Film 1965. (Samuel Beckett/Alan Schneider/Buster Keaton)

The grown-ups pursued me, the just, caught me, beat me, hounded me back into the round, the game, the jollity. For I was already in the toils of earnestness. That has been my disease. I was born grave as others syphilitic. And gravely I struggled to be grave no more, to live, to invent, I know what I mean. But at each fresh attempt I lost my head, fled to my shadows as to sanctuary, to his lap who can neither live nor suffer the sight of others living.

– Beckett, Malone Dies

If this continues it is myself I shall lose and the thousand ways that lead there. And I shall resemble the wretches famed in fable, crushed beneath the weight of their wish come true. And I even feel a wish come over me, the desire to know what I am doing, and why. So I near the goal I set myself in my young days and which prevented me from living. And on the threshold of being no more I succeed in being another. Very pretty.

– Beckett, Malone Dies

OK, guys, I need some help.

Is there a simple way to organize cards online and actually print an inventory?  Beckett’s site is horribly tedious – entering any more than five cards at a time becomes an all day affair.  Things only get worse when trying to print a checklist… because there’s no way to print a simple checklist.

Say I’m trying to print out an inventory of oh, say, 1962 Topps.  If I do it the “normal” way, I get three lines for each card and need a ridiculous amount of paper.  I feel as if there should be a simpler option, but perhaps I’m missing it?

I’ve looked at Zistle and I don’t see easy print options at their site, either.

What sites do you all use to organize your cards? Is there a way to easily print out a checklist from any card site?  Are you as irritated by the Beckett site as I am?

(checklist card pictured courtesy of Hand Collated)

Urăsc osul ăsta

vă urăsc cu măduvă cu tot

şi cu asta-basta,

duhnesc a răceală de mort;

sângele mi-o ia razna-n tango,

îmi desface venele cu-n tirbuşon

şi toţi câinii mă latră în do..

când dau gherle se scuză, pardon;

sunt căcat şi pişat pe mine

sunt acru, amar, sunt dulceag

am rănile cusute cu ace de-albine

şi jefuiesc la drumul mare

doar cu-n briceag

şi nici că-mi pasă, oricum,

dacă n-am haine, ci doar bandaj

mă prefac lat în mijloc de drum

şi văd luna ca un incendiu

la ultimul etaj

dar dacă melc aş fi ar fi ok,

să am casa mea de bale curate

aş creşte copii ciopliţi din femei

şi sângele negru…

mi l-aş pune la presat într-o carte.

chiar acum îţi şoptesc la ureche cu gura închisă… împuşcă luna în cap şi vei observa cum marea se pune singură la fiert în ibricul cu cafea, hai împuşcă luna în cap, să vezi cum marea se îneacă uşor-uşor în sine…

şi-ţi spun, m-am îmbătat de tine ca de o votcă metafizică şi gura mea parşivă îţi caută gura ca pe o sticlă spartă, ce mai stai, împuşcă un pescăruş în aripă şi vei observa că-mi mai rămâne o aripă cu care să vâslesc în sticla asta plină cu zbor lichid…

chiar acum îţi şoptesc la ureche. tu asculţi. zâmbeşti cu zâmbetul ăla de „mai taci, mincinosule”, dar crezi tot, absolut tot…

pentru că eu îţi şoptesc cu gura închisă iar tu mă asculţi cu urechile deschise.

râsul vine pleacă, pasărea moare, foame, aripă, aripă, de două ori aripă; cerul e la fel pământul e la fel bătrânul ăla e la fel copiii fac pipi la fel fără să o scuture prea bine, eu sunt la fel fără să mă simt prea bine tu eşti la fel fără să te simţi prea bine etc etc etc… osul când se rupe îl trezeşte pe câine din foame, osul când se rupe trezeşte copiii din somn care dorm aşa frumos cu ochii închişi, stângul e la locul lui stâng, dreptul e la locul lui drept, pleoapele la fel, osul când se rupe schimbă mersul, da… îl schimbă… şi pun punct înainte de a începe totul. punct. acum, da, acum totul vine de la sine, totul vine de la sine de două ori, boala mea de tine vine de la sine, în niciun caz de la mine sau de la tine, iar iar iar… spun… uite cum imaginaţia o ia razna, cum pescăruşii fac chetă pentru o beţie ca-ntre pescăruşi, categoric, sunt sigur, pe mine, pe mine un peşte nu mă îmbată… soarele face pipi în mare şi de-aia se usucă sirenele, de-aia slăbesc, de-aia marea se supără şi pleacă în vacanţă la munte… punct din nou…. dar cerul este un poster prins cu pionezele de stele, un poster în care luna a pozat goală, trebuie să le coasem copiilor pleoapelor, e simplu, nervii sunt înnodaţi pescăreşte şi este noapte ca într-o venă… în piatră liniştea face o gălăgie de creşă, mamele au în locul sânilor sticle de votcă, în oraşul ăsta parcul este beat tot timpul, ţâşnindu-i din nas artezian spirtul, în oraşul ăsta toţi sunt beţi tot timpul, pentru că altfel nu s-ar putea, nervii ar rămâne înnodaţi pescăreşte, pentru că altfel nu s-ar putea…

