RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,107
(henry higgins rides the raft))
Me? I was always a bit of a
drudge. Still am, I suppose.
The first time I read Huck
Finn it probably took me
two weeks too long. I had
a lot of faith in that book,
and then I later learned more
about it, and lost a lot of it
(that faith). Yet, I stayed with
it, at least up to Chapter 16,
after which it really does
turn into a different book
altogether. Much less of a
consequential book then,
just more of a yard and a
kid's adventure story. And
then - once stupid, controlling,
Tom Sawyer is reintroduced
into the book, he runs with it,
ruins it, and transforms the
whole thing. I never like that
kid, Tom Sawyer - just the
most ordinary, reckless dude
ever. The kind of jerk who
spends his life in an office,
pushing paper and following
instructions. It was as if
'Modernity' was brought
into the book.
-
The way it went, I later found
out, in Elmira, was that he had
written the book, up to Chapter
16, was unable to decide which
way to go with it for an ending,
put it aside, and only three years
later, while living IN Elmira at
Quarry Farm, did he take up the
book again and somehow glommed
on the ending I'm speaking of.
Perhaps most readers would not
notice, but everything credible
I ever read about the book,
always makes critical mention
of the break; which break is
fairly obvious. One of the usual,
big, 'American' problems - which
somehow always come to the fore -
is the way the book has been (or
had been; probably no longer with
today's moron crowd) absorbed
into the 'American Canon' as
some shuckly-sweet tale of
simple adventure - drained of
any merit except the most simple
sentimentality and pitter-patter.
-
Well, so much for anything; that's
the American way. It just got me
thinking.
-
I often enough, way out in the
sticks, felt like Huck Finn, yes,
metaphorically of course; but the
whole point of early American
life was much like the beginning
of that book. Devil-may-care,
attitudes of adventure and learning
on the fly all that adventure could
teach. Woods and rivers. Boats and
trails. Large separations of land
between distant and lonely houses.
Small riverside towns and villages
hunkered along big-river shorelines;
with all the lights and lanterns shown
by their reddish/yellow illuminations
at night. Illuminations! Yes! A quaint
American version of The Drunken
Boat; Rimbaud's fancy-flight upon
the American lawn. In its 'best' parts,
Huck Finn the book did capture some
of this, until it rolled over into a mere
and stupid adventure tale, ripe bait
for sentiment and children's lessons.
Drivel. Almost a satire of what of
we once were - and, unfortunately,
within its 'slavery' context, ripe for
censorship, mandated librarian-controls,
and banning from the literary canon.
-
Of course, that same literary 'canon,'
run by the usual malcontents and
satraps, can accept lewd, indecent,
trite, sarcastic, ironic, and pathetically
subversive psychological screaming
out, now, as real literature. A free
meal at a buffet of fools.
-
I sometimes also think that, right
now, the Earth is screaming out
over our communal idiocy, and
taking itself back. I'm sure that a
level of true consciousness is at
work here....disease and anxiety,
disasters and malcontent, are all
sourced from the inner world
of the foolish Humanoid-lost.
'Earth' is sick of us. 'Earth' demands
itself back. 'Earth' is willing for the
sacrifice; mutating and destroying us in
waves. It little matters, as this picture
doesn't move, just instead gets
erasures and alterations done to it.
You wish to say 'Mother Earth?' You
can, though that sounds way too gentle
to me. It's more like the avenging,
Mad-Father Earth of old times,
warming up now for the next
inning - pitching that rolling
ball of fire and brimstone back
our way again. Just you wait,
'Enry 'Iggins, just you wait.
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