100
JANE
MAYHALL
too,
can't
be unconscious of the effects of what they do. Nabokov
says art is not prophetic. A beautiful idea, but maybe not so true?
The damage of consequences.
If,
writing a book, or even in your
personal life, you set up a mouth-smacking scene of violence, or
some imbecilic cruel character evaluation, some weak-minded per–
sons, or young ones, will want to imitate the orgy. With my Famous
Author - a joke, the word "my," but so linked was he to the
stresses in my brain - under all the clear documentary sentences
(though I'd always fancied strains of a pornographic Somerset
Maugham), behind all the furniture of the ordinary, kids eating
pop–
corn, couples having sexual intercourse, old men spitting in the
gutter, there was always that little germ of
demeaning,
and the
secret in his wheat. The germ, and the worm; and the inviolate
snake. Call it anything you want, the message was hate. His hero
hated Jews. He also hated sex, but of course in the guise of the
funny-ugly, all those side-splittingly awkward positions. The coitus
of
contempt, my dear, my dear!
I got up, thoughts running acid. In the four corners of the
room there was nothing to counter my dreams. But damn it,
they
were true. No less substantial than guns and chairs, people's lousy
attitudes.
But why important to me?
"Cultivate your own damned garden."
In the silence of the room, I'd heard my voice. Me, myself and
the bourbon. How Jesus Christ embarrassing. The room, off to it–
self; I was sure nobody'd heard. No matter, but incriminating.
A
blind for doing nothing, spouting mottos at the ceiling! All such
inanities I condemn. Starved hopes, and muddy illusions. I went
to
the bureau and combed my hair.
But, the only thing in his books (a final recap, so often had I
been through this mad excursion), the only things he'd ever made
slightly pleasant, in the ,art of subliminal discourse, pleasant
and
comely, I thought, were: good-looking clothes, rich homes and
automobiles....
I arrived at the downstairs dining room, with a spent conscience.
Literally, my animus was burned up. How to waste your own private
time. The big plank table where we ate was all filled, with one seat
at the very end; which I took. My Enemy sat across, looking