A partire da un misterioso scambio di oggetti tra due uomini nei titoli di testa, proseguendo con singolari incontri e dialoghi in un casinò, fino a un omicidio (e questa è solo l’apertura), la strutturazione della trama denota quella stranezza che si scoprirà cara a Monte Hellman.

La storia prosegue con un viaggio in aereo dai tempi narrativi dilatati (in cui probabilmente le necessità produttive di minutaggio totale si conciliano benissimo con la precisa scelta stilistica dell’atmosfera di assurdità beckettiana). Qua si intrecciano peculiari rapporti interpersonali, a volte arricchiti di dialoghi venati di assurdo, come la domanda: “Che cosa pensi della morte?”, piazzata là dal niente.
Poi l’aereo precipita nella foresta, la trama assume i connotati dell’avventura con annessi chiarimenti (benché permanga una certa non canonicità di costruzione), trova risalto la tematica principale dell’avidità estrema, della falsità, dell’ipocrisia.

Similmente a quanto aveva realizzato in Beast from Haunted Cave con l’inserimento di suoi tratti caratteristici in un B-movie horror, qua Hellman si avvale del genere avventuroso à la Huston per aggiungerne altri, sfumare, rimodulare.
Ne risulta un’opera più personale, in cui, sebbene ancora discontinua e timida, la sua impronta si avverte con maggiore decisione.
Soprattutto, l’inseguimento finale, con tanto di Jack Nicholson nel suo primo personaggio beffardo, prelude alle opere migliori; vi sono già la freddezza e la desolazione che segnano il paesaggio, che qua risaltano in maniera particolare per il contrasto con la frescura del setting tropicale.
Tuttavia, manca una coerenza di fondo, concettuale e di modalità narrativa, che sappia amalgamare così questo come gli altri elementi hellmaniani, che sembrano restare un po’ raffazzonati.

[Qua, la consueta versione originale del pezzo]

Mi s-a amputat piciorul

pentru că am călcat strâmb

în faţa guvernului divin

şi mi-au pus de formă,

în locul celui amputat,

un picior de scaun.

câteodată, pe stradă,

sunt confundat cu un scaun

iar oamenii dau să se aşeze

să-şi fumeze odihniţi o ţigară.

Piciorul de lemn mi-l încalţ

cu un pantof de lemn,

la baza lui încalţ şosete

de muşchi de copac

şi chiar în fluierul piciorului meu

îşi cioplesc casele

familii artiste de ciocănitoare.

Din piciorul meu,

tata şi-a comandat un costum nou,

cu tot cu cravată în formă de cruce,

mama îl foloseşte când prepară mămăliga

dar nu mă lasă niciodată să îl ling.

Odată chiar, l-am împrumutat unui vecin

care nu avea coadă la cazma să îşi sape grădina…

dar… piciorul meu a prins rădăcini numai în tine,

zeiţa mea ciocănitoare.

ştiu, ştiu, nu-ţi face griji pentru la iarnă deloc,

dacă rămânem fără căldură,

îmi rup piciorul şi îl arunc pe foc.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

- Samuel Beckett

If you’ve been following me on Twitter, you’re already aware of this, but in case you missed it, I have decided to send some cards to Beckett for grading. Not exactly hot news in our industry, but Beckett is running a 50 percent off promo through the end of the month; this seemed like a good time for me to get a few things out of the way. I know some of you feel grading is a sham, and to a certain extent, I don’t care for it either. That is why I’ve been using Beckett Grading lately for slabbing and authentication purposes only. I’ve got some cool vintage cards that I wish were in Beckett slabs. So here is what is on the way to Dallas: 1909-1911 T206 Nap Lajoie (portrait); 1909-1911 T206 Christy Mathewson (dark cap), 1954 Topps Ernie Banks rookie; 1955 Topps Roberto Clemente rookie; 1956 Topps Jackie Robinson (white back); 1960 Topps Carl Yastrzemski rookie and my 1967 Topps Venezuelan Babe Ruth. I asked for authentication and slabbing only on the T206s, which are in horrible shape; the Banks rookie, which is a sweet card, but has a date stamped in ink on the reverse; and the Ruth, which is definitely Gem Mint as you can see from THIS PICTURE. And I actually want grades for the Yaz (probably a 2.5), Jackie (3-4?) and Clemente (2-2.5). None of these cards is going to net me a small fortune, but they’ll look much nicer now in my graded card display case, which is 99 percent BGS. Brand Loyalty, baby.

