William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— Some half-ass critic, Anselm said, — a three time psychoanaloser. He spat into the gutter. — With his fake conversion to the Church. You remember that little tiny girl that used to be around? she came about up to his waist. He used to take her home and dress her in little girl's clothes and rape her.

— Too much Dostoevski, Max said.

— The stupid bastard with his half-ass conversion, Anselm muttered, looking from the child who held his hand, glazedly at the sidewalk. — Christ, he said, rubbing his chin, — that's what kills me, a guy like that… as a colored girl, in a plaid skirt which Max identified from behind as the Stuart tartan, passed saying — Reading Proust isn't just reading a book, it's an experience and you can't reject an experience … to the boy she was with.

— It's the Black Watch, said Anselm, and turning to Stanley, — Why don't you change your luck, Stanley. You. . God damn it what are you looking at me that way for?. .

— I… I'm cold, Stanley said lowering his eyes. His jaw was shaking.

— Cold! You. . you. . What did you do to your face, anyway? What's the matter with your chin, anyway? Anselm burst out suddenly.

— I got mixed up this morning, Stanley said handling his chin, — and I shaved with the toothpaste instead of…

— With the toothpaste! Anselm said, withdrawing with a quick shock of a laugh. — You ought to try a cored apple filled with cold cream, you. .

— And last night I had a terrible experience, Stanley went on, agitated, looking up at both of them. — I went into a delicatessen to get a can of soup and some bread, and the man behind the money… I mean behind the cash register was counting up the money and there was some in a paper bag on the counter, and I picked up the wrong bag and almost went out with the money, and when I went back with it and said I was sorry they. . they weren't nice about it at all.

A blond boy in tight-fitted dungarees passed saying, — Zheeed. .

— Well what the hell would you go back with it for?

— They almost called the police.

— Stanley's Christian spirit will undo us all, said Max, who had been standing back.

— Yeah, we'd make him a saint if it wasn't so God damn expensive, Anselm retorted, looking at Stanley. — Three million lire for a lousy canonization, he muttered.

— No, he won't do. Max stepped back and looked Stanley up and down. — He eats meat. His body would putrefy before they could get the halo on. Poor peasant girls from southern Europe make the best ones, brought up on beans.

— That's true, said Anselm, musing, looking down. Then he looked up querulously at Max.

From the drugstore behind them came a fat youth who looked, at this distance, to have his beard painted on. It dripped to a point at his chin. — If she won't pray for me, I don't know who will, he was saying animatedly, tossing the words about before him with plump fluttering hands. The boy with him took his arm as they crossed the street.

Max had nodded. — He gave my show a good write-up, Max explained.

— Do you know him? Stanley asked.

— You can't go to a single vernissage without seeing him. He says stupid things with a manner, you know, he has a certain style, so that people remember him as clever.

— People like that make me nervous, Stanley said.

— People like what.

— When they're so… queer.

— Queer! Anselm burst out, and continued to watch them cross the street. — That one, queer? He's not a homosexual, he's a Lesbian. Max laughed; and Anselm went on, — And that boy poet with him, for Christ sake. Poet!. . these limp flabby-assed little. . boy poets who sit around waiting for somebody to give them the business in their. . Jesus Christ, these boy poets and their common asphodel. Anselm laughed again, a tight constrained laugh looking across the street at the receding couple. — Their common asphodel, he laughed, taking the magazine from under Max's arm, and recovering the fit of abstraction he'd sunk into a moment before as he turned the pages.

— I liked your poem, Stanley said to Max. — The one they just published? That line about Beauty, serenely disdains to destroy us?

— Yes, you. . almost dropped this, Max interrupted quickly, righting the practice keyboard which was gripped in Stanley's hands, with a quick glance at Anselm. But Anselm had apparently not heard. He looked up from the magazine to nod over his shoulder at the approaching figure, and said,

— Otto? He's the guy who's been laying Esme?

— She's been laying him, said Max.

Otto approached with his head down, as though it were weighed so by the rampage going on inside, and his features declined to the edges of his face, the look of one seeking something, or perhaps someone, a person he could talk this over with, someone who had suffered good intentions put to bad use by others, and would understand (by which Otto, talking to himself, meant sympathize); someone sensitive (he meant weak) enough to appreciate, and experienced (he meant bitter) enough to justify his dilemma. Stanley appeared in the interior rampage, bowed, understanding, sensitive, experienced: he raised his eyes and Stanley appeared, talking with (untrustworthy) Max and (odious) Anselm.

— What does he wear that stupid sling around for? Anselm asked; but Otto did not look affronted, for as he crossed into hearing they were talking of Charles. — I saw him this morning, Anselm was saying. — Who was the old bag with him?

— That was his mother, Max said. — She came from Grand Rapids to get him out of Bellevue.

Stanley had stepped back looking pained, and as always, about to depart but unable to do so. Otto and Max exchanged sounds, and Max reached for the magazine sconced under Otto's slung arm, leaving a newspaper rolled there. — I just picked that up, Otto said for no apparent reason, as Max opened Collectors Quarterly.

— You had it this morning when I saw you, Max said, looking up to smile.

— Oh yes I… I saw you earlier, didn't I, Otto said discountenanced immediately, and sought a cigarette as though reaching for a shoulder holster.

— Christ! Look at this, will you look at this? Anselm brought out, holding up the magazine he'd taken from Max. It was large, on heavy coated paper, full of pictures, the most popular weekly in the country. The page Anselm exhibited was a fashion photograph. — Will you look at her? Can you imagine putting the boots to that? What man would want to lay her? He rolled the magazine and thrust it under Otto's arm, exchanging it for the newspaper. — Skinny, flat-chested, no hair on her head and no more in her pants than a ten-year-old boy, that's what they're trying to make women look like, these queer. . what's that smell? He stopped and sniffed. He looked at his own shoes, then at Stanley's. — Did you step in it, Stanley?

— In what? Stanley asked helplessly.

— In what! Christ!. . you wouldn't say shit if you had a mouthful. Then he glanced up to see that Otto had detached himself from them, and stood scraping his shoe on the curb. He started to say something more, but his eye caught the reproduction in Collectors Quarterly which Max held open. It was Velasquez, Venus and Cupid. A sound of admiration escaped Anselm. — Jesus, how'd you like to hang that on the wall and play hide-the-baloney every night? The little girl pulled his hand. He yanked her back, almost dropping the book folded in the magazine under his arm, and opened the newspaper to the front-page story. It was a vice probe, and he broke out again, — Look at this. In a city of eight million they find a half-dozen girls peddling their ass and it's the greatest clean-up in history. That kills me. Here, I don't want to look at the God damn thing, he finished, pushing it back under the slung arm as Otto returned, muttering to himself.