RUDIMENTS, pt. 552
(harper's book landing)
There's a certain level of the
ordinary that just turns people
into blockheads. It's as if they
can't think, or maybe just refuse
to. People big in business and
fortune, or who claim to be,
are usually actually quite
gauche. Their pre-requisites
for most anything just become
style and visibility, the right
'tag' on their clothing, the
regular seat at some bedraggled
stag horn of a 'once-legendary,'
location, a 'barber' of the famed
with a note by name, or a sloop
which they've named after Becky.
They end up being the same
ones, these big deal CEO's,
who miraculously can spend
14 hours a day looking at a
computer screen to critique
what others have done.
-
Not surprising, then, that we
enter the realm of the dense.
There's a story by Bernard
Malamud, titled 'Man In the
Drawer,' about writers writing
in bad societies. I've always
found this here to be a very
bad societies, and, in turn,
I find this a nice point to be
noted, of writers suppressing
themselves because of idiots
who either can't properly read
them, or, once read, demand
that they be stopped. What
sort of crap is that? "To speak
frankly, I have to protest this
constant tension you've whipped
up in and around me. Nobody
in his right mind can expect a
complete stranger to pull his
chestnuts out of the fire. It's
your country that hindering
you as a writer...Love for
country, let's face it, is a
mixed bag of marbles.
Nationality isn't soul, as
I'm sure you'll agree. But
what I am saying is that there
are things in this country one
might not like that he has to
make his peace with. I'm
assuming you're not thinking
of counter-revolution. So,
if you're up against a wall
you can't climb over or dig
under, at least stop banging
your head against it, not to
mention mine. Do what you
can. It's amazing, for instance,
what can be said in a fairy tale."
-
"Now is the time for truth
without disguises. I will try
to make my peace to this
point without disguises. I
will make my peace with
this point where it interferes
with my imagination - my
interior liberty, and then I
must stop to make my peace.
My brother-in-law has also
said to me, 'You must write
acceptable stories, others
can do it, so why cannot
you?' And I have answered
to him, 'They must be
acceptable to me.'"
-
Bernard Malamud was a
particular writer, of a particular
time and place. Maybe the mid
or later 1970's. I used to read
him a lot in Elmira, 'a lot'
being a relative term posed
against his output, which
was pretty meager. He was,
as writers go, I always thought
rater weak-need and reticent
about things, never really
having grabbed the horse,
mounted it, and rode with my
idea of writing. I needed a lot
more than he gave, but, as
it went, he filled a slot for
me. Back then there used to
be this college park-bench
guy I knew and everything
out of his mouth was Conrad!
Joseph Conrad this, Joseph
Conrad that. Heart of Darkness.
Lord Jim, Nigger of Narcissus.
I used to sit there and just
listen to him; I guess by today's
standards it's called a rant, on
and on about Conrad, Polish,
English, writing between
languages, a blow-by-blow
account of nearly each scene
the meaning of them too. I
think this guy was dedicated
nutso-crazy to this one-single
endeavor, that of 'owning'
Joseph Conrad. I don't know
what else he ever did, nor if he
did any of this professionally
somewhere, maybe even as
lecture, but he could have. He
said his name was Harper, and
I used to call his bench, sort of
in honor of Conrad and Heart
Of Darkness and all that,'
'Harper's Boat Landing.' It
was pretty amazing - although
all it ever did for me was drive
me deeper into my own intense
work-scrutiny. So I guess for
that it was good, and I never
grew bored of seeing him.
-
'The old man said nothing.
Nothing meant yes, or no.'
-
I wrote down that years ago,
about the same time as this
Malamud and Conrad stuff
was going on. I've never
done anything with it, not
except hold it up to myself
as some sort of talismanic and
quite oddball phrasing. It sums
up for me the dilemma of a type
of 1980 writing that was part
and parcel of 1970's fondue and
pot parties, (Elmira College, yes,
was then about 10 years behind
the times). Like a dead-end
roller-coaster that just runs into
a wall. Like broad-bottomed
pants, and the peasant blouses
of the sort girls used to wear.
Like guys still figuring out
Paisley shirts and patterns.
If you've ever kept notebooks,
you'll know how you can at
some later point stumble upon
something that you can't at first
identify (or even sometimes
read; writing in a scrawl). That
happened here, and then I
realized it was a Bernard
Malamud line, though I'd
had it, wrongly, altered. The
actual line reads : "The old
man said nothing. Nothing
meant yes or it meant no. If
you pressed him to say which,
he wept." Obviously, completely
different. But what of the two;
in recollection, brother lines,
or one wrong and one correct?
I never knew, and all these years
it's just sat there in the idle
notebook, waiting.
-
When I first began living on
my own, in NYC, I kept to no
boundaries. I just threw my
own stuff around, anywhere.
I look back now and realize
that, of the incidentals of
living a normal life, I had none
of the needed implements;
and in such ignorance I just
blasted ahead : no toaster,
no coffee cup(s), no plates,
and not a towel to be had.
Let alone the bed-cloths,
bed-clothes, and, even,
just bed, needed. Living lie
that, what can be expected?
By now I'm so used to sleeping
on the floor I don't even think
of it as abhorrent behavior.
It was as if, it IS as if, I
say nothing, yes, and it
means NEITHER yes nor
no because I refuse the
commitments of either. I
would think that makes me
a perfect debater because I
could, and probably would,
argue either side of any
argument. You need an ally?
Meet me at the rally.
-
I used to visit places, without
much allegiance to any of it.
I'd go to galleries, yes, to view
the art, but always got stuck
awed instead - mentally
portraying whatever life there
was, if any, as a scene in my
mind - the people, the styles,
postures and attitudes, the
viewers, the art, occasionally
the artists too. It was all a
wonderful, almost medieval
agglomeration of sights and
sounds. There's a Houston
football team of something
named the Oilers. One time
my wife came by with my son,
then about 6 or 8, to an art
opening where the artist was
present. Wonderful, large
slightly strange oils, but all
well-regarded and expensive.
I had been sitting around
talking with him, and my
son strolls in with a jacket
on, which on the rear had
large letters reading, 'Oilers.'
It doesn't sound like much,
most people are sports people
and they wear, I notice, most
anything with team names, etc.
It's very suburban; it's declasse;
and in such an environment
as this was it stuck out like a
broad-beamed Heifer in a
sheepfold. I was, for a moment,
humiliated and fearing for
some wise, stupid wisecrack
from anyone. Funniest thing
in the world, the artist himself
pipes up, 'Well, at least he
rooting for Oilers,' - what
turned out to be a wonderfully
perfect and a'propos art joke.
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