And who, I ask, who but a master of reality could imagine that the first step into the world of creation must be accompanied with a loud, evil smelling fart, as if experiencing for the first time the significance of shell-fire? Advance always! The generals of literature sleep soundly in their cosy bunks. We, the hairy ones, do the fighting. From that trench which must be taken there is no returning. Get thee behind us, ye laureates of Satan I If it be cleavers we must fight with, let us use them to full advantage. Faugh a balla! Get those greasy ducks! Avanti, avanti!
The battle is endless. It had no beginning, nor will it know an end. We who babble and froth at the mouth have been at it since eternity. Spare us further instruction! Are we to make green lawns as we advance from trench to trench? Are we landscape artists as well as butchers? Must we storm to victory perfumed like whores? For whom are we mopping up?
How fortunate that I had only one reader! Such an indulgent one, too. Every time I sat down to write a page for him I readjusted my skirt, primped my hair-do and powdered my nose. If only he could see me at work, dear Pop! If only he knew the pains I took to give his novel the proper literary cast. What a Marius he had in me! What an Epicurean!
Somewhere Paul Valery has said: What is of value to us alone (meaning the poets of literature) has no value. This is the law of literature. Iss dot so now? Tsch, tsch! True, our Valery was discussing the art of poetry, discussing the poet’s task and purpose, his raison d’etre. Myself, I have never understood poetry as poetry. For me the mark of the poet is everywhere, in everything. To distil thought until it hangs in the alembic of a poem, revealing not a speck, not a shadow, not a vaporous breath of the impurities from which it was decocted, that for me is a meaningless, worthless pursuit, even though it be the sworn and solemn function of those midwives who toil in the name of Beauty, Form, Intelligence, and so on.
I speak of the poet because I was then, in my blissful embryonic state, more nearly that than ever since. I never thought, as did Diderot, that my ideas are my whores. Why would I want whores? No, my ideas were a garden of delights. An absent-minded gardener I was, who, though tender and observing, did not attach too much importance to the presence of weeds, thorns, nettles, but craved only the joy of frequenting this place apart, this intimate domain peopled with shrubs, blossoms, flowers, bees, birds, bugs of every variety. I never walked the garden as a pimp, nor even in a fornicating frame of mind. Neither did I invest it as a botanist, an entomologist or a horticulturist. I studied nothing, not even my own wonder. Nor did I christen any blessed thing. The look of a flower was enough, or its perfume. How did the flower come to be? How did anything come to be? If I questioned, it was to ask—Are you there, little friend? Are the dewdrops still clinging to your petals?
What could be more considerate—better manners!—than to treat thoughts, ideas, inspirational flashes, as flowers of delight? What better work habits than to greet them with a smile each day or walk among them musing on their evanescent glory? True, now and then I might make so bold as to pluck one for my buttonhole. But to exploit it, to send it out to work like a whore or a stock broker—unthinkable. For me it was enough to have been inspired, not to be perpetually inspired. I was neither a poet nor a drudge. I was simply out of step. Heimatlos. My only reader … Later I will exchange him for the ideal reader, that intimate rascal, that beloved scamp, to whom I may speak as if nothing had any value but to him—and to me. Why add—to me? Can he be any other, this ideal reader, than my alter ego? Why create a world of one’s own if it must also make sense to every Tom, Dick and Harry? Have not the others this world of everyday, which they profess, to despise yet cling to like drowning rats? Is it not strange how they who refuse, or are too lazy, to create a world of their own insist on invading ours? Who is it tramples the flower beds at night? Who is it leaves cigarette stubs in the bird bath? Who is it pees on the blushing violets and wilts their bloom? We know how you ravage the pages of literature in search of what pleases you. We discover the footprints of your blundering spirit everywhere. It is you who kill genius, you who cripple the giants. You, you, whether through love and adoration or through envy, spite and hatred. Who writes for you writes his own death warrant.
Little sparrow,
Mind, mind out of the way,
Mr. Horse is coming.
Issa-San wrote that. Tell me its value!
17
It was about ten A.M. of a Saturday, just a few minutes after Mona had taken off for the city, when Mrs. Skolsky knocked on the door. I had just taken my seat at the machine and was in a mood to write.
Come in! I said. She entered hesitantly, paused respectfully, then said: There’s a gentleman downstairs wants to see you. Says he’s a friend of yours.
What’s his name?
He wouldn’t give his name. Said not to bother you if you were busy.
(Who the hell could it be? I had given no one our address.)
Tell him I’ll be down in a minute, I said.
When I got to the head of the stairs there he was looking up at me, with a broad grin on his face. MacGregor, no less. The last man on earth I wanted to see.
I’ll bet you’re glad to see me, he piped. Hiding away as usual, I see. How are you, you old bastard?
Come on up!
You’re sure you’re not too busy? This with full sarcasm.
I can always spare ten minutes for an old friend, I replied.
He bounded up the steps. Nice place, he said, as he walked in. How long are you here? Hell, never mind telling me. He sat down on the divan and threw his hat on the table.
Nodding toward the machine he said: Still at it, eh? I thought you had given that up long ago. Boy, you’re a glutton for punishment.
How did you find this place? I asked.
Easy as pie, he said. I phoned your parents. They wouldn’t give me your address but they did give me the phone number. The rest was easy.
I’ll be damned!
What’s the matter, aren’t you glad to see me?
Sure, sure.
You don’t need to worry, I won’t tell anybody. By the way, is what’s her name still with you?
You mean Mona?
Yeah, Mona. I couldn’t remember her name.
Sure she’s with me. Why shouldn’t she be?
I never thought she’d last this long, that’s all. Well, it’s good to know you’re happy.
I’m not! I’m in a jam. One hell of a jam. That’s why I came to see you. I need you.
No, don’t say that! How the hell can I help you? You know I’m…
All I want you to do is listen. Don’t get panicky. I’m in love, that’s what.
That’s fine, I said. What’s wrong with that?
She won’t have me.
I burst out laughing. Is that all? Is that what’s worrying you? You poor sap!
You don’t, understand. It’s different this time. This is love. Let me tell you about her … He paused a full moment. Unless you’re too busy right now. He directed his gaze at the work table, observed the blank sheet in the machine, then added: What is it this time—a novel? Or a philosophical treatise?
It’s nothing, I said. Nothing important.
Sounds strange, he said. Once upon a time everything you did was important, very important. Come on, what are you holding back for? I know I disturbed you, but that’s no reason to clam up on me.
If you really want to know, I’m working on a novel.
A novel? Jesus, Hen, don’t try that … you’ll never write a novel.
Why? What makes you so sure? Because I know you, that’s why. You haven’t any feeling for plot.
Does a novel always have to have a plot? Look, he countered, I don’t want to gum up the works, but…
But what?
Why don’t you stick to your guns? You can write anything, but not a novel.
What makes you think I can write at all?
He hung his head, as if thinking up an answer.
You never thought much of me as a writer, said I. Nobody does.
You’re a writer all right, he said. Maybe you haven’t produced anything worth looking at yet, but you’ve got time. The trouble with you is you’re obstinate.
Obstinate?
Obstinate, yeah! Stubborn, mule-headed. You want to enter by the front door. You want to be different but you don’t want to pay the price. Look, why couldn’t you take a job as a reporter, work your way up, become a correspondent, then tackle the great work? Answer that!
Because it’s a waste of time, that’s why.
Other men have done it. Bigger men than you, some of them. What about Bernard Shaw?
That was O.K. for him, I replied. I have
