Gass's Invocation to the Muse

This quote from Biblioklept taken from William H. Gass, his book The Tunnel. It's fabulous and daunting and I'm afraid I have to add it to my already neglected reading list.

"An Invocation to the Muse

O brood O muse upon my mighty subject like a holy hen upon the nest of night.
O ponder the fascism of the heart.
Sing of disappointments more repeated than the batter of the sea, of lives embittered by resentments so ubiquitous the ocean’s salt seems thinly shaken, of let-downs local as the sofa where I copped my freshman’s feel, of failures as frequent as first love, first nights, last stands; do not warble of arms or adventurous deeds or shepherds playing on their private fifes, or of civil war or monarchies at swords; consider rather the slightly squinkered clerk, the soul which has become as shabby and soiled in its seat as worn-out underwear, a life lit like a lonely room and run like a laddered stocking.
Behold the sagging tit, the drudge-gray mopped-out cunt-corked wife, stale as yesterday’s soapy water or study the shiftless kind, seedy before any bloom, thin and mean as a weed in a walk;
Smell the grease that stands rancid in the pan like a second skin, the pan aslant on some fuel-farting stove, the stone in its corner contributing what it can to the brutal conviviality of close quarters,
Let depression like time-payments weigh you down; feel desperation and despair like dust thick in the rug and the ragged curtains, or carry puppy pee and plate-scrapings, wrapped in the colored pages of the Sunday paper, out to the loose and blowing, dog-jawed heap in the alley;
Spend your money on large cars, loud clothes, sofa-sized paintings, excursions to Hawaii, trinkets, knicknacks, fast food, golf clubs, call girls, slimming salons, booze;
Suffer shouting, heat rash, chilblains, beatings, betrayal, guilt, impotence, jail, jealousy, humiliation, VD, vermin, stink.
Sweat through a St. Louis summer and sing of that.
O muse, I cry, as loudly as I can, while still commanding a constricted scribble, hear me! help me! but my nasty echo answers: one muse for all the caterwauling you have called for! where none was in that low-life line of work before?
It’s true. I’ll need all nine for what I want to do—perhaps brand new—all nine whom Hesiod must have frigged to get his way, for he first spoke their secret names and hauled their history by the snout into his poem. For what I want to do …
Which is what—exactly? to deregulate Descartes like all the rest of the romancers? to philosophize while performing some middle-age adultery? basically enjoying your anxieties like raw lickker when it’s gotten to the belly? I know—you want to make the dull amazing, you want to Heidegger some wholesome thought, darken daytime for the TV, grind the world into a grain of Blake.
O, I deny it! On the contrary! I shall not abuse your gift. I pledge to you, if you should choose me, not to make a mere magician’s more of less, to bottle up a case of pop from a jigger of scotch. I have no wish to wine water or hand out loaves and fishes like tickets on a turkey. It is my ambition to pull a portent—not a rabbit but a raison d’être—from anything—a fish pond, top hat, fortune cookie—you just name it—a prophecy in Spengler’s fanciest manner, a prediction of a forlorn future for the world from—oh, the least thing, so long as it takes a Teutonic tone—a chewed-over, bubble-flat wad of baseball gum, say, now hard and sour in the street, with no suggestion of who the player’s picture was, impersonal despite its season in someone’s spit, like a gold tooth drawn from a Jew’s jaw.
Misfits, creeps, outcasts of every class; these are my constituents—the disappointed people—and if I could bring my fist down hard on the world they would knot together like a muscle, serve me, strike as hard as any knuckle.
Hey Kohler—hey Koh—whistle up a wind. Alone, have I the mouth for it? the sort of wind I want? Imagine me, bold Kohler, calling out for help—and to conclude, not to commence—to end, to bait, to 30, stop, leave off, to hush a bye forever … to untick tock."

Peeping Tom

In case you're wondering, I did finish reading Tom Wolfe's latest book, "I am Charlotte Simmons". It stinks. He should have called it, "I am Peeping Tom Wolfe". It's a wank from start to finish.

On his website, this novel is described as a "much-anticipated triumph by America's master chronicler immortalizing the sex-crazed, jock-obsessed college life of the '00s". Hardly. If you ask me, this book chronicles a senior citizen's creepy obsession with the sex lives of young people. At the end, Wolfe has a dumpy, tenured relic of a professor force a moral reckoning upon the characters but it's a weak attempt to give the novel a point. The "Man in White" is lost in the revels of self-indulgence. It's kind of sad but fascinating in a train wreck kind of way. As an aside I found it interesting that Wolfe and Bush are great fans of one another. Figures. They'd make quite a duo at a karaoke night club.

