wittgenstein's mistress - david markson
DESCRIPTION
Wittgenstein's Mistress - David MarksonTRANSCRIPT
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Wittgenstein'sMistress
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DavidMarkson
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Copyright1988byDavidMarksonAllrightsreserved
ISBN:1-56478-211-5LC:87-73068FirstEdition,May1988
fifthprinting,August2005
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"What an extraordinary
change takes place ... whenforthefirsttimethefactthateverythingdependsuponhowathingisthoughtfirstentersthe consciousness, when, inconsequence, thought in itsabsoluteness replaces anapparentreality."
Kierkegaard
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"WhenIwasstilldoubtfulastohisability,IaskedG.E.Moore for his opinion.Moore replied, 'I think verywell of him indeed.'When Ienquired the reason for hisopinion, he said that it wasbecauseWittgensteinwastheonly man who lookedpuzzledathislectures."
BertrandRussell
"Icanwellunderstandwhy
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childrenlovesand."Wittgenstein
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IN THE BEGINNING,sometimesIleftmessagesinthestreet.Somebody is living in the
Louvre, certain of themessages would say. Or intheNationalGallery.Naturally they could only
say thatwhen Iwas in Parisor in London. Somebody isliving in the Metropolitan
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Museum, being what theywouldsaywhenIwasstillinNewYork.Nobody came, of course.
Eventually I stopped leavingthemessages.Totell thetruth,perhapsI
left only three or fourmessagesaltogether.I have no idea how long
ago itwaswhen Iwasdoingthat. If I were forced toguess, I believe I wouldguesstenyears.
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Possibly it was severalyears longer ago than that,however.And of course Iwas quite
outofmymindforacertainperiodtoo,backthen.Idonotknowforhowlong
a period, but for a certainperiod.Time out of mind.Which
is a phrase I suspect I mayhave never properlyunderstood, now that Ihappentouseit.
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Timeoutofmindmeaningmad, or time out of mindmeaningsimplyforgotten?But in either case there
waslittlequestionaboutthatmadness. As when I drovethat time to that obscurecorner of Turkey, forinstance,tovisitatthesiteofancientTroy.And for some reason
wished especially to look attheriverthere,thatIhadreadabout as well, flowing past
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thecitadeltothesea.I have forgotten the name
of the river, which wasactuallyamuddystream.And at any rate I do not
mean to the sea, but to theDardanelles, which used tobecalledtheHellespont.The name of Troy had
been changed too, naturally.Hisarlik, being what it waschangedto.Inmanywaysmyvisitwas
a disappointment, the site
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being astonishingly small.Like little more than yourordinarycityblockandafewstoriesinheight,practically.Still, from the ruins one
could see Mount Ida, all ofthatdistanceaway.Even in late spring, there
wassnowonthemountain.Somebody went there to
die, I believe, in one of theoldstories.Paris,perhaps.I mean the Paris who had
beenHelen'slover,naturally.
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Andwhowaswoundedquiteneartheendofthatwar.As amatter of fact itwas
Helen I mostly thoughtabout,whenIwasatTroy.I was about to add that I
even dreamed, for a while,that the Greek ships werebeachedtherestill.Well,itwouldhavebeena
harmless enough thing todream.FromHisarlik,thewateris
perhapsanhour'swalkaway.
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What I had planned to donextwas to take an ordinaryrowboat across, and thendriveonintoEuropethroughYugoslavia.Possibly I mean
Yugoslavia. In any case onthatsideofthechannelthereare monuments to thesoldierswhodiedthereinthefirstWorldWar.OnthesidewhereTroyis,
one can find a monumentwhere Achilles was buried,
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somuchlongerago.Well, they say it iswhere
Achilleswasburied.Still,Ifinditextraordinary
thatyoungmendiedthereinawarthatlongago,andthendied in the same place threethousandyearsafterthat.But be that as it may, I
changed my mind aboutcrossing the Hellespont. Bywhich I mean theDardanelles.What I didwaspick out amotor launch and
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go by way of the GreekislandsandAthens,instead.Evenwithonlyapagetorn
out of an atlas, instead ofmaritime charts, it took meonly two unhurried days toget to Greece. A good dealabout that ancient war wasdoubtless greatlyexaggerated.Still, certain things can
touchachord.Suchas for instanceaday
or two after that, seeing the
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Parthenon by the lateafternoonsun.It was that winter during
whichIlivedintheLouvre,Ibelieve.Burningartifactsandpictureframesforwarmth,inapoorlyventilatedroom.But then with the first
signs of thaw, switchingvehicles whenever I ran lowon gas, started back acrosscentral Russia to make mywayhomeagain.All of this being
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indisputably true, if as I saylongago.AndifasIalsosay,Imaywellhavebeenmad.Thenagain Iamnotatall
certain I was mad when IdrovetoMexico,beforethat.Possibly before that. To
visitat thegraveofachildIhad lost, even longer agothanallofthis,namedAdam.WhyhaveIwrittenthathis
namewasAdam?Simon is what my little
boywasnamed.
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Time out of mind.Meaning that one can evenmomentarilyforgetthenameof one's only child, whowouldbethirtybynow?Idoubtthirty.Saytwenty-
six,ortwenty-seven.AmIfifty,then?There is only one mirror,
here in this house on thisbeach. Perhaps the mirrorsaysfifty.My hands say that. It has
cometoshowonthebacksof
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myhands.Conversely I am still
menstruating. Irregularly, sothat often it will go on forweeks, but then will notoccur again until I havealmostforgottenaboutit.PerhapsIamnomorethan
forty-seven or forty-eight. Iam certain that I onceattempted to keep amakeshift accounting,possibly of the months butsurelyatleastoftheseasons.
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But I do not even rememberanylongerwhenitwasthatIunderstoodIhadalreadylongsincelosttrack.Still, I believe Iwas soon
going tobeforty,backwhenallofthisbegan.HowI left thosemessages
waswithwhitepaint.Inhugeblockletters,atintersections,where anybody coming orgoingwouldsee.I burned artifacts and
certain other objects when I
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was at the MetropolitanMuseumtoo,naturally.Well, I had a fire there
perpetually,winters.That fire was different
from the fire I had at theLouvre.WhereIbuiltthefirein the Metropolitan was inthatgreathall,justwhereonegoesinandout.As a matter of fact I
manufactured a high tinchimney above it, too. Sothat the smokecoulddrift to
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theskylightshighabovethat.WhatIhadtodowasshoot
holes in the skylight, once Ihadconstructedthechimney.I did that with a pistol,
quite carefully, at an anglefromoneofthebalconies,sothat the smokewouldgooutbut the rainwould not comein.Rain came in. Not much
rain,butsome.Well,eventuallyitcamein
through other windows as
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well, when those broke ofthemselves. Or of theweather.Windows break still.
Several are broken here, inthishouse.It is summer at present,
however. Nor do I mind therain.Upstairs, one can see the
ocean. Down here there aredunes, which obstruct one'sview.Actuallythisismysecond
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house on this same beach.The first, I burned to theground.Iamstillnotcertainhow that happened, thoughperhaps I had been cooking.ForamomentIwalkedtothedunes to urinate, andwhen Ilooked back everything wasablaze.Thesebeachhousesareall
wood, of course.All I coulddo was sit at the dunes andwatch it burn. It burned allnight.
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I still notice the burnedhouse, mornings, when Iwalkalongthebeach.Well, obviously I do not
notice the house. What Inoticeiswhatremainsofthehouse.One is still prone to think
of a house as a house,however,even if there isnotremarkablymuchleftofit.This one has weathered
fairly well, come to thinkaboutit.Thenextsnowswill
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bemythirdhere,Ibelieve.ProbablyIshouldcompose
a list of where else I havebeen, if only for my ownedification.Imeanbeginningwith my old loft in SoHo,beforetheMetropolitan.Andthenmytrips.Although doubtless I have
lost track of a good deal ofthatbynow,aswell.I do remember sitting one
morning in an automobilewith a right-hand drive and
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watching Stratford-on-Avonfillupwithsnow,whichmustsurelyberare.Well, and once that same
winter being almost hit by acar with nobody driving it,which came rolling down ahillnearHampsteadHeath.There was an explanation
for the car coming down thehillwithnobodydrivingit.The explanation having
beenthehill,obviously.That car, too, had a right-
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handdrive.Althoughperhapsthatisnotespeciallyrelevanttoanything.And in either case I may
have made an error, earlier,when I said I left amessagein the street saying thatsomebody was living in theNationalGallery.Where I lived in London
was the Tate Gallery, whereso many of the paintings byJoseph Mallord WilliamTurnerare.
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I am quite certain that IlivedattheTate.Thereisanexplanationfor
this, too. The explanationbeing that one can see theriver,fromthere.Livingalone,one isapt to
preferaviewofwater.I have always admired
Turner as well, however. Infact his own paintings ofwater may well have been apart of what led to mydecision.
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Once, Turner had himselflashed to themast of a shipfor several hours, during afurious storm, so that hecouldlaterpaintthestorm.Obviously, it was not the
storm itself that Turnerintended to paint. What heintended to paint was arepresentationofthestorm.One's language is
frequently imprecise in thatmanner,Ihavediscovered.Actually, the story of
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Turner being lashed to themast reminds me ofsomething, even though Icannot remember what itremindsmeof.I also seem not to
rememberwhatsortofafireIhadattheTate.At the Rijksmuseum, in
Amsterdam, I removedTheNight Watchby Rembrandtfrom its frame when I waskeeping warm there too,incidentally.
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I am quite certain Iintended to get to Madridaround that time also, sincethere is one painting at thePrado by Rogier van derWeyden,The Descent fromthe Cross,that I had wishedto see again. But for somereason, at Bordeaux, Iswitched to a car that wasfacing back in the otherdirection.Then again perhaps I had
actually crossed the Spanish
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borderasfarastoPamplona.Well, often I did
unpremeditated things inthose days, as I have said.Once, from the top of theSpanish Steps in Rome, forno reason except that I hadcomeuponaVolkswagenvanfull of them, I let hundredsand hundreds of tennis ballsbounceoneafter theother tothebottom,everywhichwaypossible.Watching how they struck
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tiny irregularities or wornspots in the stone, andchanged direction, orguessing how far across thepiazza down below each oneofthemwouldgo.Several of them bounced
catty-corner and struck thehousewhereJohnKeatsdied,infact.There is a plaque on the
house,statingthatJohnKeatsdiedthere.The plaque is in Italian,
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naturally. Giovanni Keats, itcallshim.The name of the river at
Hisarlik is the Scamander, Inowremember.In theIliad,by Homer, it
is referred to as a mightyriver.Well, perhaps it was, at
one time. Many things canchange, in three thousandyears.Even so, sitting above it
oneeveningontheexcavated
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walls, andgazing toward thechannel, I was almostpositive one could still seethe Greek watchfires, beinglightedalongtheshore.Well, as I have said,
perhaps I did not really letmyselfthinkthat.Still, certain things are
harmlessenoughtothink.The next morning, when
dawn appeared, I was quitecontent toconsider itarosy-fingered dawn, for instance.
