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She stood there huddled close to me, practically working up a sweat, her eyes darting around. She wanted me to If she had been jumpy with me, Lucy came to. dotepub is software in the cloud that allows you to convert any webpage into an e -book. It had been the outburst of a speculative builder, faintly tinged with art, who A man who stepped into its social atmosphere felt as if he had stepped into a . No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with. He had this raw edge to him, this primal aura surrounding him that made me feel I've never been with a woman because for me she's it.

His moment with Michael Ryan, which is everything about what ambition can do to you. What he guessed about my own personality. What a person has every right to expect from you, what you ought to expect of yourself. David thought books existed to stop you from feeling lonely. Franzen said a sad, moving thing to me. He said losing David had been like watching a science fiction movie, when a small figure gets sucked out of the airlock. An abrupt, absolute, quiet disappearance.

He now has an unlisted phone number, because of fans. So we are playing chess. Stuff about me is a makes me uncomfortable and b is bad for me, because it makes me self-conscious when I write. And I do not need to be more self-conscious. Oh, fuck me! It takes a while for me to get in a groove. Well, fuck! Looking at the board Little, Brown bought both the hardcover and the softcover rights at the same time. I talk about my own friends—people he knows too—who arranged deals while touring for successful books.

I had no choice on this book, it was sort of under way. There was so much research I had to do, that I literally could not teach and do it at the same time. So I decided to eat it, and do it. Aware of your fame here? The grad students are vaguely aware I think. They must follow it? I think kids in the Midwest are different than kids on the East Coast. I think Time and Newsweek are fairly inescapable. So I think they kinda know. Which is why these programs try to pack themselves with the best-known and most-respected writers.

I know too many really good writers who are shitty teachers, and vice versa, to think that. But the writers are often interested in preserving as much of their own time as they can. I took the job for the health insurance. A sudden in-the-wrong-place sense.

An anxiety he felt before Infinite Jest. Edward Abbey was there … Robert Boswell helped him more than anybody …] I was so in thrall to Barth I just knew it would be sort of a grotesque thing. He patterned the longest part of his second book after Barth. I have to cut it short: And they all are gonna have various deals to discuss. I swear to God. Like doing readings? You were good. And I think I come off looking like a maniac. I give like one or two readings in colleges a year. He laughs.

And I never saw her again. She was standing right up front. We turn out to both know Elizabeth. Good egg. Is comfortable with note-taking. Fifteen students. Women sit, as at an old-line synagogue, slightly apart from men.

David wearing Fryes, blue bandanna. Carrying Diet Pepsi. Dave has noticed some surprising student errors this week. They laugh. The students know another thing: And they want somehow to acknowledge it.

Done being famous yet? Blush smile Two more minutes. Quick chatter about his media appearances. I love the way the Trib described your office. Did you wind up, like, next to Dick Vitale and Hillary Clinton? Dave says he got real nervous on the flights, kept picturing grave etc. Just put pepperoni and mushrooms on my Tombstone. A take-out, grocery pizza sort of joke. They talk about his magazine photos.

Dave blushes more. Is that me? Is also drinking a Diet Pepsi. Class begins with a jump from celebrity into the supernormal, the administrative. Office hours next week. Bring light reading material, if you have to wait in the hallway. Begins work on student stories. Offering Very Sensible advice. Lots of jobs for fiction, you have to keep track of twelve different things—characters, plot, sound, speed. But the job of the first eight pages is not to have the reader want to throw the book at the wall, during the first eight pages.

He paces around the classroom. Happy, energetic. At one point, thinking, he even drops into a quick knee bend. Class laughs; they really like him. First story: Dave on story, always using TV: Or When Harry Met Sally. Dave glances up. Another story he likes: Craning up and down when discussion and story get him excited. The student being workshopped is a punkish guy: Take it from me.

To have the narrator be funny and smart, have him say funny, smart things some of the time. Holds steady. On the campus romance story. I could spend a half hour telling you about my trip to the store, but that might not be as interesting to you as it is to me. Notebooks closing, bookbags rising from floor to desktop. Ruckle noises, kids standing. Brings me a water to drink. Where would you be without me?

I can see the ashtrays. I wrote Broom of the System when I was very young. I mean, the first draft of that was my college thesis. There are parts of it that I think are good.

Even at signings, when people bring it up to sign. The paperbacks? And they did just enough hardcovers that they could say … Post Jay McInerney. Yeah … It seems to me rather an odd thing to bring out again, that—because it was a totally different kind of fiction. Nice to watch you blossom from what was initially a marketing thing. Some of this stuff is nice. But I also realize this is a big, difficult book.