Ridică, mă, cortina să vedem si noi

cum îşi taie Dumnezeu venele, ce naiba,

neagră comedia voastră, băieţi,

totuşi se aplaudă isteric;

azi-dimineaţă, când se bărbierea,

soarele şi-a tăiat gâtul

din care ţâşnea lumina a fluturi rahitici

care tuşesc tuberculos polen…

Ridică, mă, cortina,

mă, copii ăştia sunt expiraţi, scrie pe etichetă,

legaţi-i în serie de copacul ăla gălbejit.

-unii dintre noi sunt prea toamnă-

între timp, pe scenă, Hector ne prezintă fenomenul zero.

Vedeţi dumneavoastră, fenomenul zero,

este un fenomen simplu de complex, abstract de concret…

cum de ce! cum de ce! că îmi vin nervii,

unii dintre noi sunt prea toamnă,

vedeţi, l-aţi supărat pe Hector…

fenomenul zero, se aude!?

Coboară, mă, câinii să mă tăvălescă

până mi se dezlipesc plămânii

ca două afişe -tuberculos de oarecare-

coboară odată câinii ăia

să-mi sfâşie tristeţea, păi ce crezi tu,

mai ştii când ţi-am muşcat în noaptea aia

sânul stâng, iar a doua zi

mă privea vânăt şi supărat ca un boxer,

mai ştii?! i-am povestit despre fenomenul zero

ca să-i treacă supărarea…

Pe atunci Hector era saltimbanc

lucra pe cont propriu, ce zile, ce zile.

Acum hai, ridică cortina, coboară câinii,

luna atârnă pe umeraş ca o cămaşă

condamnată la naftalină.

coboară dracu’ odată câinii ăia să-mi sfâşie tristeţea.

Când m-ai născut pe mine, mamă,

era aşa o criză economică în ţară

şi nea’ nicu dăduse ordin

ca toate femeile să-şi nască pruncii

direct în sicrie…

dar tu, tu mamă, nu ai vrut

şi ei te-au obligat atunci râzând

ca tu, mama mea,

să mă naşti direct în mormânt.

Indigo, Tennyson, Barnaby, Ashby, Rowan, Arlo, Benson, Beckett, Dashiell, Dante, Emmett, Emilio, Gabriel, Gulliver, Hugo, Harvey, Leo, Oakley, Orlando, Pablo, Preston, Perrin, Quinlan, Raphael, Romeo, Remy, Rupert, River, Rafferty, Rutherford, Samson, Sommer, Steven, Troy, Tristan.

Bellona, Bedelia, Decla, Eloisa, Evangelina, Freya, Ferelith, Genevieve, Greta, Ginella, Hazel, Hyacinth, Honora, Isabella, Isadora, Junia, Luciana, Lucelia, Leora, Maddalena, Noella, Ophelia, Ottilie, Polly, Pearl, Primrose, Rosabel, Romilly, Raphaella, Rosamund, Seraphina, Sofiel, Simone, Tallulah, Valentina, Viola.

dacă dormi cu capul pe o carte îţi intră cuvintele în ureche ca insectele, de exemplu, cuvântul viaţă îţi poate intra în ureche ca un gândac de bucătărie, apoi iritaţia apare, halucinaţii de toate simţurile, vise ciudate, te poţi visa bucată de caşcaval sau coajă de pâine, de aceea eu nu dorm cu capul pe o carte…

dacă dormi cu capul pe o piatră îţi intră timpul în ureche, da, îţi intră timpul în ureche… îţi intră cu tot cu scântei, apoi urechea ta devine un fel de scenă pe care timpul se prosteşte actoriceşte, mimează o moarte de doi lei şi trei pantere, etc, etc, etc… apoi te trezeşti cu un sunet ciudat în cap, cu un fel de muzică funerară ermetică, un fel de noise cosmic, de aceea eu nu dorm niciodată cu capul pe o piatră…

nici pe mormânt nu este bine să dormi cu capul, nici pe trunchiul unui copac… nici pe un câine cu piciorul gata ridicat… nu poţi dormi chiar pe unde vrei tu cu capul tău pătrat, pentru că eu te-am minţit până acum să mai fie şi cu mine cineva treaz la ora asta…

… ei bine, poţi dormi cu capul pe propriul braţ, dar îţi va amorţi de nu te vezi, frate, că ai un cap greu… ăsta e adevărul.