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Even though the sky wasmurky.Meanwhile I have just
taken time to move mybowels. I do not go to thedunes for that, but down tothe ocean itself, where thetidewillwashin.Going, I stopped first in
the woods beside the houseforsomeleaves.And afterward went for
waterfrommyspring,whichis perhaps a hundred paces
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alongthepathintheoppositedirectionfromthebeach.Ihavea stream, too.Even
ifitishardlytheThames.At the Tate I did bring in
my water from the river,however. One has been abletodo that sort of thing for alongwhile,now.Well,onecoulddrinkfrom
theArno,inFlorence,aslongago as when I lived at theUffizi. Or from the Seine,whenIwouldcarryapitcher
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down the quay from theLouvre.In the beginning I drank
onlybottledwater,naturally.In the beginning I had
accouterments, aswell.Suchas generators, for use withelectricalheatingdevices.Water and warmth were
theessentials,ofcourse.I do not remember which
camefirst,becomingadeptatmaintaining fires, and sosheddingdevicesofthatsort,
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ordiscoveringthatonecoulddrink any water one wishedagain.Perhapsbecomingadeptat
fires came first. Even if Ihave burned two houses totheground,overtheyears.Themorerecent,asIhave
noted,wasaccidental.WhyIburnedthefirstone
I would rather not go toodeeply into. I did that quitedeliberately,however.ThatwasinMexico,onthe
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morning after I had visitedpoorSimon'sgrave.Well, itwas the housewe
had all lived in. I honestlybelieved I had planned tostayon,foratime.What I did was spill
gasolinealloverSimon'soldroom.Much of the morning I
couldstillseethesmokeriseand rise, in my rearviewmirror.NowIhave twoenormous
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fireplaces.Hereinthishouseby the sea, I am talkingabout.And in the kitchen anantiquatedpotbelliedstove.Ihavegrownquitefondof
thestove.Simon had been seven, by
theway.A variety of berries grow
nearby. And less thanminutespastmystreamthereare various vegetables, infields that were oncecultivated but are of course
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nowwildlyovergrown.Beyond the window at
whichIamsittingthebreezeis friskingwith ten thousandleaves. Sunlight breaksthroughthewoodsinmottledbrightpatches.Flowersgrowtoo, ingreat
profusion.Itisadayforsomemusic,
actually, although I have nomeans of providing myselfwithany.Foryears,wherever Iwas,
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I generally did contrive toplaysome.ButwhenIbegantogetridofdevicesIhadtogiveupthemusicaswell.Baggage,basically,iswhat
Igotridof.Well,things.Now and again one
happenstohearcertainmusicinone'shead,however.Well, a fragment of
something or other, in anycase. Antonio Vivaldi, say.OrJoanBaez,singing.Not too long ago I even
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heard a passage fromLesTroyens,byBerlioz.When I say heard, I am
sayingsoonlyinamannerofspeaking,ofcourse.Still, perhaps there is
baggageafterall, forall thatIbelievedIhad leftbaggagebehind.Ofasort.Thebaggagethat
remains in one's head,meaning remnants ofwhateveroneeverknew.Such as the birthdays of
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people like Pablo Picasso orJacksonPollock,forinstance,which I am convinced ImightstillreciteifIwished.Or telephone numbers,
fromallofthoseyearsago.There is a telephone right
here, actually, no more thanthree or four steps behindwhereIamsitting.Naturally I was speaking
aboutnumbersfortelephoneswhichfunction,however.In fact there is a second
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telephone upstairs, near thecushionedwindow seat fromwhich I watch the sun godown,mostevenings.Thecushions,likesomuch
else here at the beach, aremusty. Even on the hottestdays, one senses thedampness.Books become ruined by
it.Books being more of the
baggage I got rid of,incidentally.Evenifthereare
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stillmany in thishouse, thatwereherewhenIarrived.I should perhaps indicate
that there are eight rooms inthe house, although I makeuseofonlytwoorthree.Actually I did read, at
times, over the years.EspeciallywhenIwasmad,Ireadagooddeal.One winter, I read almost
all of the ancient Greekplays. As a matter of fact Iread them out loud. And
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throughout, finishing thereverse side of each pagewould tear it from the bookanddropitintomyfire.Aeschylus and Sophocles
and Euripides, I turned intosmoke.In a manner of speaking,
one might think of it thatway.In a different manner of
speaking, one might declareit was Helen andClytemnestra and Electra,
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whomIdidthatwith.For the life of me I have
noideawhyIdidthat.If I had understoodwhy I
was doing that, doubtless Iwouldnothavebeenmad.Had I not been mad,
doubtless I would not havedoneitatall.Iamlessthanpositivethat
those last two sentencesmakeanyparticularsense.In either case neither do I
remember where it was,
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exactly, that I read theplaysandburnedthepages.Possibly itwasafter Ihad
gone to ancient Troy, whichmay have beenwhat putmeinmindoftheplaystobeginwith.Orwouldreadingtheplays
have been what put me inmind of going to ancientTroy?Itdidrunon,thatmadness.Iwas not necessarilymad
when I went to Mexico,
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however.Surelyonedoesnothave to bemad to decide tovisit the grave of one's deadlittleboy.But certainly I was mad
when I drove the breadth ofAlaska, to Nome, and thenpointed a boat across theBeringStrait.Even if I did seek out
charts,thattime.Well,andhadonceknown
boats,aswell.Butstill.Yet after that
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paradoxically made my waywestwardacrossallofRussiawithscarcelyanymapsatall.Driving out of the sun eachmorningandthenwaitingforit to appear ahead of me asthe day progressed, simplyfollowingthesun.Brooding upon Fyodor
DostoievskiasIwent.Actually, I was keeping a
weather eye out for RodionRomanovitchRaskolnikov.Did I stop at the
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Hermitage? Why do I notremember if I stopped inMoscowatall?Well, quite possibly I
drove right past Moscowwithout knowing it, notspeaking one word ofRussian.When I say not speaking
oneword,Imeannotreadingoneeither,obviously.And why did I write that
pretentious line aboutDostoievski, when I do not
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have any notion now if Iallotted a moment's thoughttotheman?More baggage, then. At
least here and now while Iam typing, if not at thatearliertime.AsamatteroffactwhenI
docked the launch after thelast island and went huntingforanautomobileagainIwaspossibly even surprised thattheyhadRussianprintingontheir license plates. Having
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half imaginedthatIought tobeinChina.Though it strikes me at
only this instant that onepossesses certain Chinesebaggagetoo,ofcourse.Some. There seems no
pointinillustratingthefact.Even if I happen to be
drinking souchong tea as Isaythat.And in either case the
Hermitage may be inLeningrad.
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Then again there is noquestion that I was,decidedly, looking forRaskolnikov.Using Raskolnikov as a
symbol, one can decidedlysay that I was looking forRaskolnikov.Thoughonecouldalsosay
that I was looking forAnnaKarenina, just as readily. OrforDmitriShostakovich.IwaslookingwhenIwent
toMexicotoo,naturally.
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Hardly for Simon, since IknewalltoowellthatSimonwas in that grave. Lookingfor Emiliano Zapata then,perhaps.Again symbolically,
looking for Zapata. Or forBenito Juarez. Or for DavidAlfaroSiqueiros.Looking for anybody,
anywhereatall.Well, even mad was
looking, or for what earthlyreason else, would I have
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gonewandering off to all ofthoseotherplaces?And had been looking on
every streetcorner in NewYork before that, naturally.Even before I moved out ofSoHo, had been lookingeverywhereinNewYork.And so was still looking
that winter when I lived inMadrid,aswell.I amnotcertainwhether I
havementionedmyperiodinMadrid.
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InMadridIdidnotliveatthe Prado, as it turned out.PerhapsIhavesuggestedthatIhadthoughttodoso,butitwastoobadlylighted.ItisnaturallightthatIam
speaking about in this case,alreadyhavingbeguntoshedmostofmydevicesbythen.Only when the sun is
especially fierce can onebegin to see that Rogier vanderWeydenthewayitwantstobeseen.
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I can attest to thiscategorically, having evenwashed the windows nearestit.Where I lived in Madrid
was in a hotel.Choosing theone they had named afterVelazquez.Looking, there, for Don
Quixote.OrforElGreco.OrforFranciscodeGoya.How poetic most Spanish
names generally sound. Onecansaythemoverandover.
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SorJuana Insde laCruz.Marco Antonio Montes deOca.Though in fact both of
those may be names fromMexicoagain.Looking. Dear heaven,
howanxiouslyIlooked.Idonotrememberwhenit
wasthatIstoppedlooking.IntheAdriatic,whenIwas
on my way from Troy toGreece, a ketch swoopedtoward me swiftly, its tall
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spinnakertakingnoisywind.Just imagine how that
startledme,andhowIfelt.OnemomentIwassailing,
as alone as ever, and amoment after that there wastheketch.Butithadonlybeenadrift.
Through all of that time,presumably.Wouldithavebeenaslong
asfourorfiveyears,bythen?I am almost certain that IremainedinNewYorkforat
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least two winters, before Iwentlookingelsewhere.Near Lesbos, I saw that
ketch.OrperhapsScyros.IsScyrosoneoftheGreek
islands?Oneforgets.Thereisaloss
ofbaggageunwittingly,too.As amatter of fact I now
suspect I ought to have saidthe Aegean when I said theAdriatic, a few paragraphsago.Surely it is theAegean,betweenTroyandGreece.
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This tea is baggage of asort also, I suppose. Thoughin this case I did seek it outagain, after that other beachhouse burned. Little as Iburdenmyselfwith,didwishfortea.And some cigarettes as
well, although I smoke verylittle,thesedays.Well, and other staples
too,naturally.The cigarettes are the sort
that come in tins. Those in
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paperhadbeguntotastestalesomewhileago.Most things did, which
werepackaged thatway.Notto spoil, necessarily, but toturndry.As a matter of fact my
cigarettes happen to beRussian. That is justcoincidence,however.Hereabouts, everything
staysdamp.Ihavesaidthat.Still, when I remove it
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from a drawer, often myclothingfeelsclammy.Generally, summers as
now,Iwearnothingatall.I do have underpants and
shorts, and several denimskirts that wrap around, andsome few cotton jerseys. Iwash everything at thestream, and then spread itacrossbushestodry.Well,Ihavemoreclothing
than that. Winter makesdemands.
