‘What was that?’
‘Do not concern yourself, Major. People fighting in the streets. They are animals, these people ...’
Cutting Up Characters
Re-reading Joseph Conrad’s Under Western Eyes, I find it stands up much better than I remembered. And I see the precise parallels between Razumov’s interview with Councillor Mikulin in Under Western Eyes and Carl’s interview with Doctor Benway in Naked Lunch, the chapter entitled ‘The Examination’.
Razumov has braced himself to confront the tough cop, General T—. Instead he is taken before the con cop, Councillor Mikulin, Razumov has placed himself in the category of informer by turning in Haldin. As he will find, this is not an easy pigeon-hole to escape from, and in fact Councillor Mikulin has no intention of allowing him to escape,
The con dick does a little dance step. . . ‘Why don’t you make the man a proposition? That’s the way General — you play fair with him and he’ll play fair with you.’
Councillor Mikulin and Doctor Benway both use the little dance step of the unfinished sentence; Mikulin: ‘I comprehend in a measure your. . . But indeed you are mistaken in what you ... Though as a matter of fact. . . Religious belief of course is a great... And so you say he believed in. . . That’s of course ... Naturally some curiosity was bound to arise. . . Everybody I am sure can ... ‘
Doctor Benway: ‘The Kleiberg-Stanislouski test. . . a diagnostic tool. . . in certain cases useful. . . I do hope not necessary ... indicative at least in a negative sense ... certain contagious diseases ... relatively rare ... such marriages often result in ... there must have been .. . and so.’
Here is Razumov’s meeting with Mikulin: ‘The mild gaze rested on Mm, not curious, not inquisitive — certainly not suspicious — almost without expression. In its passionless persistence there was something resembling sympathy.’
And Benway: Tor the first time the doctor’s eyes flickered across Carl’s face, eyes without any emotion Carl had ever experienced in himself or seen in another — at once cold and intense, predatory and impersonal. . .’ The same bureaucrat brought from 1906 to 1984, just a little further out in the open. As Razumov will find, Councillor Mikulin is also predatory in his dim passionless way.
Razumov’s vision of his brain suffering on the rack . . .’It is not to be seriously supposed that Razumov had actually dozed off and had dreamed in the presence of Councillor Mikulin, of an old print of the Inquisition.’
And from Carl’s examination in Naked Lunch: ‘Carl dozed off. He was opening a green door. Benway: “Do you often doze off like that? In the middle of a sentence?” Carl: “I wasn’t asleep, that is . . .” Benway: “You weren’t?’”
Razumov: ‘The whole affair is becoming too comical altogether for my taste. A comedy of errors, phantoms, and suspicions. It’s positively indecent. . .’ ‘Councillor Mikulin turned an attentive ear. “Did you say phantoms?” he murmured.’
Carl: ‘It’s just that the whole thing is unreal. I’m going now, you can’t force me to stay.’
Razumov: ‘But, really, I must claim the right to be done once and for all with that man. And in order to accomplish this I shall take the liberty ...’ Razumov on his side of the table bowed slightly to the seated bureaucrat.’.. . to retire — simply retire.’
Carl’s examination: ‘He was walking across the room towards the door. A creeping numbness dragged his legs. The door seemed to recede . . .’
Under Western Eyes: Razumov walked to the door, thinking ‘Now he must show his hand. He must ring and have me arrested before I am out of the building, or he must let me go. And either way .. .’
Benway: ‘Where can you go, Carl?’
Mikulin: ‘An unhurried voice said — “Kirylo Sidorovitch.’”
Carl: ‘Out — away, through the door.’
Mikulin: ‘Razumov at the door turned his head. “To retire,” he repeated. “Where to?” asked Councillor Mikulin softly.’
Benway: ‘The Green Door, Carl?’
As you see, the end is almost verbatim, and I was thinking of this chapter in Under Western Eyes when I wrote the chapter on Carl and Doctor Benway. There’s no reason not to use a framework or even words from another writer if they fit in a different setting, and this is done repeatedly. Both chapters are suitable for film treatment, and cutting back and forth between them would I think be a very effective device.