Last night in Beijing. Hallelujah. We can almost taste home. In fact, we’re dying to taste home. I love Chinese food as much as the next person but I am SO over it right about now.

We’re starting to see the REAL Beckett now. And we’re afraid. Very afraid. They say that the girls who come from Hunan province are ‘spicy’. They are not kidding. Where did the mild mannered, placid little baby go? OK – in hindsight she was catatonic the first few days but still! She’s gone from meek to Machiavellian in a scant 2 weeks. Now, if things don’t go exactly her way, she yells. And when I say yells, I’m understating. It’s more of a ‘possessed by the devil’ roar. If green pea soup came spewing out of her mouth the picture would be complete. Russ had her all to himself yesterday afternoon and when I got back, she was…umm..yelling and I asked how the afternoon had gone. “She is the devil” was the reply.

It’s kinda funny actually. OK – its funny when you’re not the one getting yelled at. There are a guaranteed few things that will set her off:

1. Face wiping. Doesn’t matter that she is a continual drool fountain or that her nose is running and she’s mixing the snot with the spit and then wiping it all over her face – you cannot wipe it off. It’s officially gross. And if you should deign to try and remove said grossness, you get possessed screamer. Charming.
2. Putting on clothes. Not that she wants to be naked all the time. She just wants her clothes to magically appear on her body. None of the putting arms through armholes for her. Noooo. And god forbid her legs should have to go through pant legs. Shock horror – socks? Cause for hysteria. Exhausting!
3. Sitting by herself. Apparently, this equals abandonment. “You people shall sit with me at ALL times. There will be no doing of other THINGS. I – and only I shall be the centre of attention. If not, I shall scream. Be afraid.” Poor kid. She doesn’t yet realize that the amount of attention she’s currently getting is more she can expect once we get home. We have another black hole of attention waiting for us there.

Other than that, it’s all good. She’s developing amazingly well. Her muscles are way stronger than they were at the beginning. She can pull herself up to sitting now and can even roll over – a little. Of course she gets royally pissed off when she can’t roll back. She’s even developed a few games with us. Her favorite is to throw herself backwards (whether there’s a pillow or hand there or not) and then wait for us to shlep her up again. Laugh riot.  We’ve added the element of pushing on her forehead with a finger. She resists. We do it two or three times and the last time she stops resisting and lets herself fall back. This gets major chuckles. But she is not amused like most babies are. No making funny faces or tickling for her. All you get is the stony expression. “Really – is that all you people got?” She’s more for dark humor. The freefalling backwards stuff. We’re suspecting she has some daredevil in her. Mark my words, she’s probably going to be bungee jumping by 15. This is a far cry from her sister.

So although we’re facing the harsh reality that she will most definitely not be the sweet, compliant child that her sister was (and is), we’re still diggin’ on her big time.

And now we’re stuffing all of our remaining belongings into our bags. We realized last night that our ‘direct’ flight home isn’t direct after all (words will be had with Aeroplan) and we have to deplane in Vancouver and then get back on the same plane an hour and a half later. This should be an interesting flight as by that point, Beckett will have had the equivalent of a giant nap and will be raring to go. Wish us luck and we’ll speak to you all when we’re back.

And a big thanks to Jenn Tondino who has been my blog poster for the 2 weeks. Who knew WordPress was banned in China? So I’ve been emailing them to her and she’s been dutifully posting them at all hours. You rock Jenn – we all thank you!!

See you in Canada. Who hoo!!! (PS – China is now experiencing its largest snowfall in 54 years. Lucky us.)

Se zboară decent la dumneavoastră

se moare discret şi modest,

v-aţi răstignit şi copiii la fereastră

şi nu cu vreun sens, ci ca gest;

câini vagabonzi şi cutii de conservă

la parter un tango sparge pahare,

lui paul i s-au aburit ochelarii de la ciorbă

şi i-a mai scăpat şi prea multă sare;

a mai căzut un copil de la fereastră

şi ne ninge de sus şi prostesc,

se zboară decent la dumneavoastră

se moare discret şi modest.