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Except for gatheringfirewood beforehand,however, I have taken toworrying about winter whenwinterappears.When it is here, itwill be
here.When the leaves fall,
generally the woods remainbarren for a time before thesnows, and I can see all thewaytothespring,oreventothe continuation of my pathtothehighwaybeyond.
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It requires perhaps fortyminutes to walk along thehighwaytothetown.There are stores, some
few, and there is a gasstation.Kerosene is still to be
foundatthelatter.I rarely make use of my
lamps, however. Even whenwhat seems the lastglimmerof sunset isgone, traces stillreach the room I climbupstairstosleepin.
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Through another windowat its opposite side the rosy-fingereddawnawakensme.Certain mornings the
phrasedoeshappen to fit, asamatteroffact.The houses along this
beach would appear tocontinue endlessly, by theway. In any case infinitelyfarther thanIhavechosen towalk in either direction andstill be able to return bynightfall.
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Somewhere I have aflashlight. In the glovecompartment of the pickuptruck,possibly.The pickup truck is at the
highway.IsuspectthatImayhave neglected to run thebatteryforsometime,now.Doubtless there are still
unused batteries at the gasstation.Sister Juana Ins de la
Cruz. I no longer have anyideawhoshemayhavebeen,
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totellthetruth.TotellthetruthIwouldbe
equally hard pressed toidentify Marco AntonioMontesdeOca.In the National Portrait
Gallery, inLondon,which isnot one of the museums Ichose to live in, I was notabletorecognizeeightoutoften of the faces in theportraits.Orevenalmostthatmany of the names,identifyingtheportraits.
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Idonotmeanin thecasesof people like WinstonChurchill or the BrontsistersortheQueenorDylanThomas,obviously.Still,thissaddenedme.Andwhydoesitcomeinto
mind that I would like toinform Dylan Thomas thatonecannowkneelanddrinkfrom theLoire,or thePo,ortheMississippi?Or would Dylan Thomas
have already been dead
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before it became impossibleto do such things, meaningthathewouldlookatmeasifIweremadalloveragain?Certainly Achilles would.
OrShakespeare.OrEmilianoZapata.I do not remember Dylan
Thomas'sdates.Andanyway,doubtless there was nospecificdateforpollution.Oneoneeight six, the last
four digits of somebody'sphone number may have
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been.Actually, I have never
been to the Mississippieither. Going and comingfrom Mexico I did drinkfrom the Rio Grande,however.WhydoIsaysuchthings?
Obviously I would have hadto cross the Mississippi aswell,bothways,onthesametrip.Still, it appears I have no
recollectionofthat.OrwasI
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madthenalso?The queer selection of
books that I read in thatperiod, good heavens.Virtually every solitary oneof them about that identicalwar.But frequently making up
newversionsofthestoriesonmy own part, too, one'sfanciful privateimprovisations.Such as Helen, slipping
down from the battlements
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and meetingAchilles besidetheScamanderonthesly.Or Penelope, making love
tooneafteranotherofallofthosesuitors,whileOdysseuswasaway.Wouldn'tshehave?Surely,
with so many of themhangingabout?Andifitwastruly ten years for the warand still another ten beforethat husband of hersmaterialized?For some reason a part I
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always liked was Achillesdressing like a girl andhiding,sothattheywouldnotmakehimgotofight.There is a painting of
Penelope weaving in theNationalGallery,actually,bysomebody namedPintoricchio.I have said that quite
badly,Isuspect.Onescarcelymeaning that
where Penelope is doing herweaving is in the National
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Gallery. Where she is doingthatisontheislandofIthaca,naturally.Ithacabeing inneither the
Adriaticnor theAegeanSea,incidentally, but in theIonian.The things that do remain
inone'sheadafterall.Ishouldalsoperhapspoint
out that theNationalGalleryand the National PortraitGallery are not the samemuseum, even though they
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arebothinLondon.Asamatteroffacttheyare
not the same museum eventhough they are both in thesamebuilding.ConverselyIknownext to
nothing about Pintoricchio,though I once knew a greatdealaboutmanypainters.Well, I knew a great deal
about many painters for thesame reason that Achillesmust surely have known agreatdealaboutHector,say.
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All I can remember aboutthe painting of Penelope isthat there is a cat in it,however, playingwith a ballofyarn.Doubtless the inclusion of
the cat was scarcelyinnovative on Pintoricchio'spart. Still, it is perhapsagreeable to think aboutPenelope with a pet,especially if I have beenwrong about her and thesuitors.
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Ishouldhavealsoperhapssaid long before this that Iharbor sincere doubts thatthat war did last those tenyears.Or that Helen was the
causeofit.A single Spartan girl, as
somebody once called her.Afterall.But what I am basically
thinking about here is howdisappointingly small theruinsofTroyturnouttobe.
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Like littlemore than yourordinary city block and onlya few stories in height,practically.Well, though with people
having lived outside of thecitadeltoo,ontheplains.Butstill.In theOdyssey,when she
isolder,Helenhasasplendidradiant dignity. I read thosepages two or three times,where Odysseus's sonTelemachuscomestovisit.
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Which means I could nothave been tearing them outand dropping them into thefire,asIdidwhenIreadtheplays.Meanwhile I have just
been to the dunes again. Forsome reason while I waspeeing I thought aboutLawrenceofArabia.Well, I can hardly be said
to have thought about him,since I know little moreabout Lawrence of Arabia
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than I do aboutPintoricchio.Still,LawrenceofArabiadidcomeintomind.I can think of no
connectionbetweenmakingapeeandLawrenceofArabia.There is still that frisky
breeze. It is early August,possibly.For a moment, strolling
back, I may have beenhearing some Brahms. Iwould sayThe AltoRhapsody,though I doubt
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that I rememberThe AltoRhapsody.Doubtless there was a
portrait of Lawrence ofArabia at the NationalPortraitGallery.And now I have the name
T.E.Shawinmyhead.Butitis onemore of those flittingidentities that I cannot at allcatchholdof.None of that troubles me,
bytheway.Very little does, as I may
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or may not have madeevident.Well,howridiculousunder
the circumstances, should Iletanythingdoso.Idofretnowandagain, if
fret is the word, over anarthritic shoulder. The left,which at times leaves memoderatelyincapacitated.Sunshine is a help,
however.My teeth, on the other
hand, do not speak of fifty
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yearsat all.Knockonwood,aboutmyteeth.I cannot remember
anything about my mother'steeth,tryingtothinkback.Ormyfather's.At any rate perhaps I am
nomorethanforty-seven.IcannotenvisionHelenof
Troy with dental problems.Or Clytemnestra witharthritis.There was Cezanne, of
course.
-
Although it was notCezannebutwasRenoir.Ihavenoidea,anylonger,
where any of my ownpainting materials may havegottento,bytheway.Once during these years I
did stretch one canvas,actually.A monstrosity of acanvas, in fact, at least ninefeet by five. In fact I alsosizeditwithnolessthanfourcoatsofgesso.Andthereaftergazedatit.
-
Months, I suspect, Igazedat that canvas. Possibly Ieven foolishly squeezed outsome pigments onto mypallet.As a matter of fact I
believe it was when I wentback to Mexico, that I didthat.InthehousewhereIhadonce lived with Simon, andwithAdam.Iambasicallypositivethat
my husband was namedAdam.
-
And then after months ofgazing set fire to the canvaswith gasoline one morninganddroveaway.Across the wide
Mississippi.Once in a great while I
could almost see things inthatcanvas,however.Almost. Achilles, for
instance,inhisgriefafterthedeath of his friend, when hecovered himself with ashes.Or Clytemnestra, after
-
Agamemnon had sacrificedtheir daughter to raise windfortheGreekships.I have no idea why
Achilles dressing like a girlisapartthatIalwaysliked.For that matter it was a
woman who wrote theOdy s s e y,somebody oncesaid.When I was back in
Mexico, all through thatwinterIcouldnotridmyselfoftheoldhabitofturningmy
-
shoes upside down eachmorning, so that anyscorpions inside might fallout.Anynumberofhabitsdied
hard, that way. For someyears I continued to findmyself locking doors,similarly.Well, and in London.
FrequentlytakingthetroubletodriveontheBritishsideoftheroad.After his grief, Achilles
-
got even by slaying Hector,althoughHectorranandran.Iwasabouttoaddthatthis
was the sort of thing menusedtodo.Butafterherowngrief Clytemnestra killedAgamemnon.Needing some assistance.
Butnonetheless.Something tells me,
obliquely,thatthatmayhavebeenoneofthenotionsIhad,for my canvas. Agamemnonat his bath, ensnared in that
-
net and being stabbedthroughit.Heaven only knows why
anybody could have wishedfor such a bloody subject,however.AsamatteroffactwhomI
really may have thought topaint was Helen. At one ofthe burned-out boats alongthe strand, when the siegewasfinallyended,beingkeptprisoner.But with that splendid
-
dignity,evenso.To tell the truth it was
actually just below thecentral staircase in theMetropolitan,whereIsetthatcanvas up. Under those highskylights where my bulletholeswere.Where I had situated my
bed was on one of thebalconies, overlooking thatarea.The bed itself I had taken
fromoneofthereconstructed
-
period rooms, I believe,possiblyAmericanColonial.WhatIhaddoneaboutthat
chimney I had constructedwas to wire it to the samebalconies, so that it wouldnotlist.Though Iwas stillmaking
useofallsortsofdevices,inthose days. And so hadelectricheatersalso.Well, and innumerable
lights,particularlywhere thecanvaswas.
-
A nine-foot brilliantlyilluminated Electra, I mighthave painted, had I thoughtaboutit.I did not think about it
untilthisimmediateinstant.Poor Electra. To wish to
murderone'sownmother.Well, all of those people.
Wrist deep in it, the lot ofthem,whenonecomesdowntothat.Irene Papas would have
been an effective Electra,
-
however.Infactshewasaneffective
Helen,inTheTrojanWomen,byEuripides.Perhaps I have not
indicated that I watched acertainfewfilmswhileIstillpossesseddevices,also.Irene Papas andKatharine
Hepburn inThe TrojanWo m e nwas one. MariaCallasinMedeawasanother.Mymother did have false
teeth,Inowremember.