Councillor Mikulin — 1900’s sets, pen holders, signet rings, gold-plated telephone. . . Doctor Benway — cold clinical Swedish modern set. . . The two faces flickering in and out, Benway’s face projected onto Mikulin’s with Mikulin’s voice, Mikulin’s voice in Benway’s face. Mikulin’s face with Benway’s voice. . . Antony Balch and I performed this experiment of projecting his face onto mine and my face onto his, then mixing faces and voices in various combinations, in a film called Bill and Tony.
A Review of the Reviewers
Critics constantly complain that writers are lacking in standards, yet they themselves seem to have no standards other than personal prejudice for literary criticism. To use an analogy: suppose the Michelin Inspectors were equally devoid of consensual criteria for judging food. Here is one inspector. . . ‘food superlative, service impeccable, kitchen spotless’ and another about the same restaurant . . . ‘food abominable, service atrocious, kitchen filthy’. Another inspector strips an Italian restaurant of its stars because he doesn’t like Italian cooking. Another would close a restaurant because he disapproves of the chef’s private life or the political opinions of the proprietor or complains that the chicken on his plate is not roast beef.
Admittedly it is more difficult to set up standards for literary criticisms but such standards do exist. Mathew Arnold set up three criteria for criticism: 1. What is the writer trying to do? 2. How well does he succeed in doing it? Certainly no one can be justly condemned for not doing what he does not intend to do. 3. Does the work exhibit ‘high seriousness’? That is, does it touch on basic issues of good and evil, life and death and the human condition. I would also apply a fourth criteria I learned at the age of twelve. I had written a romantic story about a thirsty traveller who sees a mirage of water and dies from disappointment when it fades. It so happened that a professional writer was staying with the family next door. I cannot remember his name but he had published a novel and was therefore a hero to me. I submitted this childish effort to him and he left a note which was delivered after he had departed for New York and the glamorous life I thought that all writers must lead: ‘Write about what you know. More writers fail because they try to write about things they don’t know than for any other one reason. I do not know whether you have ever seen a mirage. I feel reasonably certain that you have never seen a man die from seeing one.’
Now apply these criteria to The Godfather: 1. What is the writer trying to do? He is trying to entertain and tell a story and to give the reader some insights into the workings of the mafia. 2. Does he succeed in doing this? He succeeds admirably. 3. Does the book possess ‘high seriousness’? Yes. Some very profound things are said about power. He also points up the contrast between personal responsibility and the lack of responsibility that hides behind such phrases as national security. The Godfather assumes responsibility for the murders he orders. His button men even enjoy these murders. Nobody does more harm than those who feel bad about doing it. Godfathers defend us from a ‘difficult decision’ in the Pentagon. 4. Does the writer know what he is writing about? Obviously he does and this is what gives the book its impact. The reader immediately senses that the writer has been there, that these are actual events and people he is describing.
Now here is a critic who doesn’t like Italian cooking ... This book is completely devoid of life enhancing qualities. The writer subjects us to one scene of brutal violence and sexual depravity after the other until one is literally numb and in the end abysmally bored. His preoccupation with Sonny’s enormous member is a transparent compensation for his own failing sexual and artistic powers. He
emerges as the arch apologist for murder and gangsterism attempting to stifle the nauseating stench of red wine and garlic under the silken robes and perfumes of a Renaissance court. Clearly he would plunge America into Neolithic savagery. Fortunately the vast majority of Americans retain sufficient sanity to reject his message and it is to be hoped his book as well. This is not a book to read. It is a book to be consigned to a cesspool or buried under a stone leaving free access to rats, insects and other crawling things, who if they cannot read can at least eat the filth off these pages.’ If this seems exaggerated, the bit about the stone is quoted almost verbatim from a review of Nova Express in the Chicago Tribune by someone named Sullivan. Is this literary criticism or is it the foul-breathed curses of a toothless crone?
‘Toad that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty one
Sweltered venom sleeping got. . .’
