Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

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Originally published in 1969 and now back in print after over a decade, Robert Coover's first novel instantly established his mastery. A coal-mine explosion in a small mid-American town claims ninety-seven lives. The only survivor, a lapsed Catholic given to mysterious visions, is adopted as a doomsday prophet by a group of small-town mystics. "Exposed" by the town newspaper editor, the cult gains international notoriety and its ranks swell. As its members gather on the Mount of Redemption to await the apocalypse, Robert Coover lays bare the madness of religious frenzy and the sometimes greater madness of "normal" citizens. The Origin of the Brunists is vintage Coover — comic, fearless, incisive, and brilliantly executed. "A novel of intensity and conviction… a splendid talent… heir to Dreiser or Lewis." — The New York Times Book Review; "A breathtaking masterpiece on any level you approach it." — Sol Yurick; "[The Origin of the Brunists] delivers the goods. . [and] says what it has to say with rudeness, vigor, poetry and a headlong narrative momentum." — The Plain Dealer (Cleveland)

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“I don’t know,” she said slowly, after a pause. “I hope …” But her voice trailed off. She glanced at her watch, and he instinctively checked his: 8:50. “Mr. Miller?” She looked up at him. He guessed her eyes to be gray or gray-blue, though in this dull flickering light he couldn’t tell for sure. But they had that faded, indistinct, introspective quality of gray eyes. “Do you believe that Giovanni Bruno was miraculously rescued from the coalmine disaster?”

“Yes, I do.” No more hesitations, boy.

“I don’t.”

“Really? But—”

“I am convinced, Mr. Miller — more than that: I have received specific information on the matter — Giovanni Bruno perished in that mine disaster!”

What could he say? From over her small graying head, Giovanni Bruno’s eyes shone at them, as though … as though he were assenting, inciting her. “But then, how—?”

“His own mother has confirmed it. She said she saw him dead. And everyone has agreed on one thing: that this is a very different man now from the one they all knew as Giovanni Bruno.”

“Then you think—?”

“Not think, Mr. Miller! This kind of insight is never achieved by thinking!” She seemed suddenly angry. He realized that, for all her modest manner, there was something ever seething underneath. She frowned, as a mother might at a forgetful child, then continued matter-of-factly: “Giovanni Bruno died and his body is now inhabited by a superior being. This is the meaning of the … the vision of the white bird.”

At a loss, he replied, “I see,” and then, in the ensuing silence, added, “Well, I’m certainly learning a great deal!”

She assented. “We all have much to learn,” she said.

“And Mrs. Collins?”

A barely perceptible little sigh of exasperation, a pause. “We felt extremely fortunate that Mrs. Collins joined us three weeks ago. There is every reason to believe that the … the being, let us say, the being now struggling to establish communication with us through … through the body and person of Giovanni Bruno”—a thoughtful hesitation, a brief glance Bruno’s way—“might originally have intended to utilize Mrs. Collins’ husband.”

“But why do you think—?”

“The … the condition …”

“Ah. And does Mrs. Collins herself …”

Again the impatient sigh. “Grasp it? I don’t know, Mr. Miller. I hope so. But she is slow to learn, is overemotional and impulsive. And she is too hemmed in, I am afraid, by her own … her own prejudices, if I may so speak.”

“Her Christianity.”

“Yes. I have had to employ all the frightfully dull simplifications and bumbling writings to which she is accustomed in order even to communicate — I hope I don’t offend you …?”

“Not at all.”

“Righteousness and salvation, the so-called Second Coming, the terribly overworked parable of the Cross, angels and devils and sin— sin! Good heavens! Finally, Mr. Miller, we are all of us emanations of the world soul, are we not? Ultimately we all partake, like it or not, in what is commonly called the divine, and the only conceivable sin in such a case is to be willfully ignorant of one’s proper condition. Isn’t that so?”

He assented, remarking privately that that was not unlike the line by which he often made out with the reluctant.

“But what can I do? And I simply cannot share — that is, we cannot share — her morbid expectations. I admit, it is possible, at least another thing somewhat like the disaster she expects is possible, but, well, there is a logic to everything, Mr. Miller, even the irrational, don’t you think?”

