I +hate to give it to her, I promise you I'll go straight to the post office +and telegraph it to her. I wouldn't trust myself with it a minute longer +than is necessary." As I said this I spied a bunch of post cards in a +revolving rack. I grabbed one off -- a picture of the Eiffel Tower it was -- +and made him write a few words. "Tell her you're sailing now. Tell her you +love her and that you'll send for her as soon as you arrive.... I'll send it +by pneumatique when I go to the post office. And tonight I'll see her. +Everything'll be Jake, you'll see." + +With that we walked across the street to the station. Only two minutes to +go. I felt it was safe now. At the gate I gave him a slap on the back and +pointed to the train. I didn't shake hands with him -- he would have slobbered +all over me. I just said: "Hurry! She's going in a minute." And with that I +turned on my heel and marched off. I didn't even look round to see if he was +boarding the train. I was afraid to. + +x x x + + + +I hadn't really thought, all the while I was bundling him off, what I'd do +once I was free of him. I had promised a lot of things -- but that was only +to keep him quiet. As for facing Ginette, I had about as little courage for +it as he had. I was getting panicky myself. Everything had happened so +quickly that it was impossible to grasp the nature of the situation in full. +I walked away from the station in a kind of delicious stupor -- with the post +card in my hand. I stood against a lamp-post and read it over. It sounded +preposterous. I read it again, to make sure that I wasn't dreaming, and then +I tore it up and threw it in the gutter. + +I looked around uneasily, half expecting to see Ginette coming after me with +a tomahawk. Nobody was following me. I started walking leisurely towards +the Place Lafayette. It was a beautiful day, as I had observed earlier. +Light, puffy clouds above, sailing with the wind. The awnings flapping. +Paris had never looked so good to me; I almost felt sorry that I had shipped +the poor bugger off. At the Place Lafayette I sat down facing the church and +stared at the clock tower; it's not such a wonderful piece of architecture, +but that blue in the dial face always fascinated me. It was bluer than ever +to-day. I couldn't take my eyes off it. + +Unless he were crazy enough to write her a letter, explaining everything, +Ginette need never know what had happened. And even if she did learn that he +had left her 2,500 francs or so she couldn't prove it. I could always say +that he imagined it. A guy who was crazy enough to walk off without even a +hat was crazy enough to invent the 2,500 francs, or whatever it was. How much +was it, anyhow, I wondered. My pockets were sagging with the weight of it. I +hauled it all out and counted it carefully. There was exactly 2,875 francs +and 35 centimes. More than I had thought. The 75 francs and 35 centimes had +to be gotten rid of. I wanted an even sum -- a clean 2,800 francs. Just then +I saw a cab pulling up to the curb. A woman stepped out with a white poodle +dog in her hands; the dog was peeing over her silk dress. The idea of taking +a dog for a ride got me sore. I'm as good as her dog, I said to myself, and +with that I gave the driver a sign and told him to drive me through the Bois. +He wanted to know where exactly. "Anywhere," I said. "Go through the Bois, go +all around it -- and take your time, I'm in no hurry." I sank back and let +the houses whizz by, the jagged roofs, the chimney pots, the colored walls, +the urinals, the dizzy carrefours. Passing the Rond-Point I thought +I'd go downstairs and take a leak. No telling what might happen down there. I +told the driver to wait. It was the first time in my life I had let a cab +wait while I took a leak. How much can you waste that way? Not very much. +With what I had in my pocket I could afford to have two taxis waiting for me. + +I took a good look around but I didn't see anything worth while. What I +wanted was something fresh and unused -- something from Alaska or the Virgin +Islands. A clean fresh pelt with a natural fragrance to it. Needless to say, +there wasn't anything like that walking about. I wasn't terribly +disappointed. I didn't give a fuck whether I found anything or not. The +thing is, never to be too anxious. Everything comes in due time. + +We drove on past the Arc de Triomphe. A few sightseers were loitering +around the remains of the Unknown Soldier. Going through the Bois I looked +at all the rich cunts promenading in their limousines. They were whizzing +by as if they had some destination. Do that, no doubt, to look important -- to +show the world how smooth run their Rolls Royces and their Hispano Suizas. +Inside me things were running smoother than any Rolls Royce ever ran. It was +just like velvet inside. Velvet cortex and velvet vertebrae. And velvet axle +grease, what! It's a wonderful thing, for half an hour, to have money in +your pocket and piss it away like a drunken sailor. You feel as though the +world is yours. And the best part of it is, you don't know what to do with +it. You can sit back and let the meter run wild, you can let the wind blow +through your hair, you can stop and have a drink, you can give a big tip, +and you can swagger off as though it were an everyday occurrence. But you +can't create a revolution. You can't wash all the dirt out of your +belly. + +When we got to the Porte d'Auteuil I made him head for the Seine. At the +Pont de Sevres I got out and started walking along the river, toward the +Auteuil Viaduct. It's about the size of a creek along here and the trees come +right down to the river's bank. The water was green and glassy, especially +near the other side. Now and then a scow chugged by. Bathers in tights were +standing in the grass sunning themselves. Everything was close and +pal-pitant, and vibrant with the strong light. + +Passing a beer garden I saw a group of cyclists sitting at a table. I took a +seat nearby and ordered a demi. Hearing them jabber away I thought +for a moment of Ginette. I saw her stamping up and down the room, tearing +her hair, and sobbing and bleating, in that beast-like way of hers. I saw +his hat on the rack. I wondered if his clothes would fit me. He had a raglan +that I particularly liked. Well, by now he was on his way. In a little while +the boat would be rocking under him. English! He wanted to hear English +spoken. What an idea! + +Suddenly it occurred to me that if I wanted I could go to America myself. It +was the first time the opportunity had ever presented itself. I asked +myself -- "do you want to go?" There was no answer. My thoughts drifted out, +towards the sea, towards the other side where, taking a last look back, I +had seen the skyscrapers fading out in a flurry of snowflakes. I saw them +looming up again, in that same ghostly way as when I left. Saw the lights +creeping through their ribs. I saw the whole city spread out, from Harlem to +the Battery, the streets choked with ants, the elevated rushing by, the +theatres emptying. I wondered in a vague way what had ever happened to my +wife. + +After everything had quietly sifted through my head a great peace came over +me. Here, where the river gently winds through the girdle of hills, lies a +soil so saturated with the past that however far back the mind roams one can +never detach it from its human background. Christ, before my eyes there +shimmered such a golden peace that only a neurotic could dream of turning +his head away. So quietly flows the Seine that one hardly notices its +presence. It is always there, quiet and unobtrusive, like a great artery +running through the human body. In the wonderful peace that fell over me it +seemed as if I had climbed to the top of a high mountain; for a little while +I would be able to look around me, to take in the meaning of the landscape. + +Human beings make a strange fauna and flora. From a distance they appear +negligible; close up they are apt to appear ugly and malicious. More than +anything they need to be surrounded with sufficient space -- space even more +than time. + +The sun is setting. I feel this river flowing through me -- its past, its +ancient soil, the changing climate. The hills gently girdle it about: its +course is fixed. \ No newline at end of file