98
JANE MAYHALL
I looked at these words, almost blindly. Because even as I had
written them, for the least read story, in the least read book, I could
see how hollow-sounding, even precious they seemed. Behind
my
frontal lobes, there was always that shadowy companion. My ad–
versary was turning out "good dramatic situations" like cream. And
he had a formula, I noticed.
It
was in pretending, at the beginning
of a novel, to like people, his girl, his little brother, his mother–
then showing (without comment) how rotten they really were. Ex–
cept, his beliefs about being rotten weren't exactly mine. In one of
his
stories, the fiancee of the hero accidentally drops an unused Kotex
on the floor. It's a high point of expose, showing how comic and
unlovely women actually are. The hero is rightfully repelled, and
in
time escapes the girl. But not before giving her a sermon on how
much more he loves her than she does him. Literarily, the scene was
a "breakthrough." "With all the laughs and zingy guts" (said a
critic) "of life itself."
Should some arch female writer have written : "Love the girl,
love her Kotex"?
But, inverse Victorianism. And what the hell did the closet
equipment matter.
If
she'd dropped an aluminum pan, would it
have made any difference? The guy didn't want her anyway. But
good god, and god, again. The idea of a "breakthrough," and so
shabby, infantile. And the audience on its knees, picking up the
salacious tidbits. Stupid children.
I was once more in the intolerable web. It was like a private
cause celebre.
I comforted myself by reading Lermontov, who said:
"In decent company as in a decent book open abuse cannot occur."
But, the remonstrance, oddly enough, I felt was directed at myself.
Never mind that all the successful and published villains were doing
dirt on life, exaggerating and de-emphasizing, using the mores of
the crowd, prejudices and ugly appetites, never mind the spurious
images, and the evil they committed, they did it with an
art.
In
them, there was some myth-making ability, and the use of hidden
weapons. While I, for whatever I was, wanted to straightly cry out
my stern, subjective abuse.
Finally, I met him at a Writers' Colony. It was just outside
Philadelphia, one of those short-lived enterprises on somebody's
converted farm. I remember the day and fine weather; between the