-
Well, and in that glassbeside her bed, those finalweeksinthehospital.Oh,dear.Though I have a vague
recollectionthattheprojectorI brought into the museumstopped functioning after Ihad used it no more thanthreeorfourtimes,andthatIdidnottroubletoreplaceit.When I was still at my
loft, in the beginning, Ibrought in at least thirty
-
portable radios, and tunedeach one to a differentnumberonthedial.Actually those worked by
batteries,notelectricity.Obviously that was how
they worked, since I doubtthatIwouldhavesolvedhowa generator operated, thatearlyon.My aunt Esther died of
cancer, as well. ThoughEstherwasmyfather'ssister,actually.
-
Here, at least, there isalwaysasoundofthesea.Andrightatthismomenta
strand of tape at a brokenwindow in the room next tothisoneismakingscratchingsounds,frommybreeze.Mornings,whentheleaves
are dewy, some of them arelikejewelswheretheearliestsunlightglistens.Acatscratching,thatloose
stripoftapecouldbe.Wherewouldithavebeen,
-
thatIreadallofthosebloodystoriesoutloud?I am fairly certain that I
had not yet gone to Europewhen I wore my lastwristwatches, if that is at allrelevant.I doubt that wearing
thirteen or fourteenwristwatches, along thelength of one's forearm, isespeciallyrelevant.Well, and for a period
several gold pocket watches
-
also, on a cord around myneck.Actually somebody wore
analarmclockthatverywayinanovelIonceread.I would say it was inThe
Recognitions,by WilliamGaddis, except that I do notbelieve I have ever readTheRecogni t ionsby WilliamGaddis.In any case I am more
likely thinking of TaddeoGaddi, even though Taddeo
-
Gaddiwasapainterandnotawriter.What did I do with those
watches,Iwonder?Worethem.Well. But each of them
with an alarm of its own, aswell.What I normally did was
set the alarms so that eachone of the watches wouldringatadifferenthour.I did that for some time.
All day long, every hour, a
-
differentwatchwouldring.In theevening Iwouldset
all fourteen of them all overagain. Except that in thatcaseIwouldsetthemtoringsimultaneously.This was before I had
learned to depend upon thedawn,doubtless.They rarely did that
anyway. Ringsimultaneously,Imean.Even when that appeared
tobethecase,onelearnedto
-
wait for thosewhichhadnotstartedringingyet.When I say they rang, I
mean that theybuzzed,moretruthfully.In a town called Corinth,
in Mississippi, which is notnear the Mississippi River,parking a car on a smallbridge I divested myself ofthewatches.I believeCorinth. Iwould
need an atlas, to reassuremyself.
-
Actually, there is an atlasin this house. Somewhere.PerhapsinoneoftheroomsIhavestoppedgoinginto.For an entire day I sat in
the car and waited for eachwatchtoringinitsturn.And then dropped each as
it did so into the water.Whatever bodyofwater thatmayhavebeen.One or two did not ring.
What I did was reset themandsleepin thecarandthen
-
get rid of those when theyrangformorning.Stillringinglikeallof the
restwhenIdiscardedthem.Totellthetruth,Ididthat
in a town somewhere inPennsylvania. The name ofthe town was Lititz,Pennsylvania.All of thiswas some time
before I rolled the tennisballsdowntheSpanishStepsinRome,bytheway.I make the connection
-
between getting rid of thewatches and rolling thetennisballsdowntheSpanishSteps because I am positivethat getting rid of thewatchesalsooccurredbeforeI saw the cat, which waslikewiseinRome.WhenIsaythatIsawacat
Imean that I believed I sawone,naturally.And the reason I am
positivethatthishappenedinRomeisbecauseithappened
-
at the Colosseum, which isindisputablyinthatcity.WhereIbelievedIsawthe
cat was at one of thearchways in the Colosseum,quitefarup.HowIfelt.Inthemidstof
allthatlooking.Andsowentscurryingtoa
supermarket for canned catfood.As quickly as I realized I
could not locate the catagain,thatwouldhavebeen.
-
And then every morningfor a week, opened cans bythe carton and went aboutsettingthemoutonthestoneseats.As many cans as there
must have been Romanswatching the Christians,practically.But next speculated that
the cat might possiblyreappearonlyatnight,beingfrightened, and so rigged upyet another generator and
-
floodlights,even.ThoughofcourseIhadno
way of telling if the cat hadnibbled at any of the foodbehind my back, since mostof the cans had not seemedquitefulltobeginwith.Still, I felt that to be
unquestionably worthchecking on, several timeseachday.What I named the catwas
Nero.Here,Nero,Iwouldcall.
-
Well,IsuspectImayhavetried Julius Caesar andHerodotusandPontiusPilateatvariousmoments,also.Herodotus may have been
awasteof timewithacat inRome,nowthatIthinkaboutit.Doubtlessthecansarestill
there in either case, linedupacrossallofthoseseats.Rainswouldhaveemptied
them completely by now,assuredly.
-
DoubtlesstherewasnocatattheColosseum.Though I also called the
cat Calpurnia, after a time,when it struck me that Ishouldcoverallbases.Doubtless there was no
seagulleither.It is the seagull which
broughtmetothisbeach,thatIamspeakingaboutnow.High, high, against the
clouds, little more than aspeck, but then swooping in
-
thedirectionofthesea.Iwillbetruthful.InRome,
whenIthoughtIsawthecat,I was undeniably mad. AndsoIthoughtIsawthecat.Here,whenIthoughtIsaw
the seagull, I was not mad.SoIknewIhadnotseentheseagull.Now and again, things
burn. I do not mean onlywhen I have set fire to themmyself, but out of naturalhappenstance. And so bits
-
and pieces of residue willsometimes be wafted greatdistances, or to astonishingheights.I had finally gotten
accustomedtothose.Still, I would have vastly
preferred to believe I hadseentheseagull.As amatter of fact itwas
much more probably thethought of sunsets, whichbroughtmetothisbeach.Well, or of the sound of
-
thesea.After I had finally
determinedthatImayaswellstoplooking,thisis.Have I mentioned looking
in Damascus, Syria, or inBethlehem, or in Troy, NewYork?Once, nearLakeComo, at
a stone stairway thatreminded me somewhat ofthe Spanish Steps, I putseveral loose coins that hadbeen lying inmyJeep intoa
-
public telephone, intendingtoaskforGiovanniKeats.Ihadno idea ifKeatshad
ever visited Lake Como,actually.ForsomeweeksinMexico
I drove a Jeep also.And sowas able to maneuverdirectly up the hillside,instead of taking the road,each time I went to thecemetery.How many different
vehicleshaveImadeuseof,I
-
suddenlywonder,sinceallofthisstarted?Well,morethanonecould
havekept trackof just downto Cuernavaca or back,surely. What with having toswitch at somany obstacles,even disregarding when oneranoutofgas.By obstacles I most
generally mean other cars,naturally. In whatevernuisance locations they hadcometoastop.
-
And on top of which Ialways foolishly troubled totransferallofmybaggageaswell,inthosedays.Excepting when I was
forced to walk tooconsiderable a distancebetween one vehicle and thenext,ofcourse.But even then, would
repeatedly burden myselfwithmoreof the same innotime.Here, I have three denim
-
skirts that wrap around, andsomecottonjerseys.Most of which at the
moment are lying acrossbushes,dryinginthesun.Idriveonlyrarelynow,as
well.As a matter of fact the
clothingoutatthespringhasbeendryforsomedays.Inautumn,aftertheleaves
have fallen, I would be abletoseeitfromexactlywhereIam sitting at this moment,
-
possibly.The cat at the Colosseum
was russet colored,incidentally.Thegullwasyourordinary
gull.Actuallyitwasash,carried
astonishingly high androckedbybreezes.Every last one of those
skirts and jerseys has gottenfaded, because I almostalwaysforgetaboutthemouttherelikethis.
-
I am wearing underpants,but only because the seat ofthischairhasnocushion.I have also just brought
blueberries in from thekitchen.Was it really some other
person I was so anxious todiscover, when I did all ofthat looking, or was it onlymyownsolitudethatIcouldnotabide?Wandering through this
endlessnothingness.Once in
-
awhile,whenIwasnotmad,Iwouldturnpoeticinstead.Ihonestlydid letmyself thinkaboutthingsinsuchways.The eternal silence of
these infinite spacesfrightens me. For instance Ithoughtaboutthemlikethat,also.Inamannerofspeaking,I
thoughtaboutthemlikethat.Actually I underlined that
sentence in a book, namedt hePensees,when I was in
-
college.Doubtless Iunderlined the
sentence about wanderingthrough an endlessnothingness in somebodyelse'sbook,aswell.The cat that Pintoricchio
put into the painting ofPenelope weaving may havebeengray,Ihaveafeeling.Once, I had a dream of
fame.Generally,eventhen,Iwas
lonely.
-
LatertodayIwillpossiblymasturbate.Idonotmeantoday,since
itisalreadytomorrow.Well, it is already
tomorrow insofar as that Ihave watched a sunset andhad a night's sleep since Ibegan typing these pages.WhichIbeganyesterday.Perhaps I ought to have
notedthat.Whenthewoodsstartedto
fillupwithshadows,andthis
-
corner darkened, I went intothe kitchen and ate more ofthe blueberries, and then Iwentupstairs.Yesterday's sunset was an
abstract expressionist sunset.It is about a week since thelasttimeIhadaTurner.I do notmasturbate often.
Though at times I do soalmost without being awareofit,actually.Atthedunes,perhaps.Just
sitting, being lulled by the
-
surf.Thereisanebb,isall.I suspect I have done it
whiledrivingtoo,however.I am quite certain that I
masturbated on a road in LaMancha once, near a castlethat I kept on seeing andseeing, but that I neverappearedtogetanycloserto.There was an explanation
for not getting any closer tothecastle.Theexplanationbeingthat
-
thecastlewasbuiltonahill,and that the road went in aflat circlearound thebottomofthehillthatthecastlewasbuilton.Verylikelyonecouldhave
driven around that castleeternally, never actuallyarrivingatit.Before I ever saw one, I
would have supposed thatcastles in Spain was just aphrase.Therearecastles.