Thatcher Bede

Thatcher Cole

Thatcher Elliot

Thatcher Guy

Thatcher Joel

Thatcher Isaac

Thatcher Leon

Thatcher Michael

Thatcher Nathaniel

Thatcher Grey

Thatcher Rowan

Thatcher Ambrose

Thatcher Abram

Thatcher Arnold

Thatcher Blake

Thatcher Bart

Thatcher Beckett

Thatcher Bram

Thatcher Caspian

Thatcher Dalziel

Thatcher Ira

Thatcher Jude

Thatcher Marley

Thatcher Miles

Thatcher Maxwell

Thatcher Moss

Thatcher Owen

Thatcher Penn

Thatcher Rory

Thatcher Reuben

Thatcher Gabriel

As I write this, I’m sipping on my first glass of wine for a week. Not because I haven’t wanted wine for a week, just because firstly I would have barfed it up, and then there was no decent wine to be found. But our intrepid friend Norma (who is the traveling buddy to Catherine – single mom and Russ’s friend from work (weird) who is also here adopting her daughter Hannah) found me a bottle of Australian Chardonnay in the midst of a Chinese supermarket. She is a good woman. But I digress. Here’s the story(s) du jour…

So aside from the interlude on what we know about Beckett, when last we met, fair reader, I was recovering from a nasty bout of tummy yuck, Beckett was recovering from some sort of weird rash and Russ was just, well, Russ. Up to this point, his greatest challenge had seemingly been the sinking in of the baby reality. “She’s such a…a BABY” he kept repeating. “I mean, its not like I didn’t think she’d be a baby, but she’s SUCH a baby.” I think he may have been in shock. But other than that, he was largely unscathed.

Yeah. Until Friday afternoon, almost 24 hours to the minute after my stomach had begun to rumble, we were out at Martyr Park, enjoying the sites and sounds and he very quietly asked “Ummm, how exactly did your stomach thing start” and then he burped. “With a burp” I replied, trying to remain calm. Russ may be the Zen Buddha and all, but he doesn’t have the constitution to match. “Hmmm’ he replied. “I think I might….”. Those were pretty much the last intelligible words I heard out of him. (And we were due to fly out of Changsha to Beijing the next morning).

We rushed Russ back to the hotel and I took Beckett and headed for the hills for the afternoon, terrified that she too would befall the barf bug. We hung out down the hall in Norma and Catherine’s room where Beckett proved that every day she was literally blossoming. The once implacable kid was now laughing up a storm and playing dumb games with me. She also was going from floppy to almost sturdy and was killing herself laughing as she pulled herself into a sitting position and then let herself fall back onto the pillow with a solid ‘plop’.

When I returned, Russ was huddled under the covers in a major state. “How may barfs did you do?” he asked. “Five good ones” I replied. “Two to go” he moaned. And so he barfed, and slept, while I packed up the room and organized us for travel the following day. By 8am, he was barely out of the woods and feeling like he’d been hit by a garbage truck. I was trying to keep it all together, Beckett under one arm, shelpping suitcases with the other, and Russ trailing behind half stoned on Gravol.

Somehow, the travel gods were smiling down upon us and the usually treacherous Air China was running smoothly that day. We got on the plane, Russ collapsed into his seat and tried to sleep and I played with the Beckster who seemed totally unperturbed by the whole flying in a giant tin can thing. (This hopefully bodes well for the 16 hour flight home but you never know). She had a few melt down moments but I dealt pretty well, all things considered. But by the time we were on the bus from the Beiing airport to the hotel (about 1.5 hours in traffic), I could feel my last nerve being stretched to breaking. (Let’s face it, I’m amazed that I hadn’t had my own melt down by this point. I was exhausted, barely recovered from my own bug and now taking care of not one, but two babies. Oy.)

When we finally got into our room, Beckett was tucked into one bed and Russ in the other, I finally let myself cry…just a little. And then I unpacked, washed bottles and collapsed into bed. It was 8:30pm.  And we had to get up the next morning for our trip to the Great Wall of China. But that’s for another post…

My revelations from the above experience are that a) I’m SO glad I’m not a single parent anymore. It’s way too hard b) I miss Russ when he’s not with me – even in spirit c) my kid’s pretty easy to deal with and d) I am SO all over it when I am needed. I like that about myself. It makes me feel like a pioneer. And I like that I can take care of my family. It makes me happy.

Here’s some pix of us our playing at Martyr Park (such a quaint name for the People’s park – no?) and of the subsequent travel experience. 

More soon!

PS: Fear not – Russ has since recovered and ate his first solid meal today.

Book Five — Chapter Twelve Norbert Part One

CONTENTS NEXT

Heath always struck Adam as forbidding. Something about the way houses and trees were situated. It was largely noted as a summer spot for theological and scholarly sorts. Several of the Union Theological Seminary professors came there. Norbert’s family had had a house in Heath for over a century. It represented one of the few material contributions Norbert could bring to his marriage to the wealthy Clarissa.