And here is the same critic some years later. . . ‘The fame which Mr Puzo achieved with The Godfather is sadly tarnished by his latest book. The Godfather is indeed dead and the hands of his descendants are empty of gifts, at least for the reader.’
Looking through some of the reviews of EXTERMINATOR!...
Here is St Teresa Bloomingdale screaming from her bargain basement. . . disgusting, depressing, filth, complete immorality, utter degradation . . . ‘
Ho hum. This reviewer is very tired of so-called critics who would substitute for criticism invective and insults strung together like so many gibbering maniacs in an asylum.
And here is Anatole Broyard. . .
‘Mr Burroughs for all his worldliness seems to succumb to the “secret forces at work” syndrome that characterizes so much counterculture thinking.’ The Watergate scandals would seem to indicate that forces which for good reason would prefer to remain secret are indeed at work.
‘There is a caricature of the National Convention in Chicago 1968 in which Jean Genet is made to say: “It is time for writers to support the rebellion of youth not only with their words but with their presence as well’”
Genet was not made to say that. He did say it in front of Terry Southern, Dick Seaver and your reporter at a time when he was supporting the rebellion of youth with his presence.
‘It is ironical that Burroughs doesn’t realize that if
Genet ever actually said such a thing he would have to
be “camping”.’
Who is Broyard to speak for Genet and say he would have to be ‘camping’. I was there. Broyard wasn’t. I doubt if he has the pleasure of Genet’s acquaintance. That Genet was not camping is clearly indicated by the piece he wrote for Esquire on the Convention, by his support of the Black Panthers, not only with his words but with his presence, and by his later arrest at a student demonstration in Paris. In failing to recognize Genet as the real article Broyard betrays his own confusion.
If critics are to exercise the power they so desperately crave they will have to arrive at some acceptable standards for criticism and some conception as to what writing is about. Many people who call themselves writers and have their names on books are not writers and they do not write; a bullfighter who fights a bull is different from a bullshitter who makes passes with no bull there. The writer has been there or he can’t write about it. Fitzgerald wrote the Jazz Age, all the sad young men, firefly evenings, winter dreams. He wrote it and brought it back for a generation to read. But he never found his own way back. A whole migrant generation rose from On the Road. In order to write it the writer must go there and submit to conditions he may not have bargained for. He must take risks. Only those critics who are willing and able to follow him on this journey are competent to judge his work.
There are of course many critics who do maintain high standards and I have certainly received my share of constructive criticism. Writing an honest book review is hard work. I know because I have written book reviews. A review of a thousand words takes me at least ten hours and many revisions to complete. I could turn out an unfair negative review in ten minutes. Anybody could. A computer could do it just as effectively and even quicker since it is only necessary to string together derogatory comments with no regard to applicability. Broyard’s review of EXTERMINATOR! simply reprograms Philip Toynbee’s review of Naked Lunch Toynbee begins by saying he has searched himself carefully for pro-establishment bias, puritanism, prejudice against so-called avant-garde writing and finding himself as clean as the applicants for immortality in the Egyptian Book of the Dead, pronounces ‘this book boring rubbish’. Switch titles, dust in a few quotes, feed in the Toynbee program and out comes Broyard in ten seconds. Perhaps he has found his true metier as a computer programmer and I hope this consoles him for being redundant.
Light Reading
Audrey always reads in space. Most of the crew didn’t, ‘preferring to wallow in their own dreams like contented alligators,’ Audrey thought, with a touch of cool condescension. He preferred to feed his fantasies with carefully selected input and he made an oddly assorted selection. For this trip to Ba’Dan his books were: An Outcast of the Islands by Joseph Conrad; Fury by Henry Kuttner; Brave and Cruel by Denton Welch; some of his own pungent fever notes (he thought of them as potent spices to be used sparingly); Brak the Barbarian by John Jakes; Anabase by Saint-John Perse; Herodotus — what a liar he is; The Shootist by Glendon Swarthout, and oh yes one line from Blood Hype by Alan Foster which belongs up with the lush musky exquisite after taste of slime department, and a drug called Fringe culled from The High Destiny by Dan Morgan.