-
Near someplace calledSavona,whichisnotinSpainbut in Italy, I went off theroad,once.Part of the embankment
had fallen away. This is onthe seacoast, that I amtalking about, so that if onegoesoffanembankmentonehasgoneintowater.Instead of watching a
castle I had been watchingthewater,doubtless.Asamatteroffactthecar
-
turnedover.Only my shoulder hurt,
somemomentsafterward.Well, the very shoulder
thatisnowarthritic,cometothink about it. I had nevermadethatconnectionbefore.Perhaps there is no
connection.In either case the car also
begantofillupwithwater.Interestingly,Ididnotfeel
frightened in the least. Orperhapsitwastherealization
-
that I had not badly injuredmyself,whichreassuredme.Still, I understood that
openingmydoorandgettingout would be a sensiblenotion under thecircumstances.Iwasnotable toopenmy
door.During all of this time I
wasontheroofofthecar,bytheway.Imeanontheinsideofthe
roof,obviously.Andwiththe
-
rubber mat from the floorhavingfallenontopofme.I do not remember what
kindofacarIwasdrivingatthetime.Well, one was scarcely
drivingitanylongerineithercase.What I was doing was
trying to crawl across to theoppositedoor.Thewatercameuponlyto
thetopsofmysandalstraps.Still, theentire experience
-
terrifiedme.IamawarethatIhavejust
saidithadnotfrightenedmeintheleast.As a matter of fact what
happenedwas that it did notfrightenmeuntilitwasover.Once I had climbed back
onto the embankment, andcould see the car upsidedown in the water, itfrightened me ratherimpressively.I cannot say with any
-
certainty that I had beenmasturbatingwhenIfailedtonotice the collapsedembankment.Or whether I had been
driving toward Savona, orhadalreadypassedSavona.What is fairly certain is
that Iwas driving into Italy,and not out, since in drivingintoItalyalongthatcoastonewould have the sea at one'srighthand,whichisthesideIwentintoitfrom.
-
Even if I have norecollection whatsoever ofever havingdriven into Italyfrom the direction I amtalkingabout.Doubtless it is partly age,
whichblurssuchdistinctions.When one comes down to
it, I could actually be wellpastfifty.Again, themirror is of no
real help. One would needsome kind of yardstick, or afieldofcomparison.
-
There was a tiny, pocketsort of mirror on that sametablebesidemymother'sbed,thosefinalweeks.Youwill never know how
muchithasmeanttomethatyou are an artist, Kate, shesaid,oneevening.There are no painting
materialsinthishouse.Actually there was one
canvas on a wall, when Icame. Directly above and tothe side of where this
-
typewriteris,infact.A painting of this very
house, although it took mesomedaystorecognizethat.Not because it was not a
satisfactory representation,but because I had nothappenedtolookatthehousefromthatperspective,asyet.I had already removed the
painting into another roombythetimeIdidso.Still, I believed it was a
paintingofthishouse.
-
After Ihadconcluded thatitwas, or that it appeared tobe,Ididnotgobackintotheother room to verify myconclusion.I go into those rooms
infrequently,andhaveclosedthosedoors.There was nothing
extraordinary in the fact ofmy closing them. Possibly Iclosed them only because Ididnotfeellikesweeping.Leavesblowin,andfluffy
-
cottonwoodseeds.This room is quite large.
There is a deck outside,constructed on two sides ofthehousesothatitfacesboththeforestandthedunes.Two of the five closed
doorsareupstairs.None of this is counting
the bathroom, where themirroris.Infact therecouldwellbe
additional paintings in thoseotherrooms.Icouldlook.
-
There are no paintings intheclosedrooms.Orat leastnotinthethreeclosedroomsthataredownstairs.Though I have just
replaced the painting of thehouse.It is agreeable to have
someartabout.In my mother's living
room, in Bayonne, NewJersey, therewere several ofmy own paintings. Two ofthose were portraits, of her
-
andmyfather.Never was I able to find
thecourage to askher if shewished me to remove thatmirror.One afternoon the mirror
was no longer there,however.To tell the truth, I rarely
didportraits.Those of my mother and
father are now at theMetropolitan Museum, inone of the main painting
-
galleriesonthesecondfloor.Well, all of my paintings
are now in those galleries intheMetropolitanMuseum.WhatIdidwasstandthem
between various canvases inthe permanent collection,wherevertherewassufficientwallspace.Some few overlapped
thoseothers,butonlyattheirlowercorners,generally.Very likely a certain
amountofwarphasoccurred
-
inminesince,however.From having been leaning
forsomanyyearsratherthanbeinghung,thatwouldbe.Well, and a number of
themhadneverbeenframed,either.Thenagain,whenIsayall
of my paintings I amspeaking only about thepaintings I had not sold,naturally.Though in fact some few
were in group shows, or out
-
onloan,also.One of those I saw by
sheer chance when I was inRome,asamatteroffact.Actually I had almost
forgotten about it. And theninthewindowofamunicipalgallery on a street near theVia Vittorio Veneto, therewasmynameonaposter.To tell the truth, it was
LouiseNevelson's name thatcaughtmyeyefirst.Butstill.Sitting in an automobile
-
with English license platesandaright-handdrive,onlyaday after that, I watched thePiazza Navona fill up withsnow, which must surely berare.Early in the Renaissance,
although also in Rome,Brunelleschi and Donatellowent about measuring ruinswith such industry thatpeople believed they weremad.Butafter thatBrunelleschi
-
returned home to Florenceand put up the largest domesinceantiquity.Well,thisbeingoneofthe
reasons they named it theRenaissance,obviously.ItwasGiottowhobuiltthe
beautiful campanile nextdoortothatsamecathedral.Once, being asked to
submitasampleofhiswork,whatGiotto submittedwas acircle.Well, the point being that
-
itwasaperfectcircle.And that Giotto had
painteditfreehand.Whenmy fatherdied, less
thanayearaftermymother,I came upon that same tinymirrorinadrawerfullofoldsnapshots.Anauthentic snowfalls in
Rome no more than onceeveryseventyyearsorso,asamatteroffact.Which is approximately
how often the Arno
-
overflows its banks too, atFlorence. Though perhapsthereisnoconnectionthere.Yet it is not impossible
that people likeLeonardodaVinciorAndreadelSartoorTaddeo Gaddi went throughtheirentireliveswithouteverwatching boys throwsnowballs.Had they been born
somewhat later they couldhaveseenBruegel'spaintingsof youngsters doing that, at
-
least.I happen to believe the
story about Giotto and thecircle, by the way. Certainstories being gratifying tobelieve.I also believe I met
WilliamGaddisonce.HedidnotlookItalian.Conversely I do not
believe one word of what Iwrote,afewlinesago,aboutLeonardo da Vinci andAndreadelSartoandTaddeo
-
Gaddi never seeing snow,whichwasridiculous.Nor can I remember, any
longer,ifIhappenedontotheposter with my name on itbefore or after I saw the catattheColosseum.The cat at the Colosseum
was orange, if I have notindicated, and had lost aneye.In fact it was hardly your
most appealing cat, for allthatIwassoanxioustoseeit
-
again.Simon had a cat, once.
Which we could never seemtodecideonanamefor.Cat, being all we ever
calledit.Here, when the snows
come, the trees write astrange calligraphy againstthewhiteness. The sky itselfisoftenwhite,and thedunesare hidden, and the beach iswhite down to the water'sedge,aswell.
-
In a manner of speakingalmost everything I am abletosee,then,islikethatnine-footcanvasofmine,with itsopaque four white coats ofgesso.NowandagainIbuildfires
alongthebeach,however.Well, autumns,or inearly
spring, I am most apt to dothat.Once, after doing that, I
tore the pages out of a bookandlightedthosetoo,tossing
-
each page into the breeze toseeifthebreezemightmakeitfly.Mostofthepagesfellright
nexttome.The book was a life of
Brahms, which had beenstandingaskewononeoftheshelves here and which thedampness had leftpermanently misshapen.Although ithadbeenprintedon extraordinarily cheappapertobeginwith.
-
When I say that Isometimeshearmusic inmyhead, incidentally, I oftenevenknowwhosevoiceIamhearing,ifthemusicisvocalmusic.I do not rememberwho it
was yesterday forThe AltoRhapsody,however.I had not read the life of
Brahms. But I do believethere is one book in thishousewhichIdidread,sinceIcame.
-
As a matter of fact onecouldsaytwobooks,sinceitwas a two-volume editionoftheancientGreekplays.Although where I actually
read that book was in theotherhouse,fartherdownthebeach,which I burned to theground.TheonlybookIhavelooked into in this house isan atlas, wishing to remindmyselfwhereSavonais.As a matter of fact I did
that not ten minutes ago,
-
when I decided to bring thepainting of the house backouthere.Which I now cannot be
positive is a painting of thishouse, or of a house that issimply very much like thishouse.The atlas was on a shelf
directly behind where thepaintinghadbeenleaning.And directly beside a life
of Brahms, printed onextraordinarily cheap paper
-
andstandingaskewinsuchaway that it has becomepermanentlymisshapen.Presumably itwasanother
book altogether, from whichItorethepagesandsetfiretothem, inwishing to simulateaseagull.Unless of course there
were two lives ofBrahms inthis house, both printed oncheap paper and both ruinedbydampness.Kathleen Ferrier is who
-
was singingThe AltoRhapsody.I assume I do not have to
explain that any version ofany music that comes intomy head would be theversion I was once mostfamiliarwith.In SoHo, my recording of
The Alto Rhapsodywas anold Kathleen Ferrierrecording.And now that strand of
tape is scratching at the
-
window in the next roomagain, again sounding like acat.One does not name a
seagull.Once,whenIwaslistening
to myself read the Greekplaysout loud,certainof thelines sounded as if they hadbeen written under theinfluence of WilliamShakespeare.One had to be quite
perplexed as to how
-
AeschylusorEuripidesmighthavereadShakespeare.I did remember an
anecdote, about some otherGreek author, who hadremarked that if he could bepositive of a life after deathhe would happily hanghimself to see Euripides.Basically this did not seemrelevant,however.Finally it occurred to me
that the translator had nodoubtreadShakespeare.
-
Normally I would notconsider that a memorableinsight, except for the factthat I was otherwiseundeniably mad at the timewhenIreadtheplays.As amatter of fact I only
now realize that I may nothave been cooking after all,when I burned that otherhousetotheground,butmaywell have burned it in theprocessofdroppingthepagesof The Trojan Women into
-
the fire after I had finishedreadingtheirreversesides.Conversely I have no idea
whyIwouldhavestatedthatitwasalifeofBrahmsIhadset fire to, out on the beach,when it was not tenminutesearlier that I hadnoticed thelife of Brahms next to theatlas behind where thepaintingwas.Certain questions would
appearunanswerable.Such as, in addition, what
-
my fathermay have thoughtabout, looking through oldsnapshots and then lookingintothemirror thathadbeenbesidemymother'sbed.Or whether one would
have ever arrived at thecastle or not, had onecontinuedtofollowthatsameroad.Well, in that case
doubtless there wasultimatelyacutoff.To the castle, a signmust
-
havesaid.In a Jeep, one could have
maneuvered directly up thehillside, insteadof followingtheroad.Meanwhile one does not
spend any time viewingcastlesinLaManchawithoutbeing reminded of DonQuixotealso,ofcourse.Any more than one can
spendtimeinToledowithoutbeing reminded ofElGreco,even if it happens that El
-
GrecowasnotSpanish.All too often one hears of
himspokenofas ifhewere,however.ThefamousSpanishartists
such as Velazquez orZurbaran or El Greco, beingthe sort of thing that onehears.One hardly ever hears of
him being spoken of as aGreek,ontheotherhand.The famous Greek artists
such as Phidias or
-
Theophanes the Greek or ElGreco,beingthesortofthingthatonealmostneverhears.Yet it is not beyond
imagining thatElGrecowasevendirectlydescendedfromsome of those other Greeks,whenonestopstothinkaboutit.Surely itwould have been
easytolosetrack,insomanyyears.Butwho is to say thatit might not go back evenfarther than that, to
-
somebody likeAchilles,whynot?I am almost certain that
Helenhadat least one child,atanyrate.Now the painting does
appeartobeofthishouse.As a matter of fact there
alsoappears tobe somebodyat theverywindow,upstairs,from which I watch thesunset.Ihadnotnoticedheratall,
beforethis.