“By all means.”

“I have received no single message to confirm such an extreme interpretation, though it is true, there have been hints implying something of cosmic importance….” She gazed off, her mind momentarily elsewhere, bit her lip. She seldom let go her grip on the medallion. “Mr. Miller, I cannot believe that my … my sources …”

“Domiron, I think you—”

“Why, yes! How did you know?”

He perceived an answer that would really bowl her over, but he passed it by. “Marcella mentioned …”

“Oh, yes. Of course.” She looked up at Miller, her schoolmistress sternness melting for a moment. “She’s a truly marvelous pupil, so kind and sincere, the finest in all my years as … as a teacher. We’re deeply fond of her, Wylie and I. And she is making such extraordinary progress!”

Inwardly, he frowned at that but said, “She’s a wonderful girl.”

“Yes, yes, she is.” Fadeout again.

“Mrs. Norton, I’d like to arrange for, sometime at your convenience, of course, some private instruction, too, if I may.”

“Of course, Mr. Miller,” she said, then added gravely, “It is my duty for those who ask.” She cast a glance toward Bruno, then turned to enter the dining room.

“Oh, and Mrs. Norton, what do you think, what do you believe Giovanni Bruno — or the voice within him — meant by ‘the coming of light’?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, looking at him quizzically. “But we shall know tonight. Shouldn’t we go in? I’m afraid there’ll be no cake for us.”

The coming of light! Do none of them perceive it so well as she? So plain! Her knife licks into the cake , his cake, light dances on the blade, on the frosting’s glaze, spoons reflect it, eyes sparkle with it, light decorates her laughter, her motions flow in it. Are not their pasts so shadowed as hers? Does not a storm blow through their present? Do not their morrows flash with promise? Is not this very room bursting with light? Are they blind? Are they all so old? Need they their terrors? Must they distort it? Oh , come! she cries. Yes, there is plenty for all! for seconds! take more! Gaily, she serves, pours, helps, hands, gives … gives!

Around the table a cheerful tumble of voices, forks clicking plates, compliments on the cake, modest pasts in halting revelation, the boys talking basketball and animal care with Wylie Norton: could be a party anywhere. Willie Hall, his jaws in motion as always, but now with cake damming the sound, listened, eyes asquint, to Eleanor Norton. Mrs. Wilson and Mrs. Hall sat fatly on chairs, overlapping the edges, nibbling at the cake, Mrs. Hall whispering furtively into Mrs. Wilson’s ear. Miller located Marcella behind the broad shoulders of Clara Collins, delivering cake to Elaine. He maneuvered so as to catch her eye, showed her his empty hands. She smiled, stretched over the dining room table, starched blouse snapping taut, under the yellow — almost amber — glow of the chandelier, sliced him a wide wedge, laid it neatly on a plate. He knew it was unwarranted, but he couldn’t rid his mind of the idea she had baked the cake especially for him. Anyway, why not think of it that way? Watching her was a feast in itself. More than anything, it was her poise, her unfailing delicacy of movement, her radiance, open smiles, frank gazes, all without visible effort, operating on some internal principle of — well, he was tempted to say Joy . But maybe that was merely an instance of transference. Certainly he felt like blowing the goddamn roof off. She brought him the cake and a cup of coffee. “I don’t suppose you take cream or sugar.”

“No.” He smiled, a little surprised at the way she’d said it. He could hear some thin music trickling in from the television. He motioned toward it. “We can’t escape it, should we join it?” Wanted it to sound natural, but it didn’t: could almost feel the goddamn whiskers sprouting and bristling. He expected the worst.

But she smiled and said, “Okay. Let me get some coffee.”

In the darkened living room, they leaned back against a wall, just inside the door to the dining room, facing the television set. Her father sagged in his chair between them and the screen, his back more or less to them, snorted restlessly from time to time, ran his old white hands trembling through his thinning hair. There was no bandage on his nose tonight, and the large sores showed black when they caught the bluish-white glare of the television.

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