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BARTLEBITS

Erasure / Erosion

Xavier S. // CrashTest


“I would prefer not to.”


Table of Content J. G. Ballard: THE LOST NOVEL ...........................................................................................................................4 Samuel Beckett: ENDGAME .....................................................................................................................................5 William Blake: TIRIEL.................................................................................................................................................6 Mikhail Bulgakov: THE MASTER AND MARGARITA .....................................................................................7 Anthony Burgess: CLOCKWORK ORANGE .......................................................................................................8 Lewis Carroll: THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS.......................................................................................14 Neal Cassady: THE JOAN ANDERSON LETTER ...........................................................................................17 Roald Dahl: CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY.....................................................................18 Charles Dickens: DAVID COPPERFIELD..........................................................................................................21 T. S. Eliot: THE WASTE LAND ............................................................................................................................23 Anne Frank: DIARY ..................................................................................................................................................24 Thomas Jefferson: DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE ........................................................................26 Katherine Mansfield....................................................................................................................................................27 Herman Melville: BILLY BUDD .............................................................................................................................28 Friedrich Nietzsche: THE ANTICHRIST..............................................................................................................28 Ayn Rand: WE THE LIVING .................................................................................................................................29 Sappho: TWO POEMS.............................................................................................................................................30 Bram Stoker: DRACULA ..........................................................................................................................................31 Mark Twain: PUDD'NHEAD WILSON ...............................................................................................................32 H.G. Wells: THE TIME MACHINE......................................................................................................................33 Oscar Wilde: DORIAN GRAY................................................................................................................................35 Virginia Woolf: THE PORT OF LONDON ........................................................................................................36 APPENDIX 1..............................................................................................................................................................38 Neal Cassady: The (unlost) Joan Anderson Letter............................................................................................38 APPENDIX 2 [FRENCH]........................................................................................................................................44 Daniel Bougnoux : ARAGON, LA CONFUSION DES GENRES...........................................................44 SOURCES....................................................................................................................................................................48


 J. G. Ballard: THE LOST NOVEL [Spread 1] zero synthesis COMA: the million year girl KLINE: rescoring the cns mr. f is mr. f Xero Run Hot with a Million Programs Starts xero “I am 7000 years old” [Spread 2] am: beach hamlet pm: imago tapes : the existential yes! TIME ZONE....... pre-uterine claims KLINE the A-girl COMA Time pack MR F ...Coma slid out of the solar rig [Spread 3] T-1 EMERGENCY MEGA-CHANNEL Thoracic drop “Mainline,” Kline dialled “L-5 on the big routes.” ...depth squad: programming the psychodrill: coded sleep and intertime [Spread 4] time sea T-12 time probe Volcano Jungle: vision of a dying star-man ...Coma,’ Kline murmured, ‘let’s get out of time.’


 Samuel Beckett: ENDGAME HAMM: More complications! (Clov gets down.) Nothing bouncing around, I trust. (Clov moves ladder nearer window, gets up on it, turns on the without.) CLOV: (dismayed) Aye-aye-aye! HAMM: What is it, a leaf? A flower? A toma–(yawn) to? CLOV: To hell with your tomatoes! It’s someone! Some one! HAMM: Well, go kill him! (Clov gets down) Someone! (energetically) Do your duty! (Clov runs to the door.) No, it’s not worth it. (Clov stops.) How far away? (Clov goes back to the ladder, climbs up, looks out through glass.) CLOV: Seventy… (hesitates) four meters. HAMM: Approaching? Receding? CLOV: (still looking) Not moving. HAMM: The sex? CLOV: What does that matter? (He opens the window, leans out. Then stands back up, lowers the glass, and looks at Hamm in terror.) I would say an urchin. HAMM: Doing what? CLOV: What? HAMM: (violently) What is he doing? CLOV: (the same) I don’t know what he’s doing! What urchins do! (He aims the glass. Pause. He lowers the glass and turns toward Hamm.) He looks like he’s sitting on the ground, his back against something. HAMM: A raised stone? (Pause.) Your sight is improving. He’s looking at the house with the eyes of the dying Moses, I’m sure of it. CLOV: No. HAMM: What is he looking at? CLOV: (violently) I don’t know what he’s looking at! (He aims the glass. Pause. He lowers the glass, turns towards Hamm.) His navel. That’s all. (Pause.) Why all these questions? HAMM: Perhaps he’s dead.


 William Blake: TIRIEL Chapters 4 and 8 Chapter 4 Lotho. Clithyma. Makuth fetch your father Why do you stand confounded thus. Heuxos why art thou silent O noble Ijim thou hast brought our father to our eyes That we may tremble and repent before thy mighty knees O we are but the slaves of fortune. & that most cruel man Desires our deaths. O Ijim tis one whose aged tongue Deceive the noble if the eloquence of Tiriel Hath worked our ruin we submit nor strive against stern fate He spoke & kneel'd upon his knee. Then Ijim on the pavement Set aged Tiriel, in deep thought whether these things were so.

Chapter 8 Dost thou not see that men cannot be formed all alike Some nostril'd wide breathing out blood. Some close shut up In silent deceit. poisons inhaling from the morning rose With daggers hid beneath their lips & poison in their tongue Or eyed with little sparks of Hell or with infernal brands Flinging flames of discontent & plagues of dark despair Or those whose mouths are graves whose teeth the gates of eternal death Can wisdom be put in a silver rod or love in a golden bowl Is the son of a king warmed without wool or does he cry with a voice Of thunder does he look upon the sun & laugh or stretch His little hands into the depths of the sea, to bring forth The deadly cunning of the flatterer & spread it to the morning


 Mikhail Bulgakov: THE MASTER AND MARGARITA Chapter 13

'Joyless autumn days set in,' [‌] The novel was written, we had nothing more to do, and we lived, the two of us together, we were sitting on the carpet near the fireplace, looking at the flames. We started going out more than before. She started making walks. And then something unusual happened to me, as it happens quite often in my life... I got an unexpected visit from a friend. Yes, yes, just imagine: Generally I don't get easily involved with others. I have this demonic strangeness, I hardly converge with people, I am mistrustful, I am suspicious. And you must know: to me, someone has to step unexpectedly into my soul, not foreseen, and totally out of the known ways, that's something I like. One day in that damned period our garden gate went open, I remember it was a nice autumn weather. She was not home. En he came in through the gate. He had passed the house in order to arrange something with the landlord, then came back to our little house en very rapidly we got acquainted. He introduced himself as a journalist. I liked him so much, just imagine, that I remember still now and yes, that I even miss him. He started coming more often. I learned that he was single, that he lived in the neighbourhood of the apartment, and much more. I never invited him though. My wife didn't like him at all. But I threw myself into the breach for him. She said: Do what you want, but I tell you that this person makes a obnoxious impression on me. I started laughing. Yes, sure but, in fact, why was I attracted to him? As a principle, people who have no surprises within themselves are totally uninteresting to me. And Aloisy (oh yes, I forgot to tell that my new friend was called Aloisy Mogarych) did have surprises. Anyway, I know that I never met someone like him before, and that I never will meet a man with a spirit like Aloisy's. When I didn't understand the deeper meaning of something I had been reading in the newspaper, Aloisy explained it to me in a minute and to the letter and one could see that this explanation was of no trouble to him. Even when it was about the important questions of life. But it meant nothing yet. What made me submit to Aloisy was his passion for literature. He could not be stopped - he asked me to read out loud my novel from the beginning to the end, and he reacted flattering to the story, but with a astonishing accuracy, and - as if he had been there himself - he gave me all the observations that the editor had been giving too, for hundred percent. Furthermore he explained to me exactly - and I gues that what he told was right, why my story could not be printed. He said in a direct manner: this chapter will not make it...


 Anthony Burgess: CLOCKWORK ORANGE Chapter 21

'WHAT'S it going to be then, eh?' There was me, Your Humble Narrator, and my three droogs, that is Len, Rick, and Bully, Bully being called Bully because of his bolshy big neck and very gromky goloss which was just like some bolshy great bull bellowing auuuuuuuuh. We were sitting in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. All round were chellovecks well away on milk plus vellocet and synthemesc and drencrom and other veshches which take you far far far away from this wicked and real world into the land to viddy Bog And All His Holy Angels And Saints in your left sabog with lights bursting and spurting all over your mozg. What we were peeting was the old moloko with knives in it, as we used to say, to sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, but I've told you all that before. We were dressed in the heighth of fashion, which in those days was these very wide trousers and a very loose black shiny leather like jerkin over an open-necked shirt with a like scarf tucked in. At this time too it was the heighth of fashion to use the old britva on the gulliver, so that most of the gulliver was like bald and there was hair only on the sides. But it was always the same on the old nogas - real horrorshow bolshy big boots for kicking litsos it. 'What's it going to be then, eh?' I was like the oldest of we four, and they all looked up to me as their leader, but I got the idea sometimes that Bully had the thought in his gulliver that he would like to take over, this being because of his gibness and the gromky goloss that bellowed out of him when he was on the warpath. But all the ideas came from Your Humble, O my brothers, and also there was the veshch that I had been famous and had had my picture and articles and all that cal in the gazettas. Also I had by far the best job of all we four, being in the National Gramodisc Archives on the music side with a real horrorshow carman full of pretty polly at the week's end and a lot of nice free discs for my own malenky self on the side. This evening in the Korova there was a fair number of vecks and ptitsas and devotchkas and malchicks smecking and peeting away, and cutting through their govoreeting and the burbling of the in-the-landers with their 'Gorgor fallatuke and the worm sprays in filltip slaughterballs' and all that cal you could slooshy a popdisc on the stereo, this being Ned Achimota singing 'That Day, Yeah, That Day'. At the counter were three devotchkas dressed in the heighth of nadsat fashion, that is to say long uncombed hair dyed white and false groodies sticking out a metre or more and very very tight short skirts with all like frothy white underneath, and Bully kept saying: 'Hey, get in there we could, three of us. Old Len is not like interested. Leave old Len alone with his God.' And Len kept saying: 'Yarbles yarbles. Where is the spirit of all for one and one for all, eh boy?' Suddenly I felt both very very tired and also full of tingly energy, and I said: 'Out out out out out.' 'Where to?' said Rick, who had a litso like a frog's. 'Oh, just to viddy what's doing in the great outside,' I said. But somehow, my brothers, I felt very bored and a bit hopeless, and I had been feeling that a lot these days. So I turned to the chelloveck nearest me on the big plush seat that ran right round the whole messto, a chelloveck, that is, who was burbling away under the influence, and I fisted him real skorry ack ack ack in the belly. But he felt it not, brothers, only


burbling away with his 'Cart cart virtue, where in toptails lieth the poppoppicorns?' So we scatted out into the big winter nochy. We walked down Marghanita Boulevard and there were no millicents patrolling that way, so when we met a starry veck coming away from a news-kiosk where he had been kupetting a gazetta I said to Bully: 'All right, Bully boy, thou canst if thou like wishest.' More and more these days I had been just giving the orders and standing back to viddy them being carried out. So Bully cracked into him er er er, and the other two tripped him and kicked at him, smecking away, while he was down and then let him crawl off to where he lived, like simpering to himself. Bully said: 'How about a nice yummy glass of something to keep out the cold, O Alex?' For we were not too far from the Duke of New York. The other two nodded yes yes yes but all looked at me to viddy whether that was all right. I nodded too and so off we ittied. Inside the snug there were these starry ptitsas or sharps or baboochkas you will remember from the beginning and they all started on their: 'Evening, lads, God bless you, boys, best lads living, that's what you are,' waiting for us to say: 'What's it going to be, girls?' Bully rang the collocoll and a waiter came in rubbing his rookers on his grazzy apron. 'Cutter on the table, droogies,' said Bully, pulling out his own rattling and chinking mound of deng. 'Scotchmen for us and the same for the old baboochkas, eh?' And then I said: 'Ah, to hell. Let them buy their own.' I didn't know what it was, but these last days I had become like mean. There had come into my gulliver a like desire to keep all my pretty polly to myself, to like hoard it all up for some reason. Bully said: 'What gives, bratty? What's coming over old Alex?' 'Ah, to hell,' I said. 'I don't know. I don't know. What it is is I don't like just throwing away my hardearned pretty polly, that's what it is.' 'Earned?' said Rick. 'Earned? It doesn't have to be earned, as well thou knowest, old droogie. Took, that's all, just took, like.' And he smecked real gromky and I viddied one or two of his zoobies weren't all that horrorshow. 'Ah,' I said, 'I've got some thinking to do.' But viddying these baboochkas looking all eager like for some free alc, I like shrugged my pletchoes and pulled out my own cutter from my trouser carman, notes and coin all mixed together, and plonked it tinkle crackle on the table. 'Scotchmen all round, right,' said the waiter. But for some reason I said: 'No, boy, for me make it one small beer, right.' Len said: 'This I do not much go for,' and he began to put his rooker on my gulliver, like kidding I must have fever, but I like snarled doggy-wise for him to give over skorry. 'All right, all right, droog,' he said. 'As thou like sayest.' But Bully was having a smot with his rot open at something that had come out of my carman with the pretty polly I'd put on the table. He said: 'Well well well. And we never knew.' 'Give me that,' I snarled and grabbed it skorry. I couldn't explain how it had got there, brothers, but it was a photograph I had scissored out of the old gazetta and it was of a baby. It was of a baby gurgling goo goo goo with all like moloko dribbling from its rot and looking up and like smecking at everybody, and it was all nagoy and its flesh was like in all folds with being a very fat baby. There was then like a bit of haw haw haw struggling to get hold of this bit of paper from me, so I had to snarl again at them and I grabbed the photo and tore it up into tiny teeny pieces and let it fall like a bit of snow on to the floor. The whisky came in then and the starry baboochkas said: 'Good health, lads, God bless you, boys, the best lads living, that's what you are,' and all that cal. And one of them who was all lines and wrinkles and no zoobies in her