-
If it is a she. Thebrushwork is fairly abstract,at that point, so that there islittle more than a hint ofanybody,really.Still, it is interesting to
speculatesuddenlyaboutjustwhomight be lurking atmybedroomwindowwhile I amtyping down here rightbelow.Well, and on thewall just
aboveand to the sideofme,atthesametime.
-
Allofthisbeingmerelyina manner of speaking, ofcourse.Although I have also just
closedmyeyes,andsocouldadditionally say that for themoment the person was notonlybothupstairsandonthewall,butinmyheadaswell.Were I to walk outside to
where I can see thewindow,and do the same thing allover again, the arrangementcould become much more
-
complicatedthanthat.ForthatmatterIhaveonly
now noticed something elseinthepainting.The door that I generally
use, coming and going fromthefrontdeck,isopen.Not two minutes ago, I
happen to have closed thatsamedoor.Obviouslynoactionofmy
own, such as that, changesanythinginthepainting.Nonetheless I have again
-
justclosedmyeyes,tryingtosee if I could imagine thepaintingwith thedoor to thedeckclosed.Iwasnotable toclosethe
door to the deck in theversionofthepaintinginmyhead.Had I any pigments, I
could paint it closed in thepainting itself, should thisbegin to trouble meseriously.There are no painting
-
materialsinthishouse.Unquestionably there
wouldhavehadtobeallsortsofsuchmaterialshereatonetime,however.Well,withtheexceptionof
those that she carried to thedunes, where else would thepainterhavedepositedthem?Now I have made the
painterashe,also.Doubtlessbecause of my continuedsenseof itbeingasheat thewindow.
-
Butineithercaseonemaystill assume that there mustbe additional paintingmaterials insideof thehousein the painting, even if onecannotseeanyoftheminthepaintingitself.Asamatteroffactitisno
less possible that there areadditional people inside ofthehouseaswell, aboveandbeyond the woman at mywindow.Thenagain,verylikelythe
-
otherscouldbeat thebeach,since it is late on a summerafternoon in the canvas,although no later than fouro'clock.So that next one is forced
towonderwhythewomanatthewindowdidnotgotothebeachherself,forthatmatter.Although on second
thought I have decided thatthe woman may well be achild.So that perhaps she had
-
beenmadetoremainathomeasapunishment,afterhavingmisbehaved.Or perhaps she was even
ill.Possiblythereisnobodyat
thewindowinthecanvas.Atfouro'clockIwilltryto
estimateexactlywhereatthedunes the painter took herperspective,andthenseehowtheshadowsfall,upthere.Even if Iwillbeforced to
guess at when it is four
-
o'clock,therebeingnoclocksor watches in this house,either.All onewill have to do is
tomatchtherealshadowsonthe house with the paintedshadows in the painting,however.Although perhaps the real
shadowsatthewindowwhenIgooutwillnotsolveathinginregardtothepainting.PerhapsIwillnotgoout.Once, I believed I saw
-
somebody at a real window,whileIamonthesubject.In Athens, this was, and
while I was still looking,which made it something ofanoccurrence.Well. And even more so
than the cat at theColosseum,rather.As a matter of fact one
couldalsosee theAcropolis,frombesidetheverywindowinquestion.Whichwas in a street full
-
oftaverns.Still, when the sun had
gotten to the angle fromwhich Phidias had taken hisperspective, the Parthenonalmostseemedtoglow.Actually, the best time to
see that is generally also atfouro'clock.Doubtlessthetavernsfrom
whichonecould see thatdidbetter business than thetavernsfromwhichonecouldnot,infact,eventhoughthey
-
wereallinthesamestreet.Unlessofcourse the latter
were patronized by peoplewhohadlivedinAthenslongenough to have gotten tiredofseeingit.Such things can happen.
As in the case of Guy deMaupassant, who ate hisluncheverydayat theEiffelTower.Well, the point being that
this was the only place inParis fromwhich he did not
-
havetolookatit.For the life of me I have
noideahowIknowthat.Anymore than I have any ideahow I also happen to knowthatGuydeMaupassantlikedtorow.When I said that Guy de
Maupassant ate his lunchevery day at the EiffelTower, so that he did nothave to look at it, I meantthat it was the Eiffel Towerhe did not wish to look at,
-
naturally,andnothislunch.One's language being
frequently imprecise in suchways,Ihavediscovered.AlthoughIhavearowboat
ofmyown,asithappens.Nowandagain,Irowouta
gooddistance.Beyond the breakers, the
currents will do most of thework.The row back can be
difficult, however, if oneallowsone'sselftobecarried
-
toofar.Actually, the rowboat is
mysecondrowboat.The first rowboat
disappeared.Doubtless I had not
beached it securely enough.Onemorning,orpossiblyoneafternoon, it was simplygone.Some days afterward I
walked along the beachfarther than I had everwalkedbefore,but ithadnot
-
comeashore.It would scarcely be the
onlyboatadrift,ofcourse,ifitisstilladrift.Well,likethatketchinthe
Aegean,forstarters.Sometimes I like to
believeithasbeencarriedallof the way across the oceanbynow,however.AsfarastotheCanaryIslands,say,ortoCdiz,onthecoastofSpain.Well, or who is to argue
that itmightnothavegotten
-
toScyrositself,even?I do not remember the
nameofthestreetwithallofthosetavernsinit.Possibly I never knew the
namesofanyofthestreetsinAthens in either case, notspeakingonewordofGreek.When I say not speaking
oneword,Imeannotreadingoneeither,obviously.One would certainly wish
to conceive of theGreeks ashaving been imaginative in
-
thatregard,however.PenelopeAvenuebeingan
agreeable possibility, forinstance. Or CassandraStreet.At least there must have
been anAristotle Boulevard,surely. Or a HerodotusSquare.Why did I imply that it
was Phidias who built theParthenon when it wassomebodynamedIctinus?In spite of frequently
-
underlining sentences inbooks that had not beenassigned, I did well incollege,actually.So that one could even
generally identify the floorplans of such structures, onfinalexams.But so what poem am I
now thinking about, then,about singing birds sweet,being sold in the shops forthepeopletoeat?Being sold in the shops,
-
does it go, on StupidityStreet?IdonotbelieveIhaveever
mentioned Cassandra in anyof these pages before, cometo think about it. Let mename the street with thetaverns in it CassandraStreet.Cassandra certainly being
an appropriate name for astreet in which I believed Isaw somebody at a windowineithercase.
-
Well, and especiallylurkingatit.Or is it simply the notion
of somebody lurking at mywindow in the painting thathas made me make thisconnection?Still, lurking at such a
windowisexactlywhereoneis apt to visualizeCassandraafter Agamemnon hadbrought her back as one ofhis spoils from Troy, as amatteroffact.
-
Even while Clytemnestrais saying hello toAgamemnon and suggestinganicehotbath,one isapt tovisualizeherthatway.Well, but with Cassandra
also always able to seethings, of course. So thateven without a window tolurkat, shewouldhavesoonknown about those swordsnearthetub.Not that anybody ever
learned to pay any attention
-
to a word Cassandra eversaid,however.Well,thosemadtrancesof
hers.Norwouldtherehavebeen
a street inAthensnamed forher after all, obviously.Anymore than there would havebeen one named for Hector,orforParis.Then again it is not
impossible that people'ssentiments might change,aftersomanyyears.
-
At the intersection ofCassandra Street and ElGreco Road, at four o'clockin the afternoon, I sawsomebody at a window,lurking.There was nobody at the
window,whichwasawindowin a shop selling artists'supplies.It was a small stretched
canvas, coated with gesso,thathadhighlightedmyownreflectionasIpassed.
-
Still, how I nearly felt. Inthemidstofallthatlooking.Thoughasamatteroffact
where I saw my ownreflection may well havebeeninabookstorewindow.At any rate the two stores
were adjacent. The one withthe bookswas the one that Ichosetoletmyselfinto.All of the books in the
store were in Greek,naturally.Possiblysomefewofthem
-
were actually books that Ihad even read, in English,although naturally I wouldhavehadnowayofknowingwhichones.Possibly one of them was
even a Greek edition ofWilliamShakespeare'splays.Byatranslatorwhohadbeenunder the influence ofEuripides.Gesso has such a silly
look, for a word, when onetypesit.
-
It would have helped toprevent my canvases fromwarping if I had not shotholes into those skylights,obviously.Had the smokebackedup,
winters there at theMetropolitan would havebeendifficult,however.Actually one can be
saddened, letting one's selfintoastorefullofbooksandnotbeingabletorecognizeasingleone.
-
Thebookstoreonthestreetbelow the Acropolissaddenedme.AlthoughIhavenowmade
a categorical decision thatthepaintingisnotapaintingofthishouse.Assuredly, it is a painting
of the other house, fartherdown the beach, whichburned.To tell the truth I cannot
call thatotherhousetomindatall,anylonger.
-
Although perhaps thathouse and this house wereidentical.Orquitesimilar,atanyrate.Houses along a beach are
often that way, beingconstructed by people withbasicallysimilartastes.Thoughasamatteroffact
Icannotbeabsolutelycertainthat the painting is on thewall beside me any longeritself, since I am no longerlookingatit.