You see there is a method in his selection: An Outcast of the Islands: white shadows playing out charades of corruption like so many black and white cartoons against the sombre back drop of torpid rivers, swamps, jungle and sky with its prop thunder and clouds and rain that sloshes down on cue. What a film this book could make. Willems is the able ambitious clerk who falls into a trap old as Eve and deadly as Circe. Driven to restless inactivity by the hostility of Almayer, who fears his influence with Captain Lingard, Willems meets a WOMAN for the first time in his life. 30 years old, content with an unattractive wife, he never thought much about sex, too busy getting on and making money.
‘It is written that white fools are the slaves of their passions as they have enslaved us with their guns and their money and their machines and their laws,’ says Babalatchi the old one-eyed Malay, what a sententious old bore, worse than Almayer himself, whose thought processes are so basically dull, self directed and heavy that he achieves at times a oneness with the objects of his thought not unlike the detachment of the sage as if a river, the weather, his hatred of Willems and his intrigues to rid himself of this danger to his position, float solid in his mind of their own volition, while he looks on as a remote witness.
‘The left shore is very unhealthy,’ says Almayer. ‘Strange that only the breadth of the river. . .’ He dropped off into deep thoughtfulness as if he had forgotten his grievances in a bitter meditation upon the unsanitary conditions of the virgin forests on the left bank . . . Cut in shots of jungle, river, and sky in the style of 19th century impressionist painting ending with paintings of the Left Bank in Paris like Le Buveur d’absinthe.
Although Almayer hates the river and the jungle they touch him more directly than they touch Babalatchi who is encased in his ritualized perceptions. Here Almayer takes his place as an advanced master of deep meditation: ‘His arms hanging down on each side of the chair, he sat motionless in a meditation so concentrated and so absorbing with all his power of thought deep within himself that all expression disappeared from his face in an aspect of staring vacancy. The lamp standing on the far side of the table threw a section of a lighted circle on the floor where his outstretched legs stuck out from under the table with feet rigid and turned up like the feet of a corpse. His set face with fixed eyes could also be the face of a corpse but for its vacant yet conscious aspect, the hard the stupid the stony aspect of one not dead but only buried under the dust, ashes and corruption of personal thoughts, of base fe
ars, of selfish desires. Ali glanced down at him and said unconcernedly ‘Master finish?’
Almayer there in the lamplight from his dinner table, Ali clearing the table, could also be a 19th century painting, Delacroix perhaps, with the chair and the light by Van Gogh.
Captain Lingard, Lord of the Seas, is a Daddy Warbucks cartoon with a kind and heavy hand. He knows his Malays and that the Malays and Arabs are stylized recordings. They were there before the white man came. Like the river and forest they will be there after the white men are gone.
Yes, Babalatchi knows his white men.’ Ai it is written that all white men are fools.’
Blast off. Everyone in his bunk. The space ship looks rather like a submarine — tiers of bunks and lockers all very functional. Audrey’s books have iron filings pressed into the covers which give them an ozony smell The shelf by his bunk is magnetized to keep his books, possessions and equipment from floating around.
In the timeless silence of space every thought, feeling and perception is immediately translated into spatial terms. Pictures, tastes, smells pop out of the words. He has a feeling of participating in the scenes that rise from the pages in front of his eyes, and at the same time a realization of unreality and distance. Rather like being an actor in a play watching the stage through a telescope.
Very sharp and clear and far away: ‘The man who suggested Willems a mistrusted, disliked worn-out European, living on the reluctant toleration of that outpost up that sombre stream which our ship was the only white man’s ship to visit, ... Hollow clean-shaven cheeks, a heavy gray moustache, eyes without any expression whatever, he wandered silently among the houses in daylight almost as dumb as an animal. An air of futile mystery hung over him, something not exactly dark but obviously ugly.’ Very much like a burnt out terminal fever case, consumed by the deadly ecstasies of fever delirium, a solid empty body from which the soul has departed.