Excerpt from page 270:

" The machine, called a StairMaster, allowed you to run — if you could really call it running — without taking your feet off a pair of huge pedals. It was a bit like standing up and "pumping" on a bicycle. There were many girls...Some wore plain, sexless gym clothes, T-shirts, sweatshirts, running shorts, and sneakers. More, however, came dressed as...girls. Super-low-cut sweatpants they had! And short T-shirts! And lots of nubile young flesh and belly buttons in between! From the back...was he seeing a little buttocks décolletage, a little cleavage...Right in front of Adam, a girl with long blond hair pumped away on the StairMaster in low-waisted lavender nylon running shorts and an abbreviated, royal blue basketball jersey. She didn't have large breasts, but with each rotation her nipples pressed out against the thin nylon of the halter, and her belly button winked this way and that in the long expanse of bare flesh. Four machines down the row, a girl wore black tights, which gripped every curve and crevice of her loins like a second skin, and a flesh-colored athletic bra. The tops of her breasts bobbed up and down like flan. You have to look twice to make sure she had on any bra at all. The sight aroused Adam. His own loins were on the qui vive, as if something were about to...happen in this so-called fitness center...The push of a button, the flick of a switch...and they would stop pretending anymore and plunge into a full-blown rout, an out-and-out orgy, and rutrutrutrutrut..."

Obviously, it's ol' Tom who's rutrutrutrutruting.




wolfe books fiction writing

Doldrums, part 2

A few years ago I decided to take up reading again. It was one of the things I lost during my early bad years. Lately I've taken to cruising second hand stores in search of books that, for whatever reason, woo my mind even as it wanders and my eyes complain. I'm not picky but . . .

I just reviewed the latest batch I retrieved from the dimly lit shelves along my route, Elmore Leonard's "Get Shorty" - Joyce Carol Oates' "Expensive People" - Robert Ludlum's "Sigma Protocol" - Johathan Franzens' "Strong Motion" - a copy of New Directions #31, 1975 (a real treasure for 25 cents) with a nice piece by Gregory Corso (one of my favorite poets) but nothing, other than the New Directions which I currently keep with me to read as I go, caught my fancy. I know. Give a book what? one or two hundred pages before you decide? Sometimes I can do that but at the moment I really don't have the patience.

"Shorty" looked good but I put it down anyway. I liked the movie. What's not to love about Hollywood crime stories? However I just finished Ludlum's movie/book "Prometheus Deception" and haven't been able to bring myself to even crack his "Sigma Protocol". Obviously he writes these with Hollywood Blockbuster in mind. Fine, but on the page it's beyond preposterous. I can only take so much. "Protocol" and "Shorty" will have to wait until I'm in a different mood.


The birds loved the bananas I put out for them this morning. They really drilled em. It was the big event in the bird park today. Excellent. I have an entire bunch that refuses to ripen.

I took perverse delight purchasing the Franzen book. Karl (King) Wenclas and the rest of the gang at the ULA, (United Literary Alliance!) positively hate Franzen (and Rick Moody) and have made it part of their life's work to demolish the pedestals on which they (think) these guys stand, so naturally I had to buy it. Franzen perfected the opening paragraph but I have a sinking feeling it inadvertently outlines the book's own fall from wonder. Perhaps not, but I didn't get very far before the fog of distraction arose from the Straits of Boredom on my way to the Sea of Imagination. My beautiful pea green boat languished under limp sail and I abandoned the journey. Maybe later, Franzen. I still might read him if, for no other reason, than to see what all the fuss is about.

Which reminds me ... Patrick King, no relation to Karl other than he's another ULAer, asked me to send him a few poems for his next publication. Note to self: Do it, damn it!
"Expensive People" starts with the lines, "I was a child murderer. I don't mean child-murderer, though that's an idea. I mean child murderer, that is, a murderer who happens to be a child, or a child who happens to be a murder. You can take your choice." Could be interesting. Oates is supposed to be a good writer. I've always thought I would probably like her so I put that one on the short list. Just not today's. That left me with one last hope, Tom Wolfe's "I am Charlotte Simmons". It looked promising over a bowl of cereal this morning, especially when he indirectly made fun of himself on page six.