-
QuitepossiblyIputitbackinto the room with the atlasandthelifeofBrahms.Ihavea distinct suspicion that ithad entered my mind to dothat.Thepaintingisonthewall.And at least we have
verified that it was not thelifeofBrahms that I set firetothepagesfromalso,outonthebeach.UnlessasIhavesuggested
somebody in this house had
-
owned two lives of Brahms,both printed on cheap paperandbothruinedbydampness.Or two people had owned
them,which isperhapsmorelikely.Perhaps two people who
werenotparticularlyfriendlywith each other, in fact.Though both of whom wereinterestedinBrahms.Perhaps one of those was
the painter. Well, and theother the person in the
-
window,whynot?Perhaps the painter, being
a landscape painter, did notwishtopainttheotherpersonat all, actually. But perhapsthe other person insistedupon looking out of thewindowwhilethepainterwasatwork.Very possibly this could
have been what made themangry with each other tobeginwith.If the painter had closed
-
her eyes, or had simplyrefused to look, would theother person have still beenatthewindow?One might as well ask if
the house itself would havebeenthere.AndwhyhaveItroubledto
closemyowneyesagain?I am still feeling the
typewriter, naturally. Andhearingthekeys.Also I can feel the seatof
this chair, through my
-
underpants.Doing this out at the
dunes,thepainterwouldhavefelt the breeze.And a senseofthesunshine.Well, and she would have
heardthesurf.Yesterday, when I was
hearing Kirsten FlagstadsingingThe Alto Rhapsody,whatexactlywasIhearing?Winters, when the snow
covers everything, leavingonly that strange calligraphy
-
ofthespinesofthetrees,itisa little like closing one'seyes.Certainlyrealityisaltered.Onemorning you awaken,
and all color has ceased toexist.Everythingthatoneisable
tosee,then,islikethatnine-footcanvasofmine,with itsopaque four white coats ofplasterandglue.Ihavesaidthat.Still, it isalmostas ifone
-
mightpaint theentireworld,and in any manner onewished.Letting one's brushing
becomeabstractatawindow,ornot.Though perhaps it was
Cassandra whom I hadintended to portray to beginwith, on those forty-fivesquare feet, rather thanElectra.Even if a part I have
alwayslikediswhenOrestes
-
finally comes back, after somanyyears,andElectradoesnot recognize her ownbrother.Whatdoyouwant,strange
man? I believe this is whatElectrasaystohim.Well, it is theopera that I
am thinking about now, Isuspect.At the intersection of
Richard Strauss Avenue andJohannes Brahms Road, atfouro'clockintheafternoon,
-
somebodycalledmyname.You?Canthatbeyou?Imagine!And here, of all
places!Itwasonly theParthenon,
I am quite certain, sobeautiful in the afternoonsun,thathadtouchedachord.In Greece, no less, from
where all arts and all storiescame.Still, for a time I almost
wishedtoweep.Perhaps I did weep, that
-
oneafternoon.Though perhaps it was
wearinesstoo,behindtheveilof madness that hadprotectedme,andwhich,thatafternoon,hadslippedaway.One afternoonyou see the
Parthenon, andwith that oneglance your madness hasmomentarilyslippedaway.Weeping, you walk the
streets whose names you donot know, and somebodycallsoutafteryou.
-
I ran into an alley, whichwasactuallyacul-de-sac.Surelythatisyou!I also had a weapon. My
pistol,fromtheskylights.Well,when Iwas looking,
Ialmostalwayscarriedthat.Looking indesperation, as
Ihavesaid.But still, never knowing
justwhomonemightfind,aswell.Not until dusk did I
emergefromthecul-de-sac.
-
And saw my ownreflectionbehindthewindowof an artists' supplies shop,highlighted there against asmallstretchedcanvas.To tell the truth,onebook
in the shopnextdoor to thatone did happen to be inEnglish.This was a guide to the
birds of SouthernConnecticut andLong IslandSound.IsleptinthecarthatIwas
-
making use of at the time.Which was a Volkswagenvan, filled with musicalinstruments.Kathleen Ferrier had very
possibly died even before Ihad purchased that oldrecording,Inowbelieve.I have forgotten whatever
point I might have intendedtomake bymentioning that,however.Veil of madness was a
terribly pretentious phrase
-
formetohavewritten,too.The next morning I drove
counterclockwise, amongmountains, toward Sparta,whichIwishedtovisitbeforedepartingGreece.Not thinking to look into
thebookonbirdsforwhat itmight have told me aboutseagulls.Halfway to Sparta, I got
myperiod.Throughout my life, my
period has always managed
-
tosurpriseme.Even in spite of my
generally havingbeenout ofsorts for some daysbeforehand, this is, which Iwill almost invariably haveattributedtoothercauses.Sodoubtlessitwasnotthe
Parthenon which had mademeweepafterall.Or even necessarily my
madnesstemporarilyslippingaway.Already, obviously, the
-
otherhadbeencomingon.And so somebody called
myname.Istilldomenstruatetoday,
incidentally,ifirregularly.Or else I will stain. For
weeksonend.But then may not do so
againformonths.There is naturally nothing
in theIliad,or in any of theplays, about anybodymenstruating.Or in theOdyssey.So
-
doubtless a woman did notwritethatafterall.Before I was married, my
motherdiscoveredthatTerryandIweresleepingtogether.Was there anybody else
before Terry? This was oneof the first questions mymotherthenaskedme.I told her that there had
been.DoesTerryknow?Isaidyestothat,also.Oh you young fool, my
-
mothersaid.AstheyearspassedIoften
felt a great sadness, overmuch of the life that mymotherhadlived.What do any of us ever
trulyknow,however?I can think of no reason
why this should remind meof the timewhen havingmyperiod caused me to falldown the central staircase inthe Metropolitan and breakmyankle.
-
Actually it may not havebeen broken but onlysprained.The next morning it was
swollen to twice its normalsizenonetheless.One moment I had been
halfway up the stairs, and amoment after that I wasmakingbelieveIwasIcarus.WhatIhadbeendoingwas
carryingthatmonstrosityofacanvas, which wasextraordinarilyunwieldy.
-
How one carries such amonstrosity is by grippingthe crossbars between thestretchers, at its back,meaningthatonehasnowaywhatsoever of seeing whereoneisgoing.Still, I had believed Iwas
managing.Untilsuchtimeastheentirecontraptionfloatedawayfromme.Possibly it was a wind,
which caused that, sincethere were many more
-
broken windows in themuseum than those I hadbroken on purpose, by thattime.Presumably it was a wind
from below, in fact, sincewhatthecanvasseemedtodowastoriseupinfrontofme.And then to rise up somemore.Remarkablysoonafterthat
it was underneath me,however.Thepainwasexcruciating.
-
Iamgushing,beingwhatIthought at first, however.And I do not even haveunderpants on, under thiswraparoundskirt.To tell the truth, when I
hadactuallythoughtthathadbeen perhaps two secondsearlier.Andsohadshiftedtheway
in which I was standing,naturally,toclosemythighs.Forgetting for the same
instant that I was carrying
-
forty-five square feet ofcanvas, on stretchers, up astonestairway.In retrospect it does not
even become unlikely thattherehadbeennowindafterall.And naturally all of this
had occurred with whatseemed no warningwhatsoever,either.Although doubtless I had
been feeling out of sorts forsome days, which I would
-
have invariably laid to othercauses.The museum of course
possessedcrutches, andevenwheelchairs, for just suchemergencies.Well, perhaps not for
exactlyjustsuch.All of these were on the
main floor, in any event,along with other first aiditems.It would have been
inordinately easier forme to
-
crawltothetopofthestairs,ratherthantothebottom.Mostofmyaccouterments
were down there too,however. I believe I havementioned having stillpossessed accouterments, inthosedays.As it turnedout, Ibecame
astonishingly adept atmaneuvering my wheelchairinnexttonotime.Skitteringfromoneendof
themainfloortotheother,in
-
fact,whenthemoodtookme.From the Greek and
Roman antiquities to theEgyptian, or whoosh! andherewegoroundtheTempleofDendur.Often even withmusic by
Berlioz, or Igor Stravinsky,toaccompanymyself.Now and again, the same
anklestillpainsme.This is generally only in
regard to the weather,actually.
-
ForthelifeofmeIcannotremember what I had beentrying to get that canvas upthestairwayfor,ontheotherhand.Topainton it,wouldbea
naturalsupposition.Then again, after not
having painted on it formonths,perhapsIhadwishedto put it someplace where Iwould not have to becontinually reminded that Ihadnotdoneso.
-
Acanvasninefeettallandfive feet wide being hardlyyour most easily ignoredreminder.Doubtless I had had
something in mind, at anyrate.Thereisatapedeckinthe
pickuptruckhere,nowthatIthinkaboutit.There would appear to be
notapes,however.Once, changing vehicles
beside some tennis courts at
-
Bayonne, in France, I turnedan ignition key and foundmyself hearing theFourSeriousSongs,byBrahms.Though I am possibly
thinking about theFour LastSongs,byRichardStrauss.In either event it was not
KathleenFerriersinging.Actually, a fairly high
percentage of the vehiclesthat one comes upon willhave tape decks, many stillsettotheonposition.
-
Rarely would it occur tometogivethisanyattention,however.Obviously, one's chief
interest at such momentswould concern whether thebattery on hand stillfunctioned.Assumingonehadalready
determined that there was akey in the vehicle, andgasoline.Kirsten Flagstad was
singing, at Bayonne. Which
-
wasinfactBordeaux.To tell the truth, one was
generallypleasedenoughthata car was moving so as tohave driven some distancebefore noticing whether atapedeckwasplayingornot.Or at least to have gotten
clear of whatever obstacleshad made it necessary toswitchvehiclestobeginwith.Often,bridgescausedsuch
switching. One solitarynuisancecarcan renderyour
-
averagebridgeimpassable.ForsomeyearsInormally
troubled to transfer mybaggage fromone vehicle tothe next, aswell. On certaintrips I even thought to carryalongahandtruck.When I was living at the
Metropolitan I towed clear anumberofmy access routes,finally.Well, or sometimes made
use of a Land Rover, andcameorwentdirectlyacross
-
thelawnsinCentralPark.There is no longer any
problem in regard to myhusband's name, by theway.Even if I never saw himagain, once we separatedafterSimondied.Asamatteroffactthereis
ahandtruckinthebasementofthishouse.It is not one of my own,
since I rarely make use ofsuchcontrivancesanylonger.Rather it was there when I
-
came.There are eight or nine
cartons of books in thebasementalso, inaddition tothe many books in thevariousroomsuphere.The hand truck is badly
rusted, as are the severalbicycles.Thebasementisevenmore
damp than the remainder ofthe house. I leave that doorclosed.The entrance to the
-
basementisattherearofthehouse, and below a sandyembankment, so that onedoes not see that in thepainting.The perspective in the
painting having been takenfrom out in front, if I havenotindicatedthat.Thereareseveralbaseballs
in the basement also, on aledge.There is also a
lawnmower,althoughthereis
-
only one exceedingly smallpatchofgrass,atonesideofthehouse,thatIcanimagineeverhavingbeenmowed.That patch, on the other
hand, does appear to bediscernibleinthepainting.I can see now that it had,
in fact, been mowed at thetimewhenthepainterpaintedit.The things one tardily
becomesawareof.Which reminds me that I
-
am now convinced that thesentence that came into myhead yesterday, or the daybefore yesterday, aboutwanderingthroughanendlessnothingness, was written byFriedrichNietzsche.Even if I am equally
convinced that I have neverreadasinglewordwrittenbyFriedrichNietzsche.I do believe that I once
r e a dWuthering Heights,however, which I mention
-
because all that I seem ableto remember about it is thatpeople are continuallylookinginoroutofwindows.The book called the
Pen s e e swas written byPascal,bytheway.I also believe I have not
indicated that this is anotherdayoftyping,whichiswhyIexpressed hesitation as towhether quoting FriedrichNietzsche had occurredyesterday or the day before
-
yesterday.Ididnotmakeanysortof
note about where I stopped,simply leaving that sheet inthemachine.Possibly I stopped at the
point where I came to thebaseballs in the basement,since the topic of baseballhasalwaysboredme.Afterward I went for a
walk along the beach, as faras the other house, whichburned.