The house was made of huge wooden planks and the rooms were cool and dark even in summer. The trees provided abundant shade. There was an out-building where a couple lived, providing help with the grounds and housekeeping. Norbert generally cooked for himself but he had an arrangement with the owner of a small French restaurant down the road. Whenever he wanted something special, he got on the phone and called Marcel. He was particularly fond of fondue and Marcel, though Provencal, did not mind creating the Swiss staple for his friend.

Adam was given a room right off Norbert’s book-lined study. It was cozy. Our hero felt immediately at home.

“Is steak pommes frites and a salad with some Chateauneuf du Pape adequate?” Norbert asked from the next room.

“Absolutely.” Adam said.

“Good, I’ll get on it.”

Adam could hear Norbert conversing in French somewhere out there.

Norbert lost weight after his dismissal from Columbia. Though still in his fifties, he looked older. His face was lined and pale. Like the village, he seemed averse to sunlight. His head had the same aristocratic aura one might associate with Alger Hiss. Adam made up his mind to ask him about that friendship if the occasion presented itself.

*

“I suppose you were told about my little incident,” Norbert began. They were seated in the dining area off the kitchen.

“Yes. Only that it happened,” Adam responded.

“It certainly did. It is over now. I have no truck with the notion that one is suicidal if one just happens to try to kill oneself. I tried. I failed. I am alive. And that’s that.”

He extended his hand as if to solicit Adam’s agreement. But Adam said, “Thanks for telling Clarissa it was OK for me to visit.”

“Clarissa is a rock,” Norbert replied, looking far off, as if to acknowledge her, wherever she might be. “What she has been throuigh, what we’ve both been through, her incredible talent, her capacity to deal with life as she has — it’s a wonder to me it was not she who tried to go.”

Adam said nothing. The steak was delicious. Incredible, in fact. He nodded as much to Norbert.

“After I failed, I understood why I tried to go,” Norbert continued. It wasn’t because of all three of our children dying, Adam. Or because of what Joe McCarthy did to me. Or even what Columbia did. Do you want to know what it was?”

“Sure,” Adam said.

Norbert pushed his chair back. He folded his cloth napkin and set it down.

“I saw the future, Adam. I saw what was coming. I did not know what to do.”

Adam said nothing. Norbert went on.

“I was fired from Columbia for saying things people could not understand. My post-suicidal vision clarified things for me. We are facing an intellectual apocalypse.”

“What did you see?” Adam said.

“I saw the extension of the present into the future. It sickened me to the core. It still sickens me because I believe my perception is correct. But I have been turned into a pathetic person. No one will listen to me. That’s what sickens me most of all. It was own liberal establishment that inserted the final blade. I am left with no one who will listen.”

“What about Hiss?” Adam offered.

“Alger is too wrapped up in his own problems. He is brilliant. But Chambers has effectively lured him into a lifetime dance of mutual recrimination. He has no time to dig deeper. If he did I am sure he would see.”

“Can you tell me what you see?”

“Yes. I can tell you who also sees. Many see. Genet does. At least partially. Beckett does. Before them, Nietzsche. It all has to do with the elusiveness of truth, with knowing the truth. And most of all with what happens when the truth we live with turns out to be a lie.”

“What is the lie?” Adam asked.

“What we have said we believe. The culture we have created. As people realize, they battle to save the lie. It becomes apocalyptic. It is in progress.”

Adam looked out the window and saw nothing but peace. He did not know Genet. He had read no Beckett. He was unfamiliar with Nietzsche.

“Tell me about Beckett,” he said.

“We followed Beckett from the start,” Norbert replied. “We saw “Godot” in Paris. Then in London. Ha, ha, ha ha! They could not use the word erection! I have a letter from Beckett that corresponds exactly to my understanding. The play says nothing beyond what it says. That is the point.”

“I don’t know Genet,” Adam said.

“We saw Genet’s ‘Balcony’ in London. We’ll get it over here soon. Clarissa is a theater mover you know. Genet is all about ritual And hypocrisy. He helps us see how things work. McCarthy was a mask. Just like Genet’s masks — judge, priest, chief of police. Stravinsky’s devil says we all have our little job to do in life. You must know Dostoevsky, Norbert said, looking at Adam.

Adam nodded.

“His underground man will do anything to prove he is a man and not a piano key. Nietzsche caps everything off, Adam. Nietzsche was a Christian reformer.”

Adam’s ears perked. Norbert saw.

“He was! He couldn’t admit it. He understood Jesus. If he had not gone mad, he would have gone further. He would have stopped the mouths of posturing existentialists and shamed the charlatans of psychology.”

“I have not read Nietzsche,” Adam said.

“You would need German,” Norbert responded. “I know why Freidrich went mad, by the way.” Norbert shifted in his seat. “Adam, this is Mrs. Farmer.”

Norbert addressed a tall, gaunt woman who now stood next to the table with cups of expresso and two small portions of perfectly turned flan.

“Hello. Thank you. This is delicious,” Adam said.

She nodded. Taciturn. She walked off.

“So Adam, I undertand you left your fraternity.” Norbert said. “And that shooting. I read about it. Coffin. It seems you are embarked on a bit of a career. Union Theological Seminary! Heath is the summer home of that institution. Are you going to be a preacher like Mr. Coffin?”

Adam set his cup down. “Actually. I have no idea what I will do,” he said. “This summer I’ll be an attendant at the New York State Psychiatric Institute in the city. The children’s ward. Do you know the Demarests?”

“Sure. Sure. I have met the Mrs. He’s a doctor, correct?”

“Unfortunately he just had a stroke,” Adam said. He remembered the urgent call that came for Vanessa at the very end of her visit to Williamstown. “He introduced me to Dr. Kolb at the Psychiatric Institute.”

Norbert paused and then looked Adam in the eye. “You know if we could just accept life as suffering and death. If we could give up believing panacaeas, phony wisdom and religious claptrap. Clarissa has the right idea, Adam, you know? She gave up waiting for Godot a long time ago.”

Adam nodded.

“Why are you going to Union?” Norbert asked.

“Do you really want to know?” Adam said.

“Of course.”

“I don’t believe in fighting. If I am in seminary I have some protection against being drafted. I have no idea what I want to do for a living. I’m marking time.”

Norbert sat for thirty seconds and then said, “Sage, Falstaffian. Admirable, in fact.”

“Falstaffian?” Adam said.

“His honor speech in Henry the Fourth, Part One. Revaluation in progress.”

Norbert got up abruptly. “Nap,” he explained.

Adam finished his expresso and then walked into Norbert’s study. He pulled out a volume of Nietszche. It was in German. He thought about what Norbert had said. No family that loses all three of their children, as Clarissa and Norbert had done, was likely to be moved by religious claptrap. Still Adam did not see religion as a completely lost cause. It was, in his view, a community option.

Adam was, if anything, a disciple of Robert Nisbet. Nisbet believed that the quest for community is fundamental. When society makes community less and less possible, great harm is done.

Our hero had no real sense of family. Even even if he did, his family was nuclear. Not part of a community. Adam felt connection to those he had known in the Christian movement at Williams. And at Jim Robinson’s camps. He knew he wanted a life beyond what he’d seen in those Chicago suburbs.

His eye fell on a shelf of worn leatherbound volumes. A well-used collection of Shakespeare. He quickly found Falstaff’s honor speech. He read it to himself out loud.

“Can honor set-to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honor hath no skill in surgery then? no. What is honor? a word. What is that word, honor? air. A trim reckoning!–Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth be hear it? no. Is it insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it: honor is a mere scutcheon:–and so ends my catechism.”

Adam went outside and followed West Main to Lodge’s Road. He walked north a mile or so. He was surprised. He wasn’t a walker. He thought about what he had reard and read. He was intrigued with a single sentence he heard at lunch.

“Nietzsche was a Christian reformer.”

He returned. He found Norbert in the large front room. He sat on a chaise with a blanket over his legs. He looked like one of the old people on the promenade deck of the Independence.

“Can I give you some tea?” Norbert said softly.

“No thanks,” Adam said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Norbert replied with what seemed like effort. Then: “It’s a positive delight to have someone ask me anything.”

“You said Nietszche was a Christian reformer.”

“Ha, ha,” Norbert laughed, sitting up a bit, “It’s true. He even admits it at certain points. What he saw was the bankruptcy of the Christian tradition. What he did was reverse and revalue things. It is up to us to go forward and complete the job. Or rather the way of thinking. The sad thing, worse than McCarthy and HUAC, is the appropriation of Nietszche, who hated most things German, by Nazis and now and his subsequent skewering by all manner of so-called intellectuals who do not read him. We owe the crime to his dismal Fascist sister. You need to read Nietzsche. But you don’t’ have German. Nevertheless, you are in luck. Professor Kaufman at Princeton is the Atlas of our civilization. He is translating Nietzsche in beautiful approximations of his master’s voice. You will be able to spend your adulthood steeped in Nietzsche’s thought, courtesy of Kaufman.”

“Isn’t Nietzsche an apostle of inequality?” Adam said, remembering something overheard at St. Gandolph’s.

“Credit me with discrimination, good sir!” Norbert replied with some spirit. Adam couldn’t tell if Professor Franklin was being serious or not, He did not answer.

Then Norbert said: “Nietzsche’s revaluation of values was more successful in toppling the old ones than coming up with the new.” He pushed himself up to a standing position. “I cannot do this any more just now. I will have Mary put out some supper. Make yourself comfortable. I will be alright tomorrow.”

He walked across the room and climbed the stairs slowly to a part of the house where Adam had never ventured. It was not even evening. Adam wondered if he should stay. He decided he should. He went back to the study and found all the volumes of Toynbee’s “Study of History” sitting on the shelves, replete with numerous bookmarks. He gently freed them from their mooring and was soon lost in them.

Later, Mary invited him to a supper of soup, bread, cheese and, providentially, a second helping of flan.

Adam finished and went back to Toynbee. Norbert reappeared, wearing pajamas under a threadbare bathrobe.

“Toynbee, I see. It is clear we must talk more. I mentioned Kaufman. Do you know him?”

Adam shook his head.

“You should. He went to your college. He’s at Princeton now. He was born in Germany and, just like lNietzsche, he started life as a skeptical Lutheran. He is as brilliant a man as I have ever met. He thinks Toynbee is a tool of Western culture. Anyway, we’ll talk more in the morning. I need to talk to someone.” He turned and departed as quickly as he had come.

By the time Adam set Toynbee back on the shelves, his mind was filled with terms like universal church and volkerwanderung. He was totally confused.

He went to bed early and fell into a fitful sleep. He woke up and lay there listening. He heard birds. And an occasional passing car. Then he slept again, this time deeply.

CONTENTS NEXT

ea tace cum ştie doar ea, însăşi tăcerea a încercat odată să o copieze, dar s-a făcut de râs în gura mare; ea tace, tace şi fumează cine ştie ce, dar fumează ceva, e limpede, se vede fum… vine vântul la ea, îi dă părul după urechi şi îi linge gâtul cu limba lui de vânt, ea continuă să tacă să-nchidă ochii clipind, apoi ea dintr-o dată începe să vorbească ceva, nu prea înţeleg ce, dar e limpede, şoaptele ei curg, şoaptele ei sunt într-adevăr vorbire şi gura ei se surpă, acum ea e prăpastie, vorbeşte şi e propria-i prăpastie în care se surpă.

En liten historie om svineinfluensaen som har rammet vårt land …

Denne ble trykket i SydVesten, Rogaland legeforenings medlemsblad, nr. 3 2009. Jeg skrev den en stund før influensaen kom for fullt, og faktisk før det kom rapporter om smittede griser.

aşa începe.

eu eram tramvai, tu erai o străină, te-ai urcat în mine cu o greutate de frunză şi am ghicit din prima cifrul verdelui din ochiul tău…

ţi-ai compostat o nervură şi ai început să-mi miroşi pielea de tinichea şi să-mi lingi rugina…

reamintesc pentru cei ce au deschis ochii mai târziu, eu eram tramvai, tu erai o străină să zic aşa, oarecare, te-am invitat să-mi înfigi tocul pantofului în coastă, apoi am oprit la un semafor crezând că este roşu… dar era luna roşie de oftică şi gelozie pentru că începeau să mi se aprindă roţile după tine…

apoi simţământul a venit, coama mea electrică îmi transmitea despre tine. îţi era mereu-mereu teamă de staţia următoare… au început să mi se aburească geamurile de la respiraţia ta…

… să reamintesc pentru cei ce au deschis televizorul mai târziu, eu eram tramvai, tu erai o străină ca să zic aşa, oarecare… te-ai urcat în mine cu o teamă continuă de staţia următoare…

după ce mi-ai aburit geamurile, ai început să mi le săruţi şi să le lingi cu degetele tale hulpave de copil ciudat, bineînţeles, eu am luat-o razna, ca orice tramvai tânăr şi în putere, m-am descălţat de şine şi am început să alerg aiurea… erau mulţi oameni în mine, dar eu numai cu tine alergam…

„nevermore” spunea părul tău negru precum corbul lui poe…

am obosit şi am oprit plin de spume şi de tine; întâmplarea face că am oprit la aceeaşi staţie la care te-ai urcat în mine, şi ce ai făcut?

te-ai coborât, ai zâmbit liniştită şi mi-ai făcut fericită cu mâna… reamintesc, tu o străină ca toate cele, eu un tramvai rătacit de propriile şine.

aşa se termină