shrunken old rot said: 'Don't tear up money, son. If you don't need it give it them as does,' which was very bold and forward of her. But Rick said: 'Money that was not, O baboochka. It was a picture of a dear little itsy witsy bitsy bit of a baby.' I said: 'I'm getting just that bit tired, that I am. It's you who's the babies, you lot. Scoffing and grinning and all you can do is smeck and give people bolshy cowardly tolchocks when they can't give them back.' Bully said: 'Well now, we always thought it was you who was the king of that and also the teacher. Not well, that's the trouble with thou, old droogie.' I viddied this sloppy glass of beer I had on the table in front of me and felt like all vomity within, so I went 'Aaaaah' and poured all the frothy vonny cal all over the floor. One of the starry pitsas said: 'Waste not want not.' I said: 'Look, droogies. Listen. Tonight I am somehow just not in the mood. I know not why or how it is, but there it is. You three go your own ways this nightwise, leaving me out. Tomorrow we shall meet same place same time, me hoping to be like a lot better.' 'Oh,' said Bully, 'right sorry I am.' But you could viddy a like gleam in his glazzies, because now he would be taking over for this nochy. Power power, everybody like wants power. 'We can postpone till tomorrow,' said Bully, 'what we in mind had. Namely, that bit of shop-crasting in Gagarin Street. Flip horrorshow takings there, droog, for the having.' 'No,' I said. 'You postpone nothing. You just carry on in your own like style. Now,' I said, 'I itty off.' And I got up from my chair. 'Where to, then?' asked Rick. 'That know I not,' I said. 'Just to be on like my own and sort things out.' You could viddy the old baboochkas were real puzzled at me going out like that and like all morose and not the bright and smecking malchickiwick you will remember. But I said: 'Ah, to hell, to hell,' and scatted out all on my oddy knocky into the street. It was dark and there was a wind sharp as a nozh getting up, and there were very very few lewdies about. There were these patrol cars with brutal rozzes inside them like cruising about, and now and then on the corner you would viddy a couple of very young millicents stamping against the bitchy cold and letting out steam breath on the winter air, O my brothers. I suppose really a lot of the old ultra-violence and crasting was dying out now, the rozzes being so brutal with who they caught, though it had become like a fight between naughty nadsats and the rozzes who could be more skorry with the nozh and the britva and the stick and even the gun. But what was the matter with me these days was that I didn't like care much. It was like something soft getting into me and I could not pony why. What I wanted these days I did not know. Even the music I liked to slooshy in my own malenky den was what I would have smecked at before, brothers. I was slooshying more like malenky romantic songs, what they call Lieder, just a goloss and a piano, very quiet and like yearny, different from when it had been all bolshy orchestras and me lying on the bed between the violins and the trombones and kettledrums. There was something happening inside me, and I wondered if it was like some disease or if it was what they had done to me that time upsetting my gulliver and perhaps going to make me real bezoomny. So thinking like this with my gulliver bent and my rookers stuck in my trouser carmans I walked the town, brothers, and at last I began to feel very tired and also in great need of a nice bolshy chasha of milky chai. Thinking about this chai, I got a sudden like picture of me sitting before a bolshy fire in an armchair peeting away at this chai, and what was funny and very very strange was that I seemed to have turned into a very starry chelloveck, about seventy years old, because I could viddy my own voloss, which was very


grey, and I also had whiskers, and these were very grey too. I could viddy myself as an old man, sitting by a fire, and then the like picture vanished. But it was very like strange. I came to one of these tea-and-coffee mestos, brothers, and I could viddy through the long long window that it was full of very dull lewdies, like ordinary, who had these very patient and expressionless litsos and would do no harm to no one, all sitting there and govoreeting like quietly and peeting away at their nice harmless chai and coffee. I ittied inside and went up to the counter and bought me a nice hot chai with plenty of moloko, then I ittied to one of these tables and sat down to peet it. There was a like young couple at this table, peeting and smoking filter-tip cancers, and govoreeting and smecking very quietly between themselves, but I took no notice of them and just went on peeting away and like dreaming and wondering what was going to happen to me. But I viddied that the devotchka at this table who was with this chelloveck was real horrorshow, not the sort you would want to like throw down and give the old inout in-out to, but with a horrorshow plott and litso and a smiling rot and very very fair voloss and all that cal. And then the veck with her, who had a hat on his gulliver and had his litso like turned away from me, swivelled round to viddy the boshy big clock they had on the wall in this mesto, and then I viddied who he was and then he viddied who I was. It was Pete, one of my three droogs from those days when it was Georgie and Dim and him and me. It was Pete like looking older though he could not now be more than nineteen and a bit, and he had a bit of a moustache and an ordinary day-suit and this hat on. I said: 'Well well well, droogie, what gives? Very very long time no viddy.' He said: 'It's little Alex, isn't it?' 'None other,' I said. 'A long long long time since those dead and gone good days. And now poor Georgie, they told me, is underground and old Dim is a brutal millicent, and here is thou and here is I, and what news hast thou, old droogie?' 'He talks funny, doesn't he?' said the devotchka, like giggling. 'This,' said Pete to the devotchka, 'is an old friend. His name is Alex. May I,' he said to me, 'introduce my wife?' My rot fell wide open then. 'Wife?' I like gasped. 'Wife wife wife? Ah no, that cannot be. Too young art thou to be married, old droog. Impossible impossible.' This devotchka who was like Pete's wife (impossible impossible) giggled again and said to Pete: 'Did you used to talk like that too?' 'Well,' said Pete, and he like smiled. 'I'm nearly twenty. Old enough to be hitched, and it's been two months already. You were very young and very forward, remember.' 'Well,' I like gaped still. 'Over this get can I not, old droogie. Pete married. Well well well.' 'We have a small flat,' said Pete. 'I am earning very small money at State Marine Insurance, but things will get better, that I know. And Georgina here-' 'What again is that name?' I said, rot still open like bezoomny. Pete's wife (wife, brothers) like giggled again. 'Georgina,' said Pete. 'Georgina works too. Typing, you know. We manage, we manage.' I could not, brothers, take my glazzies off him, really. He was like grown up now, with a grown-up goloss and all. 'You must,' said Pete, 'come and see us sometime. You still,' he said, 'look very young, despite all your terrible experiences. Yes yes yes, we've read all about them. But, of course, you are very young still.' 'Eighteen,' I said, 'just gone.'


'Eighteen, eh?' said Pete. 'As old as that. Well well well. Now,' he said, 'we have to be going.' And he like gave this Georgina of his a like loving look and pressed one of her rookers between his and she gave him one of these looks back, O my brothers. 'Yes,' said Pete, turning back to me, 'we're off to a little party at Greg's.' 'Greg?' I said. 'Oh, of course,' said Pete, 'you wouldn't know Greg, would you? Greg is after your time. While you were away Greg came into the picture. He runs little parties, you know. Mostly wine-cup and word-games. But very nice, very pleasant, you know. Harmless, if you see what I mean.' 'Yes,' I said. 'Harmless. Yes yes, I viddy that real horrorshow.' And this Georgina devotchka giggled again at my slovos. And then these two ittied off to their vonny word-games at this Greg's, whoever he was. I was left all on my oddy knocky with my milky chai, which was getting cold now, like thinking and wondering. Perhaps that was it, I kept thinking. Perhaps I was getting too old for the sort of jeezny I had been leading, brothers. I was eighteen now, just gone. Eighteen was not a young age. At eighteen old Wolfgang Amadeus had written concertos and symphonies and operas and oratorios and all that cal, no, not cal, heavenly music. And then there was old Felix M. with his Midsummer Night's Dream Overture. And there were others. And there was this like French poet set by old Benjy Britt, who had done all his best poetry by the age of fifteen, O my brothers. Arthur, his first name. Eighteen was not all that young an age, then. But what was I going to do? Walking the dark chill bastards of winter streets after ittying off from this chai and coffee mesto, I kept viddying like visions, like these cartoons in the gazettas. There was Your Humble Narrator Alex coming home from work to a good hot plate of dinner, and there was this ptitsa all welcoming and greeting like loving. But I could not viddy her all that horrorshow, brothers, I could not think who it might be. But I had this sudden very strong idea that if I walked into the room next to this room where the fire was burning away and my hot dinner laid on the table, there I should find what I really wanted, and now it all tied up, that picture scissored out of the gazetta and meeting old Pete like that. For in that other room in a cot was laying gurgling goo goo goo my son. Yes yes yes, brothers, my son. And now I felt this bolshy big hollow inside my plott, feeling very surprised too at myself. I knew what was happening, O my brothers. I was like growing up. Yes yes yes, there it was. Youth must go, ah yes. But youth is only being in a way like it might be an animal. No, it is not just being an animal so much as being like one of these malenky toys you viddy being sold in the streets, like little chellovecks made out of tin and with a spring inside and then a winding handle on the outside and you wind it up grrr grrr grrr and off it itties, like walking, O my brothers. But it itties in a straight line and bangs straight into things bang bang and it cannot help what it is doing. Being young is like being like one of these malenky machines. My son, my son. When I had my son I would explain all that to him when he was starry enough to like understand. But then I knew he would not understand or would not want to understand at all and would do all the veshches I had done, yes perhaps even killing some poor starry forella surrounded with mewing kots and koshkas, and I would not be able to really stop him. And nor would he be able to stop his own son, brothers. And so it would itty on to like the end of the world, round and round and round, like some bolshy gigantic like chelloveck, like old Bog Himself (by courtesy of Korova Milkbar) turning and turning and turning a vonny grahzny orange in his gigantic rookers. But first of all, brothers, there was this veshch of finding some devotchka or other who would be a mother to this son. I would have to start on that tomorrow, I kept thinking. That was something like new to do. That was something I would have to get started on, a new like chapter beginning. That's what it's going to be then, brothers, as I come to the like end of this tale. You have been everywhere with your little droog Alex, suffering with him, and you have viddied some of the most


grahzny bratchnies old Bog ever made, all on to your old droog Alex. And all it was was that I was young. But now as I end this story, brothers, I am not young, not no longer, oh no. Alex like groweth up, oh yes. But where I itty now, O my brothers, is all on my oddy knocky, where you cannot go. Tomorrow is all like sweet flowers and the turning vonny earth and the stars and the old Luna up there and your old droog Alex all on his oddy knocky seeking like a mate. And all that cal. A terrible grahzny vonny world, really, O my brothers. And so farewell from your little droog. And to all others in this story profound shooms of lip-music brrrrr. And they can kiss my sharries. But you, O my brothers, remember sometimes thy little Alex that was. Amen. And all that cal.


 Lewis Carroll: THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS Chapter 8

...and she was just going to spring over, when she heard a deep sigh, which seemed to come from the wood behind her. "There’s somebody very unhappy there," she thought, looking anxiously back to see what was the matter. Something like a very old man (only that his face was more like a wasp) was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, all huddled up together, and shivering as if he were very cold. "I don’t think I can be of any use to him," was Alice’s first thought, as she turned to spring over the brook: - "but I’ll just ask him what’s the matter," she added, checking herself on the very edge. "If I once jump over, everything will change, and then I can’t help him." So she went back to the Wasp - rather unwillingly, for she was very anxious to be a queen. "Oh, my old bones, my old bones!" he was grumbling as Alice came up to him. "It’s rheumatism, I should think," Alice said to herself, and she stooped over him, and said very kindly, "I hope you’re not in much pain?" The Wasp only shook his shoulders, and turned his head away. "Ah deary me!" he said to himself. "Can I do anything for you?" Alice went on. "Aren’t you rather cold here?" "How you go on!" the Wasp said in a peevish tone. "Worrity, Worrity! There never was such a child!" Alice felt rather offended at this answer, and was very nearly walking on and leaving him, but she thought to herself "Perhaps it’s only pain that makes him so cross." So she tried once more. "Won’t you let me help you round to the other side? You’ll be out of the cold wind there." The Wasp took her arm, and let her help him round the tree, but when he got settled down again he only said, as before, "Worrity, worrity! Can’t you leave a body alone?" "Would you like me to read you a bit of this?" Alice went on, as she picked up a newspaper which had been lying at his feet. "You may read it if you’ve a mind to," the Wasp said, rather sulkily. "Nobody’s hindering you, that I know of." So Alice sat down by him, and spread out the paper on her knees, and began. "Latest News. The Exploring Party have made another tour in the Pantry, and have found five new lumps of white sugar, large and in fine condition. In coming back - " "Any brown sugar?" the Wasp interrupted. Alice hastily ran her eyes down the paper and said "No. It says nothing about brown." "No brown sugar!" grumbled the Wasp. "A nice exploring party!" "In coming back," Alice went on reading, "they found a lake of treacle. The banks of the lake were blue and white, and looked like china. While tasting the treacle, they had a sad accident: two of their party were engulped - " "Where what?" the Wasp asked in a very cross voice. "En-gulph-ed," Alice repeated, dividing the word in syllables. "There’s no such word in the language!" said the Wasp. "It’s in the newspaper, though," Alice said a little timidly. "Let’s stop it here!" said the Wasp, fretfully turning away his head. Alice put down the newspaper. "I’m afraid you’re not well," she said in a soothing tone. "Can’t I do anything for you?" "It’s all along of the wig," the Wasp said in a much gentler voice.


"Along of the wig?" Alice repeated, quite pleased to find that he was recovering his temper. "You’d be cross too, if you’d a wig like mine," the Wasp went on. "They jokes, at one. And they worrits one. And then I gets cross. And I gets cold. And I gets under a tree. And I gets a yellow handkerchief. And I ties up my face - as at the present." Alice looked pityingly at him. "Tying up the face is very good for the toothache," she said. "And it’s very good for the conceit," added the Wasp. Alice didn’t catch the word exactly. "Is that a kind of toothache?" she asked. The Wasp considered a little. "Well, no," he said: "it’s when you hold up your head - so - without bending your neck." "Oh, you mean stiff-neck," said Alice. The Wasp said "That’s a new-fangled name. They called it conceit in my time." "Conceit isn’t a disease at all," Alice remarked. "It is, though," said the Wasp: "wait till you have it, and then you’ll know. And when you catches it, just try tying a yellow handkerchief round your face. It’ll cure you in no time!" He untied the handkerchief as he spoke, and Alice looked at his wig in great surprise. It was bright yellow like the handkerchief, and all tangled and tumbled about like a heap of sea-weed. "You could make your wig much neater," she said, "if only you had a comb." "What, you’re a Bee, are you?" the Wasp said, looking at her with more interest. "And you’ve got a comb. Much honey?" "It isn’t that kind," Alice hastily explained. "It’s to comb hair with - your wig’s so very rough, you know." "I’ll tell you how I came to wear it," the Wasp said. "When I was young, you know, my ringlets used to wave - " A curious idea came into Alice’s head. Almost every one she had met had repeated poetry to her, and she thought she would try if the Wasp couldn’t do it too. "Would you mind saying it in rhyme?" she asked very politely. "It aint what I’m used to," said the Wasp: "however I’ll try; wait a bit." He was silent for a few moments, and then began again "When I was young, my ringlets waved And curled and crinkled on my head: And then they said ‘You should be shaved, And wear a yellow wig instead.’ But when I followed their advice, And they had noticed the effect, They said I did not look so nice As they had ventured to expect. They said it did not fit, and so It made me look extremely plain: But what was I to do, you know? My ringlets would not grow again. So now that I am old and grey, And all my hair is nearly gone, They take my wig from me and say ‘How can you put such rubbish on?’ And still, whenever I appear, They hoot at me and call me ‘Pig!’


And that is why they do it, dear, Because I wear a yellow wig." "I’m very sorry for you," Alice said heartily: "and I think if your wig fitted a little better, they wouldn’t tease you quite so much." "Your wig fits very well," the Wasp murmured, looking at her with an expression of admiration: "it’s the shape of your head as does it. Your jaws aren’t well shaped, though - I should think you couldn’t bite well?" Alice began with a little scream of laughing, which she turned into a cough as well as she could. At last she managed to say gravely, "I can bite anything I want," "Not with a mouth as small as that," the Wasp persisted. "If you was a-fighting, now - could you get hold of the other one by the back of the neck?" "I’m afraid not," said Alice. "Well, that’s because your jaws are too short," the Wasp went on: "but the top of your head is nice and round." He took off his own wig as he spoke, and stretched out one claw towards Alice, as if he wished to do the same for her, but she kept out of reach, and would not take the hint. So he went on with his criticisms. "Then, your eyes - they’re too much in front, no doubt. One would have done as well as two, if you must have them so close - " Alice did not like having so many personal remarks made on her, and as the Wasp had quite recovered his spirits, and was getting very talkative, she thought she might safely leave him. "I think I must be going on now," she said. "Good-bye." "Good-bye, and thank-ye," said the Wasp, and Alice tripped down the hill again, quite pleased that she had gone back and given a few minutes to making the poor old creature comfortable.


 Neal Cassady: THE JOAN ANDERSON LETTER I am fettered by cobwebs, countless fine creases indelibly clutched on the brain. There are no unexplored paths in my mind and few that not entangled in the weave of my misery mists. It is but gentle fog thru which I navigate and make friendly by constant intimate communion. Within the hour from arising off the suffer-couch each I've gained anew the daily grease for the bearings on which I roll. [Note: this is an excerpt copied from a jpg picture. A partial "unlost" version of the letter is transcribed in Appendix 1]


 Roald Dahl: CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY Chapter 31

“THIS STUFF,” SAID MR WONKA, “IS GOING to cause chaos in schools all over the world when I get it in the shops.” The room they now entered had rows and rows of pipes coming straight up out of the floor. The pipes were bent over at the top and they looked like large walking sticks. Out of every pipe there trickled a stream of white crystals. Hundreds of Oompa-Loompas were running to and fro, catching the crystals in little golden boxes and stacking the boxes against the walls. “Spotty Powder!” exclaimed Mr Wonka, beaming at the company. “There it is! That’s it! Fantastic stuff!” “It looks like sugar,” said Miranda Piker. “It’s meant to look like sugar,” Mr Wonka said. “And it tastes like sugar. But it isn’t sugar. Oh, dear me, no.” “Then what is it?” asked Miranda Piker, speaking rather rudely. “That door over there,” said Mr Wonka, turning away from Miranda and pointing to a small red door at the far end of the room, “leads directly down to the machine that makes the powder. Twice a day, I go down there myself to feed it. But I'm the only one. Nobody ever comes with me.” They all stared at the little door on which it said MOST SECRET — KEEP OUT. The hum and throb of powerful machinery could be heard coming up from the depths below, and the floor itself was vibrating all the time. The children could feel it through the soles of their shoes. Miranda Piker now pushed forward and stood in front of Mr Wonka. She was a nasty-looking girl with a smug face and a smirk on her mouth, and whenever she spoke it was always with a voice that seemed to be saying: “Everybody is a fool except me.” “OK,” Miranda Piker said, smirking at Mr Wonka. “So what’s the big news? What’s this stuff meant to do when you eat it?” “Ah-ha,” said Mr Wonka, his eyes sparkling with glee. “You’d never guess that, not in a million years. Now listen. All you have to do is sprinkle it over your cereal at breakfast-time, pretending it’s sugar. Then you eat it. And then, exactly five seconds after that, you come out in bright red spots all over your face and neck.” “What sort of a silly ass wants spots on his face at breakfast-time?” said Miranda Piker. “Let me finish,” said Mr Wonka. “So then your mother looks at you across the table and says, ‘My poor child. You must have chickenpox. You can’t possibly go to school today.’ So you stay at home. But by lunch-time, the spots have all disappeared.”


“Terrific!” shouted Charlie. “That’s just what I want for the day we have exams!” “That is the ideal time to use it,” said Mr Wonka. “But you mustn’t do it too often or it’ll give the game away. Keep it for the really nasty days.” “Father!” cried Miranda Piker. “Did you hear what this stuff does? It’s shocking! It mustn’t be allowed!” Mr Piker, Miranda’s father, stepped forward and faced Mr Wonka. He had a smooth white face like a boiled onion. “Now see here, Wonka,” he said. “I happen to be the headmaster of a large school, and I won’t allow you to sell this rubbish to the children! It’s . . . criminal! Why, you’ll ruin the school system of the entire country!” “I hope so,” said Mr Wonka. “It’s got to be stopped!” shouted Mr Piker, waving his cane. “Who’s going to stop it?” asked Mr Wonka. “In my factory, I make things to please children. I don’t care about grown-ups.” “I am top of my form,” Miranda Piker said, smirking at Mr Wonka. “And I’ve never missed a day’s school in my life.” “Then it’s time you did,” Mr Wonka said. “How dare you!” said Mr Piker. “All holidays and vacations should be stopped!” cried Miranda. “Children are meant to work, not play.” “Quite right, my girl,” cried Mr Piker, patting Miranda on the top of the head. “All work and no play has made you what you are today.” “Isn’t she wonderful?” said Mrs Piker, beaming at her daughter. “Come on then, Father!” cried Miranda. “Let’s go down into the cellar and smash the machine that makes this dreadful stuff!” “Forward!” shouted Mr Piker, brandishing his cane and making a dash for the little red door on which it said MOST SECRET — KEEP OUT. “Stop!” said Mr Wonka. “Don’t go in there! It’s terribly secret!” “Let’s see you stop us, you old goat!” shouted Miranda. “We’ll smash it to smithereens!” yelled Mr Piker. And a few seconds later the two of them had disappeared through the door. There was a moment’s silence. Then, far off in the distance, from somewhere deep underground, there came a fearful scream. “That’s my husband!” cried Mrs Piker, going blue in the face. There was another scream. “And that’s Miranda!” yelled Mrs Piker, beginning to hop around in circles. “What’s happening to them? What have you got down there, you dreadful beast?” “Oh, nothing much,” Mr Wonka answered. “Just a lot of cogs and wheels and chains and things like that, all going round and round and round.”


“You villain!” she screamed. “I know your tricks! You’re grinding them into powder! In two minutes my darling Miranda will come pouring out of one of those dreadful pipes, and so will my husband!” “Of course,” said Mr Wonka. “That’s part of the recipe.” “It’s what!” “We’ve got to use one or two schoolmasters occasionally or it wouldn’t work.” “Did you hear him?” shrieked Mrs Piker, turning to the others. “He admits it! He’s nothing but a cold-blooded murderer!” Mr Wonka smiled and patted Mrs Piker gently on the arm. “Dear lady,” he said, “I was only joking.” “Then why did they scream?” snapped Mrs Piker. “I distinctly heard them scream!” “Those weren’t screams,” Mr Wonka said. “They were laughs.” “My husband never laughs,” said Mrs Piker. Mr Wonka flicked his fingers, and up came an Oompa-Loompa. “Kindly escort Mrs Piker to the boiler room,” Mr Wonka said. “Don’t fret, dear lady,” he went on, shaking Mrs Piker warmly by the hand. “They’ll all come out in the wash. There’s nothing to worry about. Off you go. Thank you for coming. Farewell! Goodbye! A pleasure to meet you!” “Listen, Charlie!” said Grandpa Joe. “The Oompa-Loompas are starting to sing again!” “Oh, Miranda Mary Piker!” sang the five Oompa-Loompas dancing about and laughing and beating madly on their tiny drums. “Oh, Miranda Mary Piker, How could anybody like her, Such a priggish and revolting little kid. So we said, ‘Why don't we fix her In the Spotty-Powder mixer Then we’re bound to like her better than we did.’ Soon this child who is so vicious Will have gotten quite delicious, And her classmates will have surely understood That instead of saying, ‘Miranda! Oh, the beast! We cannot stand her!’ They'll be saying, ‘Oh, how useful and how good!’ ”


 Charles Dickens: DAVID COPPERFIELD Chapters 6-9-13-25-25 Chapter 6 Mrs. and Miss Creakle had been in a sad way, ever since: I heard that Mr Creakle, on account of certain religious opinions he held, was one of the Elect and Chosen - terms which certainly none of us understood in the least then, if anybody understands them now - and that the man with the wooden leg (whose name was Tungay) was another. I heard that the man with the wooden leg had preached (Traddles' father, according to Traddles, had positively heard him) and had frightened women into fits by raving about a Pit he said he saw, with I don't know how many billions and trillions of pretty babies born for no other purpose than to be cast into it. I heard that MR Creakle's son doubted the clear-sightedness of the man with the wooden leg, and had once held some remonstrance with his father about the discipline of the school on an occasion of its being very cruelly exercised, and was supposed to have objected, besides, that the Elect had no business to ill use his mother. I heard that Mr Creakle had turned him out of doors in consequence, and that it had nearly broken Mrs and Miss Creakle's hearts. There was no shadowy picture of his footsteps...in the garden that I dreamed of - the garden that I picked up shells and pebbles in, with little Emily, all night. Chapter 9 I have brought home all my clothes....'Mind you are very careful of them,' she returned, holding up her finger at me. 'Let what has happened be a warning to you in every way. If such an occurrence will not make a boy turn over a new leaf, nothing will.' He seemed to be the only restless thing, except the clocks, in the whole motionless house....When I went to bed, I left him walking to and fro. When I entered in the morning, I found him walking to and fro. Of a sudden he would break off in the middle of the room, go back to his chair, and ponder till his restless ness came on again. 'Oh no! oh no!' and held her hand....: When the day came, I remember being awakened in the morning by the sharp strokes of a spade, and that I looked out of the window, and saw men working in the churchyard underneath the tree, and went to bed and wept. I remember that I lay there, sobbing, till Peggotty came up to help me dress myself, and that being in her black dress for the first time she wrung her hands - a thing it turned my very blood to see her do - and gave way to her sorrow before me, for the only time in all my knowledge. Chapter 13 shut up one eye...as often: Dickens MS describes Mr Dick as "putting his tongue out against the glass, and carrying it across the pane and back again; who, when his eyes caught mine, squinted at me in a most terrible manner.


Chapter 25 "It's like old times"...:"Didn't I call you Uriah?" I asked, for want of anything better to say. "N-n-no," he replied, with a fawning air, that made me almost afraid to be in the room with him, he became so ugly. I generally go to bed late"...: "Won't you call me Uriah?" he said, sweetly. I thought of Agnes, and I did, but with such a bad grace and such an abrupt manner, as he could not but observe. He appeared, nevertheless, to be quite placid. took possession of me... "If one so umble might aspire to be her husband, Master Copperfield," exclaimed Uriah, with a general twist of himself, arms, legs, chin, and all. May I die, but I felt, in my keen desire to grab hold of him by the windpipe and give him a shake, as if he had got hold of mine, and were shaking me! " - And I hope you'll not think it inconsistent my saying that though I'm very umble indeed, I DO aspire to that!" he added, with a sidelong look. Chapter 35 Blind.... Whether her tone of pity was for me, or for herself, or for anybody else, I could not decide - did not ask myself, perhaps; but I know that it made me feel uneasy afterwards, and that it sounded in my fancy like a sorrowful strain of music I had sometimes heard at a distance, before that night.


 T. S. Eliot: THE WASTE LAND Chapter 3 The white-armed Fresca blinks, and yawns, and gapes, Aroused from dreams of love and pleasant rapes. Electric summons of the busy bell Brings brisk Amanda to destroy the spell Leaving the bubbling beverage to cool, Fresca slips softly to the needful stool, Where the pathetic tale of Richardson Eases her labour till the deed is done . . . This ended, to the steaming bath she moves, Her tresses fanned by little flutt’ring Loves; Odours, confected by the cunning French, Disguise the good old hearty female stench. -------------------------------------------------------------Full fathom five your Bleistein lies Under the flatfish and the squids. Graves' Disease in a dead jew's/man's eyes! Where the crabs have eat the lids . . . That is lace that was his nose Roll him gently side to side, See the lips unfold unfold From the teeth, gold in gold....


 Anne Frank: DIARY Writing in a diary is a very new and strange experience for me. I've never done it before, and if I had a close friend I could pour my heart out to, I would never have thought of purchasing a thick, stiff-backed notebook and jotting down all kinds of nonsense that no one will be interested in later on. But now that I've bought the notebook, I'm going to keep at it and make sure it doesn't get tossed into a forgotten corner a month from now or fall into anyone else's hands. Father, Mother and Margot may be very kind and I can tell them quite a lot, but my diary and my girlfriend-only secrets are none of their business. To help me imagine that I have a girlfriend, a real friend who shares my interests I and understands my concerns, I won't just write in my diary, but I'll address my letters to this friend-of-my-own-imagination Kitty. So here we go! ***************************

Tuesday 8 February 1944. Dearest Kitty, I can't tell you how I feel. One moment I long for peace and quiet, the next for a little fun. We are not used to laughing here any more, to laughing properly till you can't laugh any more. This morning I did have a fit of "helpless laughter," you know, the sort we used to have at school. Margot and I were giggling like real schoolgirls. Last night there was trouble with Mummy again. Margot was just tucking her woolen blanket around her when suddenly she jumped out of bed again and stared at the blanket; there was a pin stuck in it! Mummy had sewn a patch in the blanket. Daddy shook his head meaningfully and talked about Mummy's slipshod ways. Soon afterwards Mummy came back from the bathroom and I said by way of a joke: "You know you're a real Rabenmutter."* Naturally, she asked why and we told her about the pin. She immediately pulled her haughtiest face and said to me: "You can talk about slovenliness, when you sew, the whole floor is covered with pins. And just look at that manicure case lying around again, you I never clear that away!" I said that I hadn't used it and Margot jumped in, since she was the guilty party. But Mummy went on talking about my slovenliness until I was fed up with it and said rather abruptly: "I never mentioned slovenliness, it's always me who gets into trouble when someone else does something wrong!" Mummy shut up and barely a minute later I was obliged to give her a good-night kiss the incident may have been unimportant but things like that annoy me. Anne Mary Frank.


***************************

I seem to be in a period of reflection at the moment, so I also started thinking of Father and Mother's marriage. It has always been presented to me as an ideal marriage. Never a quarrel, no angry faces, perfect harmony, etc., etc. I know a few things about Father's past, and what I don't know, I've made up; I have the impression that Father married Mother because he felt she would be a suitable wife. I have to admit that I admire Mother for the way she assumed the role of his wife and has never, as far as I know, complained or been jealous. It can't be easy for a loving wife to know she'll never be first in her husband's affections, I and Mother did know that. Father certainly admired Mother's attitude and thought she had a good character. Why marry anyone else? His ideals had been shattered and he was no longer young. What kind of marriage has it turned out to be? No quarrels or differences of opinion - but certainly not an ideal marriage. Father respects Mother and loves her, but not with the kind of love I envision for a marriage. Father accepts Mother as she is, is often annoyed, but says as little as possible, because he knows the sacrifices Mother has had to make. Father doesn't always ask her opinion-about the business, about other matters about people, about all kinds of things. He doesn't tell her everything, because he knows she's far too emotional, far too critical, and often far too biased. Father's not in love. He kisses her the way he kisses us. He never holds her up as an example, because he can't. He looks at her teasingly, or mockingly, but never lovingly. It may be that Mother's great sacrifice I has made her harsh and disagreeable toward those around her, but it's guaranteed to take her even farther from the path of love, to arouse even less admiration, and one day Father is bound to realize that while, on the outside, she has never demanded his total love, on the inside, she has slowly but surely been crumbling away. She loves him more than anyone, and it's hard to see this kind of love not being returned. So should I actually feel more sympathy for Mother? Should I help her? And Father? --I can't, I'm always imagining another Mother. I just can't. --How could I? She hasn't told me anything, and I've never asked her. What do we know of one another's thoughts? I can't talk to her, I can't look lovingly into those cold eyes, I can't. Not ever! --If she had even one quality an understanding mother is supposed to have, gentleness or friendliness or patience or something, I'd keep trying to get closer to her. But as for loving this insensitive person, this mocking creature -- it's becoming more and more impossible every day! Anne Mary Frank.


 Thomas Jefferson: DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE ... he [King George III] has waged cruel war against human nature itself, violating it’s most sacred rights of life and liberty in the persons of a distant people who never offended him, captivating and carrying them into slavery in another hemispere, or to incure miserable death in their transportation hither. this piratical warfare, the opprobium of infidel powers, is the warfare of the Christian king of Great Britain. determined to keep open a market where MEN should be bought and sold, he has prostituted his negative for suppressing every legislative attempt to prohibit or to restrain this execrable commerce: and that this assemblage of horrors might want no fact of distinguished die, he is now exciting those very people to rise in arms among us, and to purchase that liberty of which he had deprived them, by murdering the people upon whom he also obtruded them: thus paying off former crimes committed against the liberties of one people, with crimes which he urges them to commit against the lives of another.


 Katherine Mansfield A Little Episode (1909, short story)

"She threw off her clothes, hastily, brushed out her long hair, and then suddenly looked at the wide, empty bed. "A feeling of intolerable disgust came over her. "By Lord Mandeville's pillow she saw a large bottle of eucalyptus and two clean handkerchiefs. From below in the hall she heard the sound of bolts being drawn – then the electric light switched off… "She sprang into bed, and suddenly, instinctively with a little childish gesture, she put one arm over her face, as though to hide something hideous and dreadful as her husband's heavy, ponderous footsteps sounded on the stairs." [...] "To-night - think of it - I saw Yvonne - she is quite a little Society lady - and I assure you - no longer one of us - But she bores me - she has the inevitable feminine passion for trying to relight fires that long since been ashes - Take care, little one, that you do not - like wise. I hear her husband is very wealthy - and what they call here - a a "howling bore." Adieu - cherie - I shall be with you in two days - if I manage to avoid the charming Yvonne - There is the penalty, you see, for being so fascinating. Jacques Saint Pierre" *** Bites from the Apple (1911, aphorisms)

"Love is the germ - passion the disease." "I keep the God of my childhood hanging round my neck by a string, like a little camphor bag - an old-fashioned remedy for warding off infectious and dangerous complaints. Of course there is one disadvantage... when I wear evening dress... it is impossible. Most women do the same - that is why men find my sex so far more vulnerable when they are décolleté." "The sooner Eve meets the serpent the better - then she leaves the Garden of Eden and has the whole world before her." "Love is the wine of life - Marriage the non-alcoholic beverage." "In these days of social depravity we do not look under the bed before retiring, but in it." "Love feeds upon itself - that is why it is so soon starved to Death."


 Herman Melville: BILLY BUDD Here ends a story not unwarranted by what sometimes happens in this incomprehensible world of ours-innocence and infamy, spiritual depravity and fair repute.

 Friedrich Nietzsche: THE ANTICHRIST "The words to the malefactor on the cross contain the whole evangel. 'That was truly a godlike man, "a child of God", ' says the malefactor. 'If you feel that' — replies the Redeemer — ' then you are in Paradise, then you, too, are a child of God.' "


 Ayn Rand: WE THE LIVING You can! You must. When those few are the best. Deny the best its right to the top—and you have no best left. What are your masses but mud to be ground under foot, fuel to be burned for those who deserve it? What is the people but millions of puny, shriveled, helpless souls that have no thoughts of their own, no dreams of their own, no will of their own, who eat and sleep and chew helplessly the words others put into their mildewed brains? And for those you would sacrifice the few who know life, who are life? I loathe your ideals because I know no worse injustice than justice for all. Because men are not born equal and I don’t see why one should want to make them equal. And because I loathe most of them.


 Sappho: TWO POEMS Brothers Poem

but you keep repeating that Charaxus has arrived with his ship full, something that, I believe, Zeus and all the gods know, but not about this should you be concerned, 4 but only about sending me off and inviting me to raise many supplications to queen Hera, that Charaxus may come here steering his ship unharmed and find us women safe and sound: the rest, let’s entrust it all to the gods, for calm suddenly follows great storms. Those whose fortune the king of Olympus wants finally to reverse for the best, far from pains, those become happy and very prosperous. We too, if Larichus were to raise his head and finally to become a man, would be all of a sudden freed from many heavinesses of heart.

KyprisPoem

How could one not experience inner distress repeatedly, mistress Kypris, whomever you do not favour, when he/she utterly wants to conceal his/her passion, nor refrain? Among wavy tossings you keep torturing me with desire that, alas, already bent my knees, but I believe that the gusts will not overcome the stays if you, I want suffer this but I am aware of this mortals


 Bram Stoker: DRACULA Chapter 27 [The Castle of Dracula now stood out against the red sky.] As we looked there came a terrible convulsion of the earth so that we seemed to rock to and fro and fell to our knees. At the same moment with a roar which seemed to shake the very heavens the whole castle and the rock and even the hill on which it stood seemed to rise into the air and scatter in fragments while a mighty cloud of black and yellow smoke volume on volume in rolling grandeur was shot upwards with inconceivable rapidity. Then there was a stillness in nature as the echoes of that thunderous report seemed to come as with the hollow boom of a thunder-clap - the long reverberating roll which seems as though the floors of heaven shook. Then down in a mighty ruin falling whence they rose came the fragments that had been tossed skywards in the cataclysm. From where we stood it seemed as though the one fierce volcano burst had satisfied the need of nature and that the castle and the structure of the hill had sunk again into the void. We were so appalled with the suddenness and the grandeur that we forgot to think of ourselves.


 Mark Twain: PUDD'NHEAD WILSON Chapter 10 In his broodings in the solitudes, he searched himself for the reasons of certain things, & in toil & pain he worked out the answers: Why was he a coward? It was the "nigger" in him. The nigger blood? Yes, the nigger blood degraded from original courage to cowardice by decades & generations of insult & outrage inflicted in circumstances which forbade reprisals, & made mute & meek endurance the only refuge & defence. Whence came that in him which was high, & whence that which was base? That which was high came from either blood, & was the monopoly of neither color; but that which was base was the white blood in him debased by the brutalizing effects of a long-drawn heredity of slave-owning, with the habit of abuse which the possession of irresponsible power always creates & perpetuates, by a law of human nature. So he argued.


 H.G. Wells: THE TIME MACHINE Chapter 11

I have already told you of the sickness and confusion that comes with time travelling. And this time I was not seated properly in the saddle, but sideways and in an unstable fashion. For an indefinite time I clung to the machine as it swayed and vibrated, quite unheeding how I went, and when I brought myself to look at the dials again I was amazed to find where I had arrived. One dial records days, another thousands of days, another millions of days, and another thousands of millions. Now, instead of reversing the levers I had pulled them over so as to go forward with them, and when I came to look at these indicators I found that the thousands hand was sweeping round as fast as the seconds hand of a watch—into futurity. Very cautiously, for I remembered my former headlong fall, I began to reverse my motion. Slower and slower went the circling hands until the thousands one seemed motionless and the daily one was no longer a mere mist upon its scale. Still slower, until the grey haze around me became distincter and dim outlines of an undulating waste grew visible. I stopped. I was on a bleak moorland, covered with a sparse vegetation, and grey with a thin hoarfrost. The time was midday, the orange sun, shorn of its effulgence, brooding near the meridian in a sky of drabby grey. Only a few black bushes broke the monotony of the scene. The great buildings of the decadent men among whom, it seemed to me, I had been so recently, had vanished and left no trace, not a mound even marked their position. Hill and valley, sea and river—all, under the wear and work of the rain and frost, had melted into new forms. No doubt, too, the rain and snow had long since washed out the Morlock tunnels. A nipping breeze stung my hands and face. So far as I could see there were neither hills, nor trees, nor rivers: only an uneven stretch of cheerless plateau. Then suddenly a dark bulk rose out of the moor, something that gleamed like a serrated row of iron plates, and vanished almost immediately in a depression. And then I became aware of a number of faint-grey things, coloured to almost the exact tint of the frost-bitten soil, which were browsing here and there upon its scanty grass, and running to and fro. I saw one jump with a sudden start, and then my eye detected perhaps a score of them. At first I thought they were rabbits, or some small breed of kangaroo. Then, as one came hopping near me, I perceived that it belonged to neither of these groups. It was plantigrade, its hind legs rather the longer; it was tailless, and covered with a straight greyish hair that thickened about the head into a Skye terrier's mane. As I had understood that in the Golden Age man had killed out almost all the other animals, sparing only a few of the more ornamental, I was naturally curious about the creatures. They did not seem afraid of me, but browsed on, much as rabbits would do in a place unfrequented by men; and it occurred to me that I might perhaps secure a specimen. I got off the machine, and picked up a big stone. I had scarcely done so when one of the little creatures came within easy range. I was so lucky as to hit it on the head, and it rolled over at once and lay motionless. I ran to it at once. It remained still, almost as if it were killed. I was surprised to see that the things had five feeble digits to both its fore and hind feet—the fore feet, indeed, were almost as human as the fore feet of a frog. It had, moreover, a roundish head, with a projecting forehead and forward-looking eyes, obscured by its lank hair. A disagreeable apprehension flashed across my mind. As I knelt down and seized my capture, intending to examine its teeth and other anatomical points which might show human characteristics, the metallic-looking object, to which I have already alluded, reappeared above a ridge in the moor,


coming towards me and making a strange clattering sound as it came. Forthwith the grey animals about me began to answer with a short, weak yelping—as if of terror—and bolted off in a direction opposite to that from which this new creature approached. They must have hidden in burrows or behind bushes and tussocks, for in a moment not one of them was visible. I rose to my feet, and stared at this grotesque monster. I can only describe it by comparing it to a centipede. It stood about three feet high, and had a long segmented body, perhaps thirty feet long, with curiously overlapping greenish-black plates. It seemed to crawl upon a multitude of feet, looping its body as it advanced. Its blunt round head with a polygonal arrangement of black eye spots, carried two flexible, writhing, horn-like antennae. It was coming along, I should judge, at a pace of about eight or ten miles an hour, and it left me little time for thinking. Leaving my grey animal, or grey man, whichever it was, on the ground, I set off for the machine. Halfway I paused, regretting that abandonment, but a glance over my shoulder destroyed any such regret. When I gained the machine the monster was scarce fifty yards away. It was certainly not a vertebrated animal. It had no snout, and its mouth was fringed with jointed dark-coloured plates. But I did not care for a nearer view. I traversed one day and stopped again, hoping to find colossus gone and some vestige of my victim; but, I should judge, the giant centipede did not trouble itself about bones. At any rate both had vanished. The faintly human touch of these little creatures perplexed me greatly. If you come to think, there is no reason why a degenerate humanity should not come at last to differentiate into as many species as the descendants of the mud fish who fathered all the land vertebrates. I saw no more of any insect colossus, as to my thinking the segmented creature must have been. Evidently the physiological difficulty that at present keeps all the insects small had been surmounted at last, and this division of the animal kingdom had arrived at the long awaited supremacy which its enormous energy and vitality deserve. I made several attempts to kill or capture another of the greyish vermin, but none of my missiles were so successful as my first; and, after perhaps a dozen disappointing throws, that left my arm aching, I felt a gust of irritation at my folly in coming so far into futurity without weapons or equipment. I resolved to run on for one glimpse of the still remoter future—one peep into the deeper abysm of time—and then to return to you and my own epoch. Once more I remounted the machine, and once more the world grew hazy and grey. As I drove on, a peculiar change crept over the appearance of things. The unwonted greyness grew lighter; then—though I was travelling with prodigious velocity—the blinking succession of day and night, which was usually indicative of a slower pace, returned, and grew more and more marked. This puzzled me very much at first. The alternations of night and day grew slower and slower, and so did the passage of the sun across the sky, until they seemed to stretch through centuries. At last a steady twilight brooded over the earth, a twilight only broken now and then when a comet glared across the darkling sky. The band of light that had indicated the sun had long since disappeared; for the sun had ceased to set—it simply rose and fell in the west, and grew ever broader and more red. All trace of the moon had vanished. The circling of the stars, growing slower and slower, had given place to creeping points of light. At last, some time before I stopped, the sun, red and very large, halted motionless upon the horizon, a vast dome glowing with a dull heat, and now and then suffering a momentary extinction. At one time it had for a little while glowed more brilliantly again, but it speedily reverted to its sullen red-heat. I perceived by this slowing down of its rising and setting that the work of the tidal drag was done. The earth had come to rest with one face to the sun, even as in our own time the moon faces the earth. I stopped very gently and sat upon the Time Machine, looking round.


 Oscar Wilde: DORIAN GRAY 1

He has stood as Paris in dainty armor, and as Adonis with huntsman's cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms, he has sat on the prow of Adrian's barge, looking into the green, turbid Nile. He has leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland, and seen in the water's silent silver the wonder of his own beauty. 2

It has nothing to do with our own will. It is either an unfortunate accident, or an unpleasant result of temperament. "You don't mean to say that Basil has got any passion or any romance in him?" "I don't know whether he has any passion, but he certainly has romance," said Lord Henry, with an amused look in his eyes. "Has he never let you know that?" "Never. I must ask him about it. I am rather surprised to hear it. 3

Rugged and straightforward as he was, there was something in his nature that was purely feminine in its tenderness. 4

It is quite true that I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man usually gives to a friend. Somehow, I had never loved a woman. I suppose I never had time. Perhaps, as Harry says, a really grande passion is the privilege of those who have nothing to do, and that is the use of the idle classes in a country. 5

Dorian, Dorian, your reputation is infamous. I know you and Harry are great friends. I say nothing about that now, but surely you need not have made his sister's name a by-word.


 Virginia Woolf: THE PORT OF LONDON the process, which is daily discharged in the port of London, of receiving this immense merchandise, of taking it on shore, of opening it, sorting it, sampling it, weighing it, selling it, dis- tributing it, & passing it on, in its crude state, to be cooked, baked, tanned, worked, seasoned, rolled,-made in short into the million different luxuries & necessities upon which not only London but all England will feed; will wear-will use in its cars in its houses, in its streets-this vast patient skillful & unremit- ting labour is full of sweat & agony & squalor & horror. Looking 489 TWENTIETH CENTURY LITERATURE out to sea is one thing, at the splendid ship, crowding her white sails, leaning across the bosom of the argent West, but turn East; look at the blight & squalor that surrounds us; as we turn, to go towards the voracious city which those white sails feed. Nothing can be much more dismal. Factories & offices line the shore; stand crowded in the mud. Behind are the meanest streets in London. The line of warehouses is black, dingy, de- crepit looking. Here & there are vast factories; whether new or old does not matter-The same dingy grey black coats them all. They crowd without order or intention. If a window is broken broken it remains. They have neither size nor strength. They seem run up & purely utilitarian & to fall. When one of them has been blackened by fire it seems scarcely more derelict & ruinous than the other. Behind them in ridges of grey rise the mean streets-which house the dock laborers.3 as if fortifications were being raised. But in fact these dykes are built of old fires [ashes] & vegetables. London is sending out the contents of her dustbins. Barges come down heaped with tin cans. The Londoner leaves behind him every day a fire [tin] & fish, bones, ashes, vegetables. And here they are, [being] dumped by men out to these ancient fifty year old rubbish heaps, by the river; which grow & grow; & sometimes catch fire-smoulder; & sometimes remain damp & sodden, so that weeds flourish & rats accumulate. And here is an ambiguous vessel, neither ship nor machine, but something between the two, which is dredging the river bottom. The silt will be carried out seventy miles & dropped into the sea. All is activity & [housemaids] Everywhere things are being sorted, ordered, kept in being. Here is London's scullery, its washing up place, its kitchen offices. And then, just as we are given up to thinking of London as the master, where men, whose habit of throwing away 491 TWENTIETH CENTURY LITERATURE tins, cabbage, skittles keeps the whole population here busy clearing [cleaning] up after her, down comes a great steamer bound for India . ..7


APPENDICES


APPENDIX 1

 Neal Cassady: The (unlost) Joan Anderson Letter [Note: this section of the letter was never actually lost as Jack Kerouak probably copied it. It was published in 1964 in "Notes from Underground, a literary magazine".] To have seen a specter isn’t everything, and there are deathmasks piled, one atop the other, clear to heaven. Commoner still are the wan visages of those returning from the shadow of the valley. This means little to those who have not lifted the veil. The ward nurse cautioned me not to excite her (how can one prevent that?) and I was allowed only a few minutes. The headnurse also stopped me to say I was permitted to see her just because she always called my name and I must cheer her. She had had a very near brush and was not rallying properly, actually was in marked decline, and still much in danger. Quite impressed to my duties, I entered and gazed down on her slender form resting so quietly on the high white bed. Her pale face was whiter; like chalk. It was pathetically clear how utterly weak she was, there seemed absolutely no blood left in her body. I stared and stared, she didn’t breathe, didn’t move; I would never have recognized her, she was a waxed mummy. White is the absence of color, she was white; all white, unless beneath the covers, whose top caressed her breasts, was still hidden a speck of pink. The thin ivory arms tapered inward until they reached the slight outward bulge of narrow palms, and the hands in turn bent inward with a more sharp taper only to quickly end in long fingers curled to a point. These things, and her head, with its completely matted hair so black and contrasting with all the whiteness, were the only parts of her visible. Quite normal, I know, but I just couldn’t get over how awfully dead she looked. I had so arranged my head above hers that when her eyes opened, after about ten minutes, they were in direct line with mine; they showed no surprise, nor changed their position in the slightest. The faintest of smiles, the merest of voices, “hello.” I placed my hand on her arm, it was all I could do to restrain myself from jumping on the bed to hold her. I saw she was too weak to talk and told her not to, I, however, rambled on at a great rate. There was no doubt she was over-joyed to see me, her eyes said so. It was as though the gesture of self-destruction had, in her mind, equalized all the guilt. The courage of committing the act seemed to have justified her to herself. This action on her conviction, no matter how neurotic, had called for all her strength and she was now released. Free from the urge, since the will-fordeath needs a strong concentration of pressure to fulfill itself and once accomplished via attempt, is defeated until another period of buildup is gone through; unless, of course, one succeeds in reaching death the first shot, or is really mad. Gazing down on her, with a grin of artificial buoyancy, I sensed this and felt an instant flood of envy. She had escaped, at least for some time, and I knew I had yet to make my move. Being a coward I had postponed too long and I realized I was further away from commitment than ever. Would hesitancy never end? She shifted her cramped hand, I looked down and for the first time noticed the tight sheet covering a flat belly. It was empty, sunken; she had lost her baby. For a moment I wondered if she knew it, then thought she must know—even now she was almost touching her stomach, and she’d been in the hospital for ten days—surely a stupid idea. I resolved to think better. The nurse glided up and said I’d better go; promising to return the next visiting day, I leaned over and kissed Joan’s clear forehead and left.


Off to the poolhall, back to the old grind; I seemed to have a mania. From the way I loafed there all day one would scarcely believe I’d never been in a poolhall two short years before; why, less than six months ago I still couldn’t bear to play more than one game at a time. Well, what is one to say about things he has done? I never again went back to the hospital to bless Joan, oh, that’s what I felt like; blessing her. Each day I lacerated myself thinking on her, but I didn’t go back. “Sometimes I sits and thinks. Other times I sits and drinks, but mostly I just sits.” I must have been in a pretty bad way. Anyhow, two more weeks went by in this fashion, my inability to stir from my poolhall prison became a joke, even to me. It was the night before Christmas, about five PM, when a handsome woman near forty came inside the gambling gaol’s gates and asked for me. I went up front to meet her, as I came closer I saw that she was better than handsome, a real good-looker and despite her age, making quite a stir among the boys. She introduced herself, said she was a friend of Joan and invited me to dinner. My heart bounced with guilty joy, I accepted and we walked the five blocks to this fine-though-forty lady’s apartment without talking. The fatherly taxidriver opened the door, my hostess said it was her husband and that Joan would be out in a minute. Preparations for a huge dinner were in the making. I sat on the sofa and waited. The bathroom— ugly word—door swung out and before my eyes was once again the gorgeous Joan, “second” of Jennifer Jones. Fresh from the shower, mirror-primped, stepped my heroine resplendent in her new friend’s housecoat. Just when you think you’ve learned your lesson and swear to watch your step, a single moment offguard will pop up and hope springs high as ever. One startled look and I knew I was right back where I started; I felt again that choking surge flooding me as when first I’d seen her. I started talking to myself, determined to whip the poolhall rut and drag my stinking ass out of the hole. Over the prosperous supper on which we soon pounced hung an air of excitement. Joan and I were leaping with lovelooks across the roastbeef, while cabby and wife beamed on us. And we planned, yesir, all four of us, and right out loud too. I was kinda embarrassed at first when the host began without preamble, “Alright, you kids have wasted enough time, I see you love each other and you’re going to settle down right now. In the morning Joan is starting at St. Luke’s as a student nurse, she’s told me that’s what she would like to do. As for you, Neal, if you’re serious I’ll get up a little early tomorrow and before I go to work we’ll see if my boss will give you a job. If you can’t get away with telling them you’re 21—the law says you gotta be 21, you’re not that old yet are you? (I said no) so that you can drive a taxi, you can probably get a job servicing the cabs. That okay with you?” I said certainly it was and thanked him; and everybody laughed and was happy. It was further decided that Joan and I stay with them until we got our first paycheck; we would sleep on the couch that opened out into a bed. Gorged with the big meal, I retired to the bathroom as the women did the dishes and the old man read the paper. (By golly, it seems everything I write about happens in a bathroom, don’t think I’m hungup that way, it’s just the incidents exactly as they occurred, and here is another one, because—) A knock on the toilet door and I rose to let in my resurrected beauty. She was as coy as ever, but removed was much fear and embarrassment. We did a bit of smooching, then, seated on the edge of the tub to observe better as she parted the bathrobe to reveal an ugly red wound, livid against her buttermilk belly, stretching nearly from naval to the clitoris. She was worried I wouldn’t think her as beautiful, or love her as much now that her body had been marred by the surgeon’s knife performing a Caesarian. There might have been a partial hysterectomy too and she fretted that the production of more babies—“when we get the money”—would prove difficult. I reassured her on all counts, swore my love (and meant it) and finally we returned to the livingroom. Oh, unhappy mind; trickster! O fatal practicality! I was wearing really filthy clothes but had a change promised me by a friend who lived at 12th and Ogden Sts. So as not to hangup my dwarf cabbie savior when we went to see his buddyboss next A.M., my foolish head thought to make a speedrun and get the necessary clean impediments now. Acting on this obvious need—if I was to impress my hoped-for employer into hiring me—I promised to hurry back, and left. Where is


wisdom? Joan offered to walk with me, and I turned down the suggestion reasoning it was very cold and I could make better time alone, besides, she was still pretty weak, and if she was to work tomorrow the strain of the fairly long walk might prove too much—no sense jeopardizing her health. Would that I’d made her walk with me, would that she’d collapsed rather than let me go alone, would anything instead of what happened! Not only did the new promise for happiness go down the drain, and I lost Joan forever, but her peace was to evaporate once and for all, and she herself was to sink into the iniquity reserved for a certain type of beaten women! I rushed my trip to the clothes depot, made good connections and was quickly on my way back to the warm apartment and my Joan. The route from 12th and Ogden to 16th and Lincoln Sts. Lies for the most part, if one so desires, along East Colfax Ave. Horrible mistake, stupid moment; I chose that path just to dig people on the crowded thoroughfare as I hustled by them. At midblock between Pennsylvania and Pearl Sts. is a tavern whose plateglass front ill-conceals the patrons of it’s booths. I was almost past this bar when I glanced up to see my younger bloodbrother inside drinking beer alone. I had made good time and the hard habit of lushing that I was then addicted to pushed me through the door to bum a quickie off him. Surprise, surprise, he was loaded with loot and, more surprising, gushed all over me. He ordered as fast as I could drink, and I didn’t let the waitress stop, finishing the glass in a gulp; one draught for the first few, then two for the next several and so on until I was sipping normally by the time an hour had fled. First off he wanted a phone number—the reason for his generosity I suspect—and I was the only one who could give it to him. He claimed to have been sitting there actually brooding over the very girl on the other end of this phone number, and I believed him; had to take it true, because for the last five months it had become increasingly clear that he was hot-as-hell for this chick—who was my girl. I gave him the number and he dashed from one booth to the other. I had cautioned him not to mention my name, nor tell her I was there, and he said he wouldn’t. But he did, although he denied it later. The reason for his disloyalty, despite the fact that it cost me Joan, was justifiable since as one might when about to be denied a date of importance while drinking, he had used my whereabouts as a lastditch lure to tempt her out. He came back to the booth from the phonebooth crestfallen, she had said she couldn’t leave the house just now, but to call her back in a half-hour or so; this didn’t cheer him as it would have me, he’s richer and less easily satisfied. He called her again, about forty-five minutes after I had first been pulled into the dive by my powerful thirst, and she said for him to wait at this joint and she’d be down within an hour. This length of time didn’t seem unreasonable, she lived quite a ways further out in East Denver. I thought everything was going perfectly. Bill got the Girl, I got my drinks and still had a short period of grace in which to slop up more before she showed (I certainly didn’t intend to be there when she arrived) and I’d only be a little late returning to Joan where I’d plead hassle in getting the clothes. O sad shock, O unpleasant time; had I just not guzzled that last beer all the following would not be written and I could end this story with “And they lived happily ever after.” Whoa, read slowly for a bit and have patience with my verbosity. There are two things I’ve got to say here, one is a sidepoint and it’ll come second, the first is essential to the understanding of this story; so, I gotta give you one of my Hollywood flashbacks. I’ll leave out the most of it and be as brief as possible to make it tight, although, by the nature or it, this’ll be hard—especially since I’m tired. Number 1: On June 23, 1945 I was released from New Mexico State Reformatory, after doing eleven months and 10 days (know the song?) of hard labor. Soon after returning to Denver I had the rare luck to meet a 16-year-old East Hi beauty who had well-to-do parents; a mother and a pretty older sister to be exact. Cherry Mary was her name because she lived on Cherry Street and was a cherry when I met her. That condition didn’t last long. I ripped into her like a maniac and she loved it. A tremendous affair, countless things to be said about it—I can hardly help from blurting out twenty or thirty statements right now despite resolution to condense. I’m firm (ha) and won’t tell the story of our five months’ intercourse—with its many incidents that are


percolating this moment in my brain; about carnival-night we met (Elitch’s), the hundreds of mountain trips in her new Mercury, rented trucks with mattresses in back, at her cabin, cabins I broke into, day I got her to bang Hal Chase, time I gave her clap after momentous meeting between her and mother of my second child (only boy before Diana’s), time I knocked her up; and knocked it, mad nights and early A.M.’s at Goodyear factory I worked alone in front from 4 P.M. to anytime I wanted to go home, doing it on golfcourses, roofs, parks, cemeteries (you know, dead peoples’ homes) snowbanks, schools and schoolyards, hotel bathrooms, her mother’s vacant houses (she was a realtor), doing it every way we could think of any-old-place we happened to be, in fact, we did it in so many places that Denver was covered with our peckertracks; so many different ones that I can’t possibly remember, often we’d treck clear from one side of town to another just to find a spot to drop to it, on ordinary occasions, however, I’d just pull it out and shove to her bottom if we were secluded, to her mouth if not, the greatest most humorous incident of the lot: to please her mother she’d often babysit for some of their socially prominent and wealthy friends several times a week, I drove out to that particular evening’s assignment, after she called to let me know the coast was clear, (funny English joke; man and wife in living room, phone rings, man answers and says he wouldn’t know, better call the coast guard, and hangs up, wife says, “Who was it, dear?” and man says, “I don’t know, some damn fool who wanted to know if the coast was clear,” har-har-har) and we quickly tear-off several goodies, then, I go back to work; in Goodyear truck, don’t you know. We’d done this numerous times when the “most humorous” evening came up. It was a Sunday night, so no work, I waited outside 16th and High Street apartment till parents left and then went in and fell to it. I had all my clothes off and in livingroom as she was washing my cock in bathroom, (let this be a lesson to you, men, never become separated from your clothes, at least keep your trousers handy, when doing this sort of thing in a strange house—oops, my goodness, I forgot for a second that some of you are out of circulation and certainly not in need of “Lord Chesterfield’s” counseling—don’t show this to your wives, or tell them that I only offer this advice to pass on to your sons, or, if that’s too harsh, to your dilettante friends, whew! Got out of that) there’s a rattling of the apartment door and into the front room walks the mother of one of the parents of the baby Cherry Mary is watching, so fast did this old bat come in that we barely had time to shut the bathroom door before she saw us. Here I was, nude, no clothes, and all exits blocked. I couldn’t stay there for what if the old gal wanted to pee, and most old women’s bladders and kidneys are not the best in the world. There was no place in the bathroom to hide, nor could I sneak out due to the layout of the apartment. Worse, Mary suddenly remembered the fact that this intruder was expected to stay the night. We consulted in whispers, laughing and giggling despite all, and it was decided Mary would leave the bathroom and keep the old lady busy while suggesting a walk or coffee down the street and still try to collect my clothes and get them to me; no mean feat. My task was to, as quietly as a mouse, remove all the years-long collection of rich peoples’ bath knick-knacks that blocked the room’s only window, then, impossible though it looked, I must climb up the tub to it and with a fingernail file pry loose the outside screen. Now, look at this window, it had four panels of glass 6” long and 4” wide, it formed a rectangle of about 12 or 13” high and 8 or 9” across, difficult to squeeze through at best, but, being modern as hell, the way it was hooked to its frame was by a single metal bar in direct center! which when opened split the panes of glass down the middle and made two windows. I could hardly reach outside to work on the screen—since the window opened outward—but I pushed and making a helluva noise, split the screen enough to open the window. Now the impossible compressing of my frame for the squeeze. I thought if I could get my head through I could make it; I just was able to, by bending the tough metal bar the slightest cunthair (in those days I cleaned and jerked 220 lbs.) and of course, I almost tore off my pride-and-joy as I wiggled out into the cold November air. I was damn glad I was only on the second floor, if I’d been higher I would have been hungup in space for sure. So I dropped into the bushes bordering the walk along the side of the building, and hid there shivering and gloating with glee. There was a


film of snow on the ground, but this didn’t bother anything except my feet until some man parked his car in the alley garage and came walking past my hideaway, then, much of my naked body got wet as I pressed against the icy ground so he wouldn’t see me. This made me seek better shelter sine it was about 9 P.M.—I’d been in the cold an hour—and a whole string of rich bastards with cars might be putting them away. I waited until no one was in sight then dashed down the walk to the alley and leaped up and grabbed the handy drainpipe of a garage and pulled myself up. The window I’d broken out of overlooked my new refuge and if anyone went in that bathroom they’d see the havoc wrought the place and be looking out to see me. This fear had just formed—I was too cold to be jolly now—when I saw Mary at last come into view. She had my pants, shoes, and coat, but not my T-shirt and socks, having skipped those small items as she bustled about in front of the cause of my predicament “straightening up.” The woman had only noticed my belt and Mary had said she had a leather class in school and was engraving it. When I’d bashed out the window Mary had heard the crashing about, (the old lady must have been deaf; while I was escaping kept talking about Thanksgiving turkey!) ***and had come in the bathroom to clean up, close the window and otherwise coverup. I out on my clothes and chattering uncontrollably from my freezeout walked with Mary to the Oasis Café for some hot coffee. And so it goes, tale after tale revolving around this Cherry Mary period; here’s just a couple more: At first the mother of this frantic fucking filly confided in me and, to get me on her side, asked me to take care of Mary, watch her and so forth. After awhile, as Mary got wilder, the old bitch decided to give me a dressing down, (I can’t remember the exact little thing that led up to this, offhand anyhow) and since she wasn’t the type to do it herself—and to impress me, I guess—she got the pastor of the parish to give me a lecture. Now, her home was in one of the elite parishes and so she got the monsignor—it was a Catholic church—to come over for dinner the same evening she invited me. I arrived a little before him and could at once smell something was cooking. The slut just couldn’t hold back her little scheme, told Mary to listen closely and began preaching a little of her own gospel to warm me up for the main event. The doorbell rang and her eyes sparkled with anticipation as she sallied forth from the kitchen to answer it. The priest was a middlesized middleaged pink featured man with extremely thick glasses covering such poor eyes he couldn’t see me until our noses almost touched. Coming toward me across the palatial livingroom he had his handshake extended and was in the midst of a normal greeting, the mother escorting him by elbow all the while and gushing introduction. Then it happened, he saw me; what an expression! I’ve never seen a chin drop so far so fast, it literally banged his breastbone. “Neal!! Neal!, my boy!, at last I’ve found my boy!” his voice broke as he said the last word and his Adam’s apple refused to articulate further because all it gave out was a strangled blubber. Choked with emotion, he violently clasped me to him and flung his eyes to heaven fervently thanking his God. Tremendous tears rolled down his cheeks, poured over his upthrust jaw, and disappeared inside his tight clerical collar. I had trouble deciding whether to leave my arms hanging limp or throw them around him and try to return the depth of his goodness by turning to it. Golly and whooooeee!, what a sight!! The priest’s emotion had been one of incredulous joyous recognition, Mary’s mother’s emotion was a gem of frustrated surprise; startled wonder at such an unimaginable happening left her gaping at us with the most foolish looking face I’ve ever seen. She didn’t know whether to faint or flee, never had she been so taken aback, and, I’m sure, didn’t think she ever would be, it was really a perfect farce. Mary and her sister—who was there to lend dignity to her mother’s idea—were as slackjawed as any of us. Depend on sweet Mary to recover fast, she did, with a giggle; which her sister took as a cue to frown upon, thereby regaining her senses. The mother’s composure came with a gasp of artificial goo, “Well! what a pleasant surprise!!” she gurgled with strained smile, feeling lucky she’d snuck out from under so easily. Oho! But wait, aha! She’d made a mistake! Her tension was so unbearable—and she had succeeded so well with her first words—that she decided to speak again, “let’s all go into supper, shall we?” she said in a high-pitched nervous urge. The false earnestness of her tone struck us all


as a most incongruous concern and she’d given herself away by being too quick—since her guest was still holding me tightly. The ecstatic priest was Harlan Fischer, my Godfather when I was baptized at age 10 in 1936. He had also taught me Latin for some months and saw me occasionally during the following three years I served at Holy Ghost Church as altar boy. At our last meeting I was engrossed in the lives of Saints and determined to become a priest or Christian brother, then, I abruptly disappear down the pleasanter path of evil. Now, six and a half years later, he met me again in Mary’s house as a youth he’s come to lecture. Well, he didn’t get around to the lecture, it never seemed to enter his head because it was too full of blissful joy at finding his lost son. He told me how he’d never had another Godson—it just happened that way—and how he’d prayed every night and day for my soul and to see me again. He could hardly contain himself at the dinner-table, fidgeted and twittered and didn’t touch his food. He dragged the whole story of the long wait for this moment out into the open and before the sullen-hearted (she gave me piercing glances of pure hate when Father Fischer wasn’t looking) mother actually waxed moistly eloquent. When the meal was over the dirty old bitch knew her sweet little scheme had backfired completely for Fischer at once excused himself, saying he was sure everyone understood, because he wanted to talk to me alone, and we left. We drove to his church and then sat in his car for two hours before I got out and walked away, never to see him to this very day, now five years since. He started in with the old stuff, and I, knowing there could be no agreement and not wanting to use him unfairly, came down right away and for once I didn’t hesitate as I told him not to bother; I was sorry for it, but we were worlds apart and it would do no good for him to try and come closer. Oh we did a lot of talking, it wasn’t quite that short and simple, but as I say, I finally left him when he realized there was nothing more to be said, and that was that. The other incident I wanted to tell you about can wait, I must cut this to the bone from here on out because I haven’t the money for paper. Anyhow, the reason for this little glimpse into the months just prior to meeting Joan was to show there was some cause for what happened to me in the bar with my younger blood brother. Mind you, I haven’t seen Mary’s mother for at least a month before this night in the bar, although I’d seen Mary about two weeks earlier. Ah, what’s another few lines, I gotta break in here and tell you that other funny little thing about C. Mary. It is this; she was such a hypochondriac that she often played at Blindness. Now wait a minute, this was unusual, because she never complained of illness or anything else, in fact, she didn’t complain about her eyes either, just the opposite, she played at having a true martyr complex toward them. Often we’d spend 12-16 hours in a hotel room while she was “blind.” I’d wait on her hand and foot (and cock) during these times. They’d begin casually enough, she’d simply announce that she couldn’t see and that would go on until she’d just as quietly say she could see again. This happened while she was driving- I’d grab the wheel—while we were walking—I’d lead her—while we were loving—I’d finish anyhow—in fact, this happened any old place she felt like it happening. It was a great little game, she didn’t have to worry, if she smacked up the car, or anything, the old lady would come to the rescue with lots of dough, wouldn’t she? Oh enough! Continuing then, from about 1,500 words ago, as to why Joan and I didn’t live Happily Ever After; Very simple, we were given no chance. You see, as I drank the last Blood-Brother beer—I remember deciding in all seriousness that it was definitely the last one—2 plainclothesmen approached, asked if I was Neal C and promptly hauled me away! It seems Cherry Mary’s Mother, listening on the phone extension to my friend give my whereabouts, had called the police—and she was politically powerful! Why, why, after release on statutory rape with testifying flatly refused by panicky Mary and not a shred of evidence otherwise—flatly panicky, I continued to be held in jail charged with suspicion of Burglary! Of my poolhall hangout yet. Because the charge had a superficial plausibility, since I racked balls there a couple of times and knew the layout—I knew a lot of fearful moments before Capt. of Dicks admitted he knew I was clear all along, and released me finally weeks later. Joan had disappeared completely!


APPENDIX 2 [FRENCH]

 Daniel Bougnoux : Chapitre 7

ARAGON, LA CONFUSION DES GENRES

Pour ne pas oublier Castille Dans les beaux quartiers de Paris, l’automne pluvieux disperse l’or des parcs et presse aux épaules les passants. A l’étage d’un hôtel particulier aux pavés usés sous les roues des carrosses, on ferme les volets d’un appartement composé comme un double cœur, volière de vers et de chansons, galion gorgé d’éditions rares et d’objets curieux, aquarelles d’un siècle englouti. Appelons le maître des lieux Castille. Le flot des visiteurs a cessé depuis qu’au fond de cette grotte le magicien agonise. Ni les cartes postales reçues du bout du monde qu’il mêlait à des lambeaux d’affiches ou de journaux pour les arranger en fresque, ni l’amitié des peintres qui décorent diversement ses murs, ni l’hommage officiel des princes ou les chuchotements de ceux qui viennent encore aux nouvelles ne retiendront Castille de partir. Le vieux roi qui voudrait tant mourir, et n’y arrive pas. Scellée depuis douze années, la porte de l’autre chambre n’ouvre plus sur «l’avenir de l’homme». Nul ne pénètre dans le sanctuaire où il a dressé Ses portraits, Ses romans, Ses toilettes – à Elle. Il a fait de ce reposoir un mythe, et du reste de l’appartement sa tanière. A force de manipuler l’amour, il en semblait irradié. Son bel canto avait vicié Castille; mimait-il éperdument, ou éprouvait-il sincèrement les passions? Les avis restaient partagés. Peut-être le grand poète avait-il besoin de dire pour ressentir, et de la rencontre d’un stylo avec d’une feuille de papier pour atteindre l’heure de la sensation vraie? Beau comme la rencontre…, y avait-il assez rêvé? Les daltoniens se confient au jugement des autres pour séparer le rouge du vert, Castille semblait à certaines heures affligé d’un daltonisme des passions; distinguant mal l’amour de la haine ou la joie de la douleur, il lui fallait s’en remettre assez souvent à sa femme, ou à son Parti, ou au témoignage de ses propres écrits. Chanter pour se donner courage ou contenance, vocaliser l’amour pour l’inoculer à l’autre et à soi-même, c’était peut-être la clé de son bizarre réalisme. Depuis 1971, Castille prenait ses vacances d’été à Toulon entouré d’une cour de jeunes gens auxquels il distribuait chatteries, caresses et coups de griffe comme un pianiste réhausse son jeu à coups d’apoggiatures et d’effets de pédale. Je m’y trouvais mêlé en juillet 1973, habitant moimême cette ville depuis mon affectation de professeur de philosophie au lycée Bonaparte; j’avais, pour la collection Poche-critique créée par Georges Raillard, écrit un petit ouvrage sur Blanche ou l’oubli qui avait plu à son auteur, nous avions échangé quelques messages, il m’avait reçu rue de Varenne et, puisque j’étais toulonnais, invité à passer le voir au cap Brun quand lui-même y serait. Je me retrouvais donc sur la corniche de la résidence-hôtel, pour un déjeuner pris en terrasse à l’ombre entêtante des pins; au loin sur la grande nappe bleue, les voiliers faisaient un semis de petites mites, tandis que dans la minuscule piscine en contrebas quelques jeunes gens juraient et s’ébrouaient avec de grands splashes. J’imaginais avant de venir Castille entouré d’artistes, de fins causeurs ou de critiques experts, mais je tombais autour de la table sur ces «charlatans de Gallipoli (…) des gens, des gens, des gens encore (…) des paltoquets et des pécores» évoqués dans Le Roman inachevé; je revois deux hurluberlus fraîchement débarqués du festival d’Avignon,


soudain séduits par le décor et décidés à y prendre racine, auquel notre hôte débitait des anecdotes qu’ils écoutaient en feignant l’intérêt. La conversation languissait, aussi fus-je soulagé quand Castille me lança gaiement au café, qu’il buvait en y ajoutant une quantité effroyable de sucre: – Eh bien jeune homme, je suis content de vous! Vous plairait-il d’entendre la suite? Attendez-vous à pire…, et il m’avait entraîné sans façon dans sa chambre, en escaladant l’escalier avec une vigueur surprenante. Sur une table devant la fenêtre étaient disposées des liasses. Castille les soupesa avec la circonspection d’un haltérophile, puis d’un paquet tira prestement quelques feuilles qu’il commença à lire d’une voix emphatique, le dos tourné au jour. A cette époque, il laissait encore pousser ses longs cheveux blancs en crinière. Pourtant ce n’était pas le lion qu’évoquait le visage de Castille, malgré son profil arrondi de félin et la fente parfois cruelle des paupières filtrant un regard bleu. Son port de tête n’était pas assez noble ou tranquille, les expressions les plus contraires couraient sur ses traits avec la rapidité de l’araignée sur sa toile. Cette déconcertante cinématographie de la face semblait prendre naissance à la base onduleuse du cou: tout en lisant Castille branlait du chef, et coulait de côté des regards en lame de faux. Sa voix légèrement nasale découpait les mots avec la précision d’une dague; non contente de dire elle semblait décortiquer et déguster chaque phrase, suspendue à d’invisibles guillemets, ou élevée jusqu’à la lumière comme un joaillier vante un bijou de prix qu’il détache pour le faire tourner aux yeux de l’acheteuse. Il était difficile d’échapper à son charme hypnotique, tant la haute silhouette dépassait la mesure ordinaire de l’homme ou de la femme et suggérait l’apparition mélodieuse de la Sphinge, ou de quelque serpent à sonnettes à la morsure sucrée. Je m’efforçais de ne rien perdre de cette mise en scène, mais son étrangeté même nuisait à l’intelligence des paroles, dont le fil se rompait souvent. Les sautes de ton et les syncopes caractérisent le maniérisme lyrique du dernier Castille, qui me faisait profiter là de son dernier roman, en se plaisant à souligner et à dramatiser les accidents de sa prose, partout où ça disjonctait. – Tu vois petit, ce bouquin me déborde, quel désordre bon Dieu quel désordre, jamais je ne m’y retrouverai… Car soudain dans la chambre il m’avait tutoyé, tout en piochant parmi les feuillets qu’il battait comme un jeu de cartes – pour anticiper sur l’image que répéteront tous les commentateurs de Théâtre/roman. Puis, dans un grand geste théâtral le poète rejeta impatiemment le manuscrit et se dressa vivement. Le peignoir s’ouvrit sur le slip de bain. Castille nageait chaque jour en mer, assez souvent seul et droit vers le large, et je vis que le grand âge n’avait pas ruiné son corps bronzé, à la stature athlétique. Il me tourna le dos et disparut sans un mot dans la salle de bains. Plusieurs minutes s’écoulèrent, avec des bruits d’eau. Une bouffée de parfum envahit la pièce, d’un musc lourd dominé par la rose. Quand Castille regagna son siège pour reprendre sans autre explication le fil de sa lecture, j’eus du mal à contenir ma stupéfaction: le Vieux s’était fardé et fait les yeux en y collant, par un détail de coquetterie inconcevable, des faux-cils dégoulinant de rimmel. Il avait abandonné le peignoir et troqué son slip pour un cache-sexe rouge vif. J’avais à présent devant moi une drag queen qui se mit à rythmer de plus belle les propos d’Eurianthe ou de quelque Lélio, tout en se caressant la poitrine et la toison ventrale. Le parfum, un gel plutôt, n’avait pas été appliqué au hasard et il était facile, à la courte distance où j’étais, de deviner de quel orifice copieusement enduit émanait l’entêtante invite. Dans mon dos, le grand lit blanc à la courte-pointe impeccablement tirée se chargea soudain d’une présence redoutable ; en quelques minutes, la confusion des genres avait changé de caractère.


Que faire? Je jugeai prudent de ne rien laisser paraître, me levai dès la fin de la lecture, remerciai et cherchai l’air au dehors, en tirant la porte sur les vociférations du baroque opéra dont, par une chaude après-midi de juillet, Castille m’avait fait l’unique spectateur. Ses lèvres aux accents rugissants et suaves avaient déployé pour moi l’éventail du désir amoureux sans lésiner sur l’orchestre, ponctuant par les clochettes de la douleur le largo langoureux des stances, tressant ses trilles au frémissement des cordes, ça me remettait quatre vers en mémoire, «Dites flûte ou violoncelle / Le double amour qui brûla / L’alouette et l’hirondelle / La rose et le réséda», amour double en effet puisque par derrière… Comment jamais te dire Je t’aime? modulait de mille façons le poème, tandis que le colimaçon parfumé de la rose implorait Défonce-moi! Ou, dit avec plus d’emphase dans Le Paysan de Paris: «Bats-moi, effondre-moi (…). Saccage enfin, beau monstre, une venaison de clartés». L’abîme ouvert par Castille ne me détourna pas de le revoir, et je me mis à fréquenter davantage ses livres. «Sexuellement je l’avais percé à jour et il ne me le pardonnait pas», écrivit Drieu la Rochelle de son ancien ami; pour moi au contraire, le mélodieux frelon me parut plus proche, et presque fraternel, du jour où il me révéla sa fêlure. En ce temps-là, le veuvage de Castille était récent, et le plus exposé des secrets mondains n’était pas encore devenu le Polichinelle de Paris; la fable pourtant s’en répandait, et le poète ne fit rien pour la démentir; il s’affichait au contraire en diverses mondanités avec son secrétaire ou d’autres garçons de moindre calibre, semant chez les vieux grognards d’un réalisme qu’ils appelaient toujours socialiste l’embarras de ne plus savoir, devant le nouveau couple, sur quel pied danser. Je croisais le secrétaire – appelons-le Raoul – qui fumait nerveusement au pied de l’escalier; il faisait le guet je crois bien, mais pas comme Leporello veillant sur les amours de son maître. Son regard m’instruisit mieux que les chamailleries du caravansérail sur les supputations et les jalousies qui peuplaient le petit monde de Castille. Le jeune homme composait sur son protecteur des vies parallèles aux détails suggestifs qui tiraient de Castille, dont le regard fatigué ne savait plus reconnaître la peinture, des cris d’extase. «Hourra Raoul !» avait titré quelques années plus tôt sur deux pages Les Lettres françaises. Ensemble ils promenèrent ce livre, dont ils firent des lectures publiques à deux voix pour inaugurer ici un Centre culturel, là une bibliothèque Elsa Triolet. Plus tard il y aurait l’exhibition télévisée et les bredouillements sous le masque. Une suite funèbre de paroles à côté et de bouffonneries jusqu’à la décomposition finale. Castille toujours sublime et pathétique faisait le sourd quand on le suppliait d’intervenir fût-ce d’un mot dans les affaires du Parti ou de l’U.R.S.S., mais sur son œuvre et dans ses amours il se parodiait désormais lui-même, comme pour remettre sa fameuse fidélité à l’échelle de la grimace discordante et du «ratage carnavalesque du temps». Face à ses détracteurs et ennemis qui étaient légion, il avait toujours eu la passion d’en rajouter, façon de prendre les devants disait-il, ou pour le bizarre plaisir d’armer l’adversaire. Je rencontrais Castille une dernière fois, dans une librairie de Grenoble où il venait lire quelques poèmes, dont le très touchant «Voyage d’Italie» où passe la voix blessée de Marceline DesbordesValmore. Les demandeurs d’autographes s’écrasaient sur son passage et je revois Raoul, costumé en cocher, empilant dans un grand sac les livres que Castille dédicacerait plus tard. Je m’avançais vers lui pour lui redire mon attachement, avec à la main un exemplaire d’Irène dans l’édition de Régine Deforges où je le priais de me mettre un mot. – Pourquoi voulez-vous, mon petit, que je vous dédicace un livre qui m’est étranger puisque j’ai toujours refusé d’en endosser la paternité – ou devrais-je dire la maternité? Et en effet, Castille résista jusqu’au bout, pour des raisons que je m’explique mal, à reconnaître l’un de ses plus beaux cris. Après cela, peut-être découragé, je ne le revis jamais plus.


Il fallait un certain héroïsme pour lamper ainsi à petites gorgées la cigüe lente du suicide. On avait bien ri quand, profitant d’un discours officiel où il remettait ses manuscrits à la nation française, il avait solennellement institué Raoul son «prolongateur». Un cordon électrique! Un échotier s’en empara et un bon mot courut Paris, «la prise de la Castille», ah ah! Prolongateur, Raoul? Un rouage tout au plus de cette machine à se moudre soi-même, un Sganarelle de rencontre à la table du séducteur, à l’heure où les Commandeurs de marbre se bousculent aux portes. Dans ce théâtre de marionnettes où Raoul était le dernier du casting, Castille avait toujours occupé tous les emplois, à la fois l’idolâtre et l’idole, la cantatrice et son amant, persécuté-persécuteur… Castille à la voix de cristal maintenant sous les tubes, aux mains des hommes en blanc. Et autour de la bibliothèque, des tableaux et des manuscrits, le vol pesant des charognards. «Je fais ce que je peux», aurait-il dit entre deux comas. Si telles furent ses dernières paroles, il est curieux de mettre son œuvre et sa vie en regard. Pour fermer le bec aux nécrologues qui ont déjà remis leur copie sur le thème de la Castafiore. Car la mort de Castille suscita, venant de la gauche, une surenchère d’attaques furieuses, alors qu’il fut salué à droite avec respect et admiration sous la plume de François Nourissier ou de Jean d’Ormesson. Le sphinx ne dira plus rien, il emporte avec lui le mot de son énigme, mais il aura tant parlé, écrit, chanté… Castille enduisait d’un baume de douceur ses déchirures, il épongeait d’une gaze parfumée une plaie inguérissable, comme il aimait à la fin, parmi les jeunes gens, se travestir de rubans et de falbalas. L’irréparable avait eu lieu une fois pour toutes, à la naissance, il avait eu trop mal à sa parentèle, trop tôt désespéré des êtres les plus proches. De sorte que quand les choses commencèrent à vraiment mal tourner aux environs de 36, du côté de l’U.R.S.S. et de sa grande famille communiste, ça dut rappeler quelque chose à l’enfant truqué qu’il avait été, et peut-être le confirmer, le rassurer dans ses choix. Il n’y a pas d’amour heureux, pas de famille sans mensonges, pas de couple dans discorde ni d’idéal sans trahison? On n’aura rien dit de Castille tant qu’on n’aura pas admis à quel point il vivait dans une dépendance amoureuse sciemment entretenue, dopée, revendiquée… A quel point l’amour cela vous dupe, cela vous abîme! Nane ou Nancy, évoquant leur trente mois de passion commune, a confié à sa biographe qu’elle le trouvait trop demanding. Sur quelques photos, on lit dans son regard cette demande qui dépasse les mots, l’attente d’une chose immense et qui n’arrive jamais. Il est temps que le Vieux maintenant disparaisse, il n’a que trop tardé. Le dernier d’une époque qui ne se retrouvera plus, il part sous les moqueries et sa couronne roule au caniveau. Le monde a tourné sur ses talons de verre, et la musique a changé. Au moins a-t-il pénétré la mémoire populaire où sa vie se prolonge pas ses chansons, ses poèmes. Tout le monde connaît quelques chansons tirées de Castille, et qui les écoute sans trembler? J’en parlais un jour avec un ancien camarade de l’UJC-ML, qui me plaisantait sur mon goût: – Quoi, Castille, ce faux derche? – Peutêtre mais… tu as pris le temps d’écouter ses chansons? – Ah les chansons, elles me font chialer!


SOURCES JG Ballard: THE LOST NOVEL The experimental novel that JG Ballard never completed http://www.jgballard.ca/criticism/jgblostnovel.html Samuel Beckett: ENDGAME Passage not inserted in the English version. http://www.robertcohendrama.com/other-writings/pozzos-knook-becketts-boys-and-santa-claus/ William Blake: TIRIEL http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tiriel_(poem) Mikhail Bulgakov: THE MASTER AND MARGARITA http://www.masterandmargarita.eu/en/07recencies/eindredactie.html Anthony Burgess: CLOCKWORK ORANGE Chapter 21: The omittance of change: http://www.academia.edu/3817137/A_Clockwork_Orange_Chapter_21_The_omittance_of_change Anthony Burgess: A Clockwork Orange resucked http://aclockworkorangeresucked.webs.com/resucked.htm Chapter 21: http://chabrieres.pagesperso-orange.fr/texts/clockwork_orange.html Lewis Carroll: THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS A wasp in a wig: the lost chapter of Alice. http://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/alice4.html Neal Cassady: The Joan Anderson letter http://www.kerouac.com/blog/2014/11/neal-cassadys-joan-anderson-letter-found/ Roald Dahl: CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY "Spotty Powder," the Lost Chapter from Roald Dahl's "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory". http://fictioncircus.com/news.php?id=283 Charles Dickens: DAVID COPPERFIELD Deleted, omitted and altered passages. http://how-serendipitous.webs.com/copperfield/passages.html T. S. Eliot: THE WASTE LAND On The Composition of The Waste Land: http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/eliot/composition.htm Anne Frank: DIARY Passages removed by Otto Frank. http://www.independent.co.uk/news/anne-franks-lost-pages-published-1174313.html http://annefrank.fr.yuku.com/reply/224#.Ur6qdvTuIlc Thomas Jefferson: DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE http://boston1775.blogspot.fr/2013/07/the-declaration-of-independence-deleted.html


Katherine Mansfield: A Little Episode (1909) / Bites from the Apple (1911)

https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-edinburgh-edition-of-the-collected-fiction-ofkatherine-mansfield-fiction-1898-1915-v-1/gerri-kimber/vincent-osullivan/9780748642748 http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/books/news/a-new-katherine-mansfieldmystery-stops-the-press-7965138.html Destroyed papers

Herman Melville: BILLY BUDD http://www.angelfire.com/ny/gaybooks/billybuddguide.html Sentence deleted from the final manuscript. Friedrich Nietzsche: THE ANTICHRIST http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Antichrist_(book) Deleted words. Ayn Rand: WE THE LIVING http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/We_the_Living Sappho: 2 poems (Brothers Poem / KyprisPoem) http://www.papyrology.ox.ac.uk/Fragments/ Bram Stoker: DRACULA http://dracula.cc/literature/bram_stoker_original_ending/ Original ending deleted by Bram Stoker Mark Twain: PUDD'NHEAD WILSON http://twain.lib.virginia.edu/wilson/pwms.html H.G. Wells: THE TIME MACHINE http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Grey_Man “This is the text present in Chapter 11 of H.G. Wells's The Time Machine as serialized in the New Review. It was cut from the book but later published on its own as a short story, The Grey Man.” Oscar Wilde: DORIAN GRAY http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Picture_of_Dorian_Gray#Deleted_or_moved_passages http://harvardpress.typepad.com/hup_publicity/2011/02/textual-history-picture-of-dorian-grayfrankel.html Virginia Woolf: THE PORT OF LONDON http://www.susanmerrillsquier.com/uploads/2/4/8/8/2488619/the_london_scene.pdf APPENDICES APPENDIX 1: Neal Cassady: The "unlost" Joan Anderson letter http://ginsbergblog.blogspot.com/2014/10/neal-cassady-joan-anderson-letter.html APPENDIX 2: Daniel Bougnoux : ARAGON, LA CONFUSION DES GENRES (Gallimard, coll. "l'Un et l'autre", 216 p.). Chapter 7 was deleted after Louis Aragon’s family filed a complaint against the author, Daniel Bougnoux. http://bibliobs.nouvelobs.com/documents/20121024.OBS6797/affaire-aragon-le-chapitre-censure.html

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Bartlebits is about erased sections in books. Most of these are not just corrections but actual deletions, wanted or unwanted. Throughout th...

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