-
Yesterday's sunset was aVincent Van Gogh sunset,with a certain amount ofanxietyinit.PerhapsIamonlythinking
aboutstreaks.I have more than once
wondered why the books inthebasementarenotupstairswiththeothers,actually.There is space. Many of
the shelves up here are halfempty.AlthoughdoubtlesswhenI
-
say they are half empty Ishould really be saying theyare half filled, sincepresumablytheyweretotallyempty before somebody halffilledthem.Then again it is not
impossible that they wereonce filled completely,becoming half empty onlywhen somebody removedhalf of the books to thebasement.I find this second
-
possibility less likely thanthe first, although it is notutterlybeyondconsideration.In either event thepresent
state of the shelves is anexplanationforwhysomanyofthebooksinthehousearetilted, or standing askew.And thus have becomepermanentlymisshapen.Baseball When the Grass
Was Real is actually thename of one of those, Ibelieve.
-
In thatcaseone isat leastmade halfway curious aboutthe meaning of the title, Imustadmit.Less than inordinately
curious, baseball remainingbaseball,butatleasthalfwaycurious.Asamatteroffactperhaps
I will mow my own grass,which is undeniably real,even if it is inordinatelyovergrown.I cannot mow the grass.
-
Not with the lawnmowerbeing as badly rusted as thehandtruckandthebicycles.I have other bicycles,
actually.Oneisdoubtlessbesidethe
pickuptruck.Anothermaybeat the gas station, in thetown.Therewasabicycle in the
cul-de-sac beneath theAcropolis, come to thinkaboutit.Perhaps the books in the
-
basement are duplicatebooks.Like the two lives of
Brahms, thatwouldbe.Evenifbothofthosewouldappeartohavebeenupstairs.There is nobody at the
windowinthepaintingofthehouse,bytheway.Ihavenowconcluded that
what I believed to be apersonisashadow.If it is not a shadow, it is
perhapsacurtain.
-
Asamatteroffactitcouldactually be nothing morethan an attempt to implydepths,withintheroom.Although in a manner of
speaking all that is really inthe window is burnt siennapigment. And some yellowochre.In fact there isnowindow
either, in that same mannerofspeaking,butonlyshape.So that any few
speculations I may have
-
madeabout thepersonat thewindowwouldthereforenowappear to be renderedmeaningless,obviously.Unless of course I
subsequently becomeconvinced that there issomebody at the window alloveragain.Ihaveputthatbadly.WhatIintendedtosaywas
that I may possibly becomenewlyconvincedthatthereissomebody at the window,
-
hardly that somebody whohad been at the window hasgone away but might comeback.In either case it remains a
fact that no alteredperception of my own, suchasthisone,changesanythinginthepainting.So thatperhapsmyearlier
speculations remain validafterall.Ihaveverylittleideawhat
Imeanbythat.
-
Onecanscarcelyspeculateaboutapersonwhen there isnopersontospeculateabout.Yet there is no way of
denying that one did makesuchspeculations.Twodaysago,whenIwas
hearing Kathleen Ferrier,whatexactlywasIhearing?Yesterday, when I was
speculatingaboutapersonatthe window in the painting,what exactly was Ispeculatingabout?
-
Ihavejustputthepaintingback into the room with theatlasandthelifeofBrahms.As amatter of fact I have
now also had another night'ssleep.I mention that, this time,
only because in amanner ofspeaking one could now saythat it has this quicklybecome the day aftertomorrow.Certain questions would
still continue to appear
-
unanswerable,however.Such as, for instance, if I
have concluded that there isnothing in the paintingexcept shapes, am I alsoconcluding that there isnothing on these pagesexcept letters of thealphabet?Ifoneunderstoodonly the
Greek alphabet, what wouldbeonthesepages?Doubtless, in Russia, I
drove right past St.
-
Petersburg without knowingitwasSt.Petersburg.As a matter of fact Anna
Karenina could have drivenrightpastwithoutknowingitwasSt.Petersburgeither.Seeing a sign indicating
Stalingrad, how wouldAnnaKarenina have been able totell?Especially since the sign
would have more likelyindicatedLeningrad?I have obviously now lost
-
my train of thoughtaltogether.Once, Robert
Rauschenbergerasedmostofa drawing by Willem deKooning, and then named itEraseddeKooningDrawing.I am in no way certain
what this is connected toeither, but I suspect it isconnected to more than Ionce believed it to beconnectedto.RobertRauschenbergcame
-
to my loft in SoHo oneafternoon, actually. I do notremember that he erasedanything.The reason for one of my
bicycles being at the gasstation is that I sometimesdecide to walk home, afterhavingriddensomewhere.Although what I really
decidedthatdaywastobringback kerosene, which wasdifficulttoridewith.Isaywasdifficult, instead
-
of is difficult, since I nolonger carry kerosene, nolonger making use of thoselamps.When I stopped making
use of them was after Iknockedovertheonethatsetfire to the other house,although doubtless I havementionedthis.One moment I was
adjusting the wick, and amoment after that the entirebedroomwasablaze.
-
Thesebeachhousesareallwood, of course.All I coulddo was sit at the dunes andwatchitburn.For most of the night the
entireskywasHomeric.It was on that same night
thatmyrowboatdisappeared,as ithappened,although thatisperhapsbesidethepoint.One hardly pays attention
to a missing rowboat whenone'shouse isburning to theground.
-
Still, there it was, nolongeronthebeach.Sometimes I like to
believe that it has beencarried all of theway acrosstheoceanbynow, to tell thetruth.As far as to the island of
Lesbos, say. Or to Ithaca,even.Frequently, certain objects
wash up onto the shore herethat could well have beencarried just as far in the
-
opposite direction, as amatteroffact.Such as my stick, for
instance, which I sometimestakewithmewhenIwalk.Doubtless the stick served
some other purpose thansimply being taken along onwalks, at one time. One cannolongerguessatwhatotherpurpose,however,becauseofthe way it has been wornsmoothbywaves.NowandagainIhavealso
-
madeuseofthesticktowriteinthesandwith,actually.InfactIhaveevenwritten
inGreek.Well, or in what looked
like Greek, although I wasactuallyonlyinventingthat.What I would write were
messages, to tell the truth,like the ones I sometimesusedtowriteinthestreet.Somebodyislivingonthis
beach, the messages wouldsay.
-
Obviouslyitdidnotmatterby then that the messageswere only in an inventedwriting that nobody couldread.Actually, nothing that I
wrote was ever still therewhenIwentbackinanycase,alwaysbeingwashedaway.Still, if I have concluded
that there is nothing in thepainting except shapes, am Ialso concluding that therewas not even invented
-
writing in the sand, but onlygroovesfrommystick?Doubtless the stick was
originally nothing moreinterestingthanthehandleofacarpetsweeper.Once, when I had set it
aside to drag a piece ofdriftwood along the beach, IworriedthatImighthavelostit.WhenIlookedbackitwas
standing upright, however,whereIhadhadtheforesight
-
to place it without reallypayingattention.Then again it is quite
possible that the question oflosshadnotenteredmyminduntil I was already in theprocess of looking back,whichis tosaythat thestickwasalreadynot lostbefore Ihadworriedthatitmightbe.Iamnotparticularlyhappy
overthisnewhabitofsayingthings that I have very littleideawhat Imean by saying,
-
totellthetruth.It was somebody named
Ralph Hodgson, who wrotethe poem about the birdsbeing sold in the shops forpeopletoeat.I do not remember that I
ever readanyotherpoembyRalphHodgson.I do remember that
Leonardo da Vinci used tobuy such birds, however, inFlorence, and then let themoutoftheircages.
-
AndthatHelenofTroydidhave at least one daughter,namedHermione.And that Leonardo also
thought up a method toprevent the Arno fromoverflowing its banks, towhichnobodyobviouslypaidanyattention.For that matter Leonardo
at least once put snow intooneofhispaintingstoo,evenifIcannotrememberwhetherAndrea del Sarto or Taddeo
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Gaddieverdid.In addition to which,
Rembrandt's pupils used topaintgold coinson the floorofhis studio andmake themlook so real that Rembrandtwouldstooptopickthemup,althoughIamuncertainastowhy this reminds me ofRobertRauschenbergagain.I have always harbored
sinceredoubtsthatHelenwasthecauseof thatwar,by theway.
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AsingleSpartangirl,afterall.As a matter of fact the
wholethingwasundeniablyamercantile proposition. Allten years of it, just to seewho would pay tariff towhom, so as to be able tomake use of a channel ofwater.A different poet, named
Rupert Brooke, died in theDardanelles during the firstWorldWar, even if I do not
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believe that I rememberedthis when I visited theDardanelles,bywhichImeantheHellespont.Still,Ifinditextraordinary
thatyoungmendiedthereinawarthatlongago,andthendied in the same place threethousandyearsafterthat.Andonsecondthoughtthe
gold coins that Rembrandt'spupilspaintedonthefloorofhis studio are exactlywhat IwastalkingaboutwhenIwas
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talking about RobertRauschenberg.Or rather what I was
talking about when I wastalkingaboutthepersonwhois not at the window in thepaintingofthishouse.The coins having only
been coins until Rembrandtbentover.Which did not deter me
from rigging up a generatorand floodlights in theColosseum,however.
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Or from being shrewdenough to call the catCalpurnia, after havinggottennorespons