William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— I have to go, Stanley said.

— They did a great thing when they cleaned up the whorehouses out of New York City, a great thing for the high-school girls, Anselm said as the newspaper fell to the sidewalk. — If a nice girl isn't clapped up now before she's sixteen it's her own lousy fault. Then he turned on Otto, who attempted to raise his eyebrows as he straightened up, knocking the dirt from his newspaper. — How'd you like to go in business with me and Stanley? Anselm demanded abruptly.

— It hardly sounds. .

— Artificial insemination, Anselm went on more loudly. — We bootleg the stuff. We're going to advertise in the movie magazines. Girls! Have a baby by your favorite movie star. I fill the barrels and Stanley peddles it…

Stanley had stepped back, looking down at the little girl whom Anselm pulled forward as he waved the nude with the umbrella in the air. — Which end of the business do you want to go in?

Otto muttered something, looking at his newspaper.

— Come on. I've got some nice pictures, Anselm went on more excitedly, — nice bodies with movie stars' heads montaged. .

— Come off it, Max interrupted him.

Anselm turned to Max. — What's the matter, he said. The spots on his face had become inflamed by the wind blowing down from the north, and his hair was standing up. — You've never had it look up and spit at you?

— Come off it, for Christ sake. You're crazy.

— Who wouldn't be, in all… this, Anselm said breathlessly, waving the magazine so that the book folded inside it flew out. It slid along the sidewalk and went into the gutter. — Isn't any madness preferable to… all this?

Anselm stood there shaking. Then he saw Stanley going to pick his book from the gutter. — Leave it alone! he cried. — Leave it alone! Leave it alone! Leave it alone!

Stanley stopped and stood back, not before he had seen the title of the book. Anselm stooped before him to pick it up, hawking and spitting into the street as he straightened before Stanley. He wiped the book on his trousers, covering it with his hand as he did so. — For Christ sake, he muttered, getting his breath.

Stanley put his hand out with the palm up, and took a step toward him.

— And stop. . stop being so… Anselm took a step back. — Stop being so God damn humble, he said, as the little girl got his hand and drew him back another step. Max had taken Stanley's arm.

— You know God damn well that. . that humility is defiance, Anselm went on disjointedly. — And you. . that simplicity. . simplicity today is sophisