100
PARTISAN REVIEW
Beneath a Pink Lampshade" is Mendel Osipovich's ironic reply to a
remark I made about this. (And not "an obsession with menstrual
blood," for goodness' sake!)
You are aware, sir, that M.O. was married at the time and had
a daughter (or, as the estimable Nina Roth-Swanson writes, "M.O.
had incarnated his youthful fantasies in the person of a wife–
mother"!). Painful though it may be, I must again remind you of the
fate of that unfortunate child, whom Roth-Swanson ignores, as if the
fact of her congenital illness could cast a shadow on Mendel Osipo–
vich's life .
Far be it from me to emend the arbitrary assessments of the
critics , especially the analyses of Miss Nina Roth-Swanson - I have
the
least
right to do so and the greatest- but there is one remark I feel
I must make: N.R.-S. , well aware of the sickly girl's existence-out
of feminine sympathy and doubtless the maternal instinct (which is
not always relevant to critical assessment) - interprets all poems
in
which the words
mayn
kind
appear as "anguish relating to the sanctions
of the superego and experienced as a feeling of guilt"! Poor Mendel
Osipovich would turn in his grave, could he read those words. Not
only because of their stunning banality, though primarily for that
reason , but also because never, sir, did M .O . make the slightest al–
lusion to that child in his works: he would have considered it sac–
rilegious.
I ,
sir, am the "sinful parthenogenesis"; even though there
was only a seven-year difference between us,
I
am the
mayn
kind
of
his poems . So much for the "in-depth analysis" of Nina Roth-Swan–
son and her endeavor, on the basis of the novels
The Hounds
and
Pillar ofSalt
as well as the
Falling Star
collection, to suggest the absurd
thesis of love as incest, "an attempt to violate taboos and experience
catharsis as in a dream"!
If
you don't mind my saying so, the erudite
Roth-Swanson would do well to spare Mendel Osipovich her "to–
tems and taboos ."
Need I tell you that M.O. often tried to break the bonds that
kept him fettered "on a double chain, like anchors." But his unfor–
tunate daughter, with an intuition given only to children and holy
fools , was able to sense , the moment he stood in the doorway, his
resolve to pronounce the fateful words he had recited on his way to
her like a schoolboy on the way to an exam. Propped up on her
pillows in bed , she would turn her mournful eyes to him and try to
say something, which always ended in a terrifying, beast-like growl.
M.O., torn by remorse , would sit down next to her, take her hand
in