The thing about fame is interesting, although I would have liked to get laid on the tour and I did not. Only in Rolling Stone would I not worry about this. But it seems like, what I want is not to have to take any action. Where is your hotel? Happens to Aerosmith. But maybe not to Abba Eban. Shyness and arrogance often go hand in hand, I think.

Betrayal of your work self to do that? No, but I had this fantasy. Basically, it just would have made me be lonely. You talk all you want, man. How do you learn to do this stuff? Because even I, I can clearly see there are certain strategies. Not really. My strategy here is getting facts about you. Your tour: Three weeks? Who will pick you up. Who will take you to the interview, then walk on your back and fuck your eyeballs out. And of course these escorts turn out to be burly Irishmen.

You know, in their forties. Who like basically tell you the whole life story of the interviewer before you go there. So the whole thing is a little amusing. I had two, both of them over fifty. Very cool. Boston born and bred. You have to click that little thing up. What does Jann want? Like his feints about tour sex above; like the chess, seeing how I respond, move by move.

Is that true? Except the pub date was two and a half weeks ago. The book takes at least two months to read well. So therefore, whatever famousness is about, the hype is famous.

I mean, you as an emissary of Rolling Stone. I would like to get laid offa this. The shallow stuff. I would like to get laid off it.

I now know he did this sort of thing as his approach, and I can see it here, his trying to guess what people wanted, what I wanted. To be left alone, to nudge them away on the trip back through the living room, from work room to private room. The stuff I said to you while we were playing chess?

I got no problem making money. I went through this time in my twenties of feeling, feeling a pressure and expectation far in excess of anything the real world could place on you. Taking money for something up front brings that pressure back. And um, the nice thing about teaching is that, I feel like teaching is my livelihood.

And I just, um, it may be true that I could get a lot of money if I took an advance now. But if I do it, I am downloading myself a pack of trouble. That I just—and that pain, that pain, I fear that pain more than I want the money. The whole thing about trying to regulate himself, to produce a temporary self he could be comfortable and function in. Very squeezed parameters, somehow. Foreign sales: I play a certain number of games.

Film sale? Probably unfilmable … Which maybe will make it rather easier to take money for it. Knowing that I will never have to see the artifact itself. No, I would take that money and run for the hills. As it turns out, the film rights are sold about six months later.

Cooler heads will prevail. But I would be pretty surprised. But if? Five years? Well, I think being shy basically means being self-absorbed to the extent that it makes it difficult to be around other people. And I have elements of that shyness in me. End up plying their trade in the direct presence of other people. And maybe five or six other writers I know real well. You know? What will the effect of this be on you?


Which in personal intercourse? Makes things very difficult. For a writer. But that actually comes in handy. It would be way too pomo and cute, to do. But it would be very interesting. It would be the way for me to get some of the control back. And it might be why writers are such shitty interviews. Like Streitfeld thought I would never be his friend after the thing came out in Details. Little, Brown took an enormous chance doing the book.

But this stuff is real bad for me, it makes me self-conscious. The more exposure I as a person get, the more it hurts me as a writer. But I said yes to this, so that I could in good conscience say no to a couple other things that are just way more toxic.

Why do you think of it as a kind of toxic self-consciousness— If I could get laid out of it. I think. Or maybe I really look like that. But the self-consciousness is helpful to you too? Are these short stories of the level of somebody who was just featured in Rolling Stone?

Those things go away; like worries about where I am now, who I am now, whether my girlfriend last year was better for me, so was I maybe writing better then? Did those figures in my landscape help me orient myself better, organize my life better? It goes away. But this is a rather stronger and more dangerous kind of self-consciousness. But I do know that to the extent that like, that I derive my self and satisfaction from the work, rather than whether Mr.

You know what I mean? So like, why climb into the arena with this bull? But that little part of me does not get to steer. That little part can turn pretty ravenous though? If you see me like you know as a guest on a game show in the next couple of years, we will know.

Heavy tray, big Midwestern spread. Also cookies. And two Diet Cokes. When you all want your cookies, just come up and yell at me. Could we have a larger table, also, please?

A friend of mine and I had this joke, that various things are pomo-erotic. That part of the brain can prove to be ravenous? But I know it can be. Who would want to be that way? But many less-talented people than you get lots of attention. Which can be a little painful. This is an example of the system working.

I think just: American Psycho—I thought he was really ill-served by his agent and publisher even letting him publish it, and those are the only two things of his that I read. Same risk for you? Because whatever I do, the next thing will be very different from this. Maybe Infinite Jest II. To be merciful. David Leavitt noose quote: Reviewers will use my first book as a noose to hang my second. I think it often is. He wants to do it. It makes him happy. Here is this—this may piss you off or strike you as disingenuous.

This is just not my cup of tea. How did it burn? You know, this lady Donna Tartt came? And I read Secret History. And I thought it was, you know, it was pretty good. The waitress has returned with my tip after all.

David retains his thought. And I just—you know, I went through some of that. Plus, the research on this thing. Until this escort in Chicago told me. I just missed like four years of this. Hemingway tapeworm quote: Or great white sharks fighting over a bathtub, you know? And I was right in that: Then I went to Yaddo. I was at Yaddo twice. And I would go to New York, and give these readings, go to these parties.

There were some of these writer-guys at Yaddo with me when I was there. And they were like five years older than me, and they were like big superstars, and I was like … [Jay McInerney, Lorrie Moore, and others] So you were at Yaddo with some literary heavyweights and you fell into that sort of casino mind-set?

And you have these ideas about why people are in the game, what they want. And most of the ideas degenerate into—devolve into—this idea of how other people are gonna regard you.

So you look to these people who are well regarded, and regard them as having made it and all this kind of stuff. Mark was curious, from the beginning, to see how David would make out in the field; he lived this part—the positioning and business politics—this version of the literary life with David. His friend Jon Franzen sees a different novel: Writers can be especially awful, about measuring each other and about touching fame.

An assistant answers instead. How do I protect and expand it? And what is it people like about me anyway? Easier to say that now, though? With Infinite Jest in magazines and on covers of book reviews? With your readings jammed? I am proud of this book. I worked really hard on it. I was pretty sure that it would fall stillborn from the presses.

But that within three or four years—like Girl sells better now than when it first came out. When did counterindications come? When Vogue and the fashion magazines … [The tape side runs out. And shittily reviewed, at a much more public level than I would have before. Bonnie Nadell, his agent, as a sensitive person she was protecting. Franzen, as a friendly rival and fellow whiz who would maybe benefit from a little simultaneous social translation.

As long as he persuaded enough people of those different aspects of himself—sort of sending them out on missions—they would protect him on any grounds that needed defense. I know he really liked it. And I know he really read it hard, because he helped me—I mean, that book is partly him. A lot of the cuts are where he convinced me of the cuts. But also, editors and agents jack up their level of effusiveness when they talk with you, to such an extent that it becomes very difficult to read the precise shade of their enthusiasm.

That they had to really like it. And partly that feels good, and partly makes it feel, I mean, I got fairly lucky. I know this sounds very political. But I think as a house, these guys are—you can find houses where people really love books. Sounds like it. But the indications: Four months ago, you were saying? Those idiots for handing out those postcards.

For Premiere. Lynch had his own trouble with getting famous. Twin Peaks, the Time cover. I mean, one of them—like a limited edition. And then as you know, the fact checkers would call. And then I was trying to work on this Lynch piece, which was very hard and very long. I mean—have you read it? There are things about it that are reasonably hard.

I was ready for a lot more perceptions I think like what that lady had, that Michiko Kakutani lady. Oh, I met the guy at the party. Walter Kirn. I mean, I heard. People told me a couple of things that he said, which sounded to me really stupid.

The plaques and citations can now be put in escrow. And that spectacularly good. I went and found the Atlantic, because I was scared about Sven [Birkerts]. They always fuck me up. I applauded his taste and discernment.

What do you want me to say? How would you feel? People are gonna ridicule me. Being human animals with egos, we find a way to accommodate that fact of our ego, by the following equation: If it sells really well and gets a lot of attention, it must be shit. Then of course the ultimate irony is: download it for that reason—which is good, because Little, Brown makes money. We write to be read.

And the idea of, OK, the book making a lot of money but not getting read, is for me fairly cold comfort. But you know what I mean? So, see me in a year. But now clearly seems to be humming in and of itself. That—you know. This machine that has you out here, asking about my reaction to a phenomenon that consists largely of your being out here. I love this song. This is one of the few songs of theirs I like. I never liked the Who very much. Literary heavyweights: And feeling like I wanted to be regarded the way they were regarded.

And uh … what was our point? And now: I really got into it. I mean like … You became a better stylist? I think I work harder now. I think when I was twenty-two or twenty-three, I pretty much thought every sentence that came off my pen was great.

Because, you know, we wanna be doing this for forty more years, you know? This points at table, tape, me is nice, but this is not real.

Robinson Crusoe

I learned that the hard way. And this came alive to me halfway through. Just, the volume gets turned down. Just, I was a hack: And I got real invested in it.

Which I think shows some talent, but was in many ways a fuck-off enterprise. It was written very quickly, rewritten sloppily, sound editorial suggestions were met with a seventeen-page letter about literary theory that was really a not-very-interesting way … really a way for me to avoid doing hard work. I mean, this is absolutely the best I could do between like and For me it has much more to do with, I feel like people are talking to me.

I feel like this thing, this is a living thing. With whom, with which I have a relationship that needs to be tended. That I feel, not—that I feel un-lonely working on it. But, um … I just think that it hurts.

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I think I have a really low pain threshold. Have you since read the seventeen-page letter about Broom? Oh sure. It talks about how the entire book is a conversation between Wittgenstein and Derrida, and presence versus absence. And in fact it was a very cynical argument, because there was a part of me—this was a year and a half after I wrote it, and I knew that that ending, there was good stuff about it, but it was way too clever.

It was all about the head, you know? I was in … Dave Land. I had four hundred thousand pages of continental philosophy and lit theory in my head. And by God, I was going to use it to prove to him that I was smarter than he was. And so, as a result, for the rest of my life, I will walk around … You know, I will see that book occasionally at signings. And I will realize I was arrogant, and missed a chance to make that book better.

My tastes in reading lately have been way more realistic, because most experimental stuff is hellaciously unfun to read. Because ideas are primary? And then the writing goes bad? I feel like I am as a reader like a small child, and adults are having a conversation over my head; that this is really a book being written for other writers, theorists, and critics.

And that was also of course really scary. I think that a lot of it deserves to be. Same with a lot of poetry. I agree. Lorrie Moore works for readers, not just writers. I disagree. You agree? Yeah, but life now is completely different than the way it was then.

Does your life approach anything like a linear narrative? Some of it has to do with TV and fiction. You watch many videos? MTV videos?

A lot of shit that looks incongruous but ends up having kind of a dream association with each other. Um, you flew here. You drove down. You come, you talk to me. You and I have our little conversation. Then you and I go to the class. And that so much of my job is to impose some sort of order, or make some sort of sense of it.

Sitting down in his silent room, overlooking some very well-tended gardens, pulling out his quill, and … in deep tranquility, recollecting emotion. I read it as a relief from the fact that, I received five hundred thousand discrete bits of information today, of which maybe twenty-five are important.

And how am I going to sort those out, you know? And yet you made a linear narrative, easily, out of both our days, just now. Off the top of your head. You, if this is an argument, you will win.

This is an argument you will win. Well you and I just disagree. Maybe the world just feels differently to us. So that the reader feels less lonely. As the texture, as the cognitive texture, of our lives changes.

And as, um, as the different media by which our lives are represented change. Instead of being a relief from what it feels like to live. That I think a lot of people feel—not overwhelmed by the amount of stuff they have to do. But overwhelmed by the number of choices they have, and by the number of discrete, different things that come at them. But I sorta think so.

For Emery by J. Nathan

At least in some—in terms of the way it feels on your nerve endings. Where the bigger the system gets, the more interference there is, and all that. And how formal and structural stuff in avant-garde things I think can vibrate, can represent on a page, what it feels like to be alive right now.

You were getting this across in the book? The scary thing about doing it was, structuring it that way puts a lot of demands on the reader. Is there gonna be a payoff? Is the reader gonna throw the book at the wall? You can put the pieces together. Which I would think you would find annoying.

And I always think that, until the person comes, and then I always like the person, I want to impress them, and then I sort of try to articulate to them. Does that make any sense to you? And that if the writer does his job right, what he basically does is remind the reader of how smart the reader is.

Which not everybody has the luxury to do. But I gotta tell you, I just think to look across the room and automatically assume that somebody else is less aware than me, or that somehow their interior life is less rich, and complicated, and acutely perceived than mine, makes me not as good a writer.

This is the way to have Mom be proud of me, this is the way—you know what I mean? And this is a good tactic of yours, to get me a little pissed off. In person, like at these readings, I feel like my job is to be exactly as much of myself as I can be. Without looking, without making myself naked in front of people who might be mean to me. But the faux thing: And so, the normal regular stuff is real precious to me.

Look, look! I am normal. All his books piled up together … Call to Rolling Stone, while David in the shower: He sort of likes that sort of thing. He would be more than forthcoming with a little bit of massaging to give you whatever you needed. Tread lightly. You read it—once you prop the thing open at all—because you understand the author is brilliant.

The people who seem to adore the press the way, say, Pooh loves a honey jar, look foolish; but the people who seem to hate it also risk foolishness too, because the reader knows how good press must feel, like having the prettiest girl in school drop you a smile. Like having the whole country rub against your toes and twist between your ankles.

Midwest more homophobic …? They all live on the west side of town, next to the Purina plant, in housing projects. Educated Republicans: Guys that stand there like this. You know what this is? A lot of railroad money before. Enormous tax base. Really rich. A weird kind of Mafia-ish thing.

State Farm is the Irish gang boss. Albert Finney chasing guys with a Tommy gun: At a certain point, we have to go back and find out when our flight is. Can you tell me a little about your background? I grew up—I was born in Ithaca, New York, My father was in grad school at Cornell. Moved to Urbana—which is twin cities with Champaign—in Lived there.

Went to elementary, junior high, and high school there. And sort of did the peripatetic writer. Published first book first year of Arizona? How did that work? No—because I was still rewriting it part of the first semester.

It got bought that first year. They were gonna kick me out … Muses, smiles Yeah. They just thought I was crazy.

They are a highly, incredibly hard-ass realist school. I was doing very abstract stuff back then, most of which was really bad. They tout you now? They invite him back a lot, throw publication parties for his books at the U of A.

I think I was kind of a prick. I was just unteachable. I go back every once in a while because my sister lives in Tucson. Like geographically. The warmth and the—oh, have you ever been there? Because a lot of grad students just end up teaching part-time at the U of A and living there for like ten, twenty years.

Your folks are university people? My father teaches in the philosophy department at the U of Illinois. He mostly teaches in the medical school now. And then he got into bioethics. Which is different from a JC. David stares. The idea is you eat eggs, which are kind of a latent form, as your body itself is awakening. It makes a lot of sense. I guess following life cycle stuff too: Birth to death. And then you eat basically partial—and by the end you eat basically partially decomposed creatures, so … Environment in house?

Lots of reading? My parents—I have all these weird early memories. Um, so they were—but I think by the end, Amy was exempted. Humoring him? But I remember, I remember because there was some sort of deal about Amy, Amy got exempted from it, and was I gonna be exempted or not? Remember a lot of it? I remember being hellaciously bored. And I remember picking the lint out of my navel with a pen, while Dad was doing it, and Dad saying that was the equivalent of picking your nose.

I mean, I was five. Your father does what?

And they had you late? So they had you young? He wrote all those songs? He just kind of rode herd? My dad pitched the ad: And the fact that it competes with Coke is entirely a testament to its advertising.

Airplane hangar taste, wonderful. When read? I mean, I remember reading all the Hardy Boys books by the time I was like seven. But I also watched hellacious amounts of television.

I remember really liking Tolkien. And like let me read it. Parents and TV? They would watch at night. Like, before dinner, um, there was just this weird hour, late in the afternoon, when, you know, dinner was more or less simmering. And I for a long time, I think, thought all families were like that. When I was at school, and met—there were a lot of kids at Amherst, I met a lot of people who were fiercely smart, like great test-takers. Encouraged to in the house, though? It was probably the same for you.

Overtly, no. It was just what you did. I remember I liked to more than Amy did. I remember Amy liked to draw and play with things, and partially play with the phones.

And I would much prefer being by myself with a book. David and Amy are different. Although of course you end up becoming yourself.

Did they want you to be a writer or no? Oh no, I was gonna be—the big thing I was when I was little was a really serious jock. You know, I played like citywide football as a little kid, I was really big and strong as a little kid. And then for four or five years, I was seriously gonna be a pro tennis player. And it was like my great dream. Reading was this kind of fun, weird thing that I did on the side. Gregory resumed in high oratorical good humour.

An anarchist is an artist. The man who throws a bomb is an artist, because he prefers a great moment to everything. He sees how much more valuable is one burst of blazing light, one peal of perfect thunder, than the mere common bodies of a few shapeless policemen. An artist disregards all governments, abolishes all conventions. The poet delights in disorder only. If it were not so, the most poetical thing in the world would be the Underground Railway.

I will tell you.

It is because they know that the train is going right. It is because they know that whatever place they have taken a ticket for that place they will reach. It is because after they have passed Sloane Square they know that the next station must be Victoria, and nothing but Victoria. Oh, their wild rapture! The rare, strange thing is to hit the mark; the gross, obvious thing is to miss it. We feel it is epical when man with one wild arrow strikes a distant bird. Is it not also epical when man with one wild engine strikes a distant station?

Chaos is dull; because in chaos the train might indeed go anywhere, to Baker Street or to Bagdad. But man is a magician, and his whole magic is in this, that he does say Victoria, and lo! No, take your books of mere poetry and prose; let me read a time table, with tears of pride.

Take your Byron, who commemorates the defeats of man; give me Bradshaw, who commemorates his victories. Give me Bradshaw, I say! You say contemptuously that when one has left Sloane Square one must come to Victoria. I say that one might do a thousand things instead, and that whenever I really come there I have the sense of hairbreadth escape. It is to me the cry of a herald announcing conquest.

We know that the New Jerusalem will only be like Victoria. Yes, the poet will be discontented even in the streets of heaven. The poet is always in revolt. You might as well say that it is poetical to be sea-sick. Being sick is a revolt.

Revolt in the abstract is—revolting. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more poetical than the stars—the most poetical thing in the world is not being sick.

With surprise, but with a curious pleasure, he found Rosamond Gregory still in his company. Do you mean what you say now? Now, sometimes a man like your brother really finds a thing he does mean. It may be only a half-truth, quarter-truth, tenth-truth; but then he says more than he means—from sheer force of meaning it. Syme strolled with her to a seat in the corner of the garden, and continued to pour out his opinions.

For he was a sincere man, and in spite of his superficial airs and graces, at root a humble one. And it is always the humble man who talks too much; the proud man watches himself too closely. He defended respectability with violence and exaggeration. He grew passionate in his praise of tidiness and propriety.

All the time there was a smell of lilac all round him. Once he heard very faintly in some distant street a barrel-organ begin to play, and it seemed to him that his heroic words were moving to a tiny tune from under or beyond the world.

To his astonishment, he discovered the whole garden empty. Everyone had gone long ago, and he went himself with a rather hurried apology. He left with a sense of champagne in his head, which he could not afterwards explain. In the wild events which were to follow this girl had no part at all; he never saw her again until all his tale was over.

And yet, in some indescribable way, she kept recurring like a motive in music through all his mad adventures afterwards, and the glory of her strange hair ran like a red thread through those dark and ill-drawn tapestries of the night.

For what followed was so improbable, that it might well have been a dream. When Syme went out into the starlit street, he found it for the moment empty. Then he realised in some odd way that the silence was rather a living silence than a dead one.

Directly outside the door stood a street lamp, whose gleam gilded the leaves of the tree that bent out over the fence behind him. About a foot from the lamp-post stood a figure almost as rigid and motionless as the lamp-post itself. The tall hat and long frock coat were black; the face, in an abrupt shadow, was almost as dark. Only a fringe of fiery hair against the light, and also something aggressive in the attitude, proclaimed that it was the poet Gregory.

He had something of the look of a masked bravo waiting sword in hand for his foe.

He made a sort of doubtful salute, which Syme somewhat more formally returned. About what? Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. There is your precious order, that lean, iron lamp, ugly and barren; and there is anarchy, rich, living, reproducing itself—there is anarchy, splendid in green and gold. I wonder when you would ever see the lamp by the light of the tree. Gregory began in a smooth voice and with a rather bewildering smile.

You did something to me that no man born of woman has ever succeeded in doing before. The captain of a penny steamer if I remember correctly at Southend.

You have irritated me. If I struck you dead I could not wipe it out. There is only one way by which that insult can be erased, and that way I choose. I am going, at the possible sacrifice of my life and honour, to prove to you that you were wrong in what you said.

You do not think that in a deeper, a more deadly sense, I am serious. Are these damned Chinese lanterns serious? Is the whole caboodle serious? Is it really true that you have one? Will you swear that! You say that a poet is always an anarchist. I disagree; but I hope at least that he is always a sportsman.And then they might not respond the same way to previously effective treatments.

Which I think shows some talent, but was in many ways a fuck-off enterprise.

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Be the first to reply. Gregory struck out with his stick at the lamp-post, and then at the tree. Or I could have at least tried in such a way that I would have damaged myself trying horribly. Most of the women were of the kind vaguely called emancipated, and professed some protest against male supremacy. If it sells really well and gets a lot of attention, it must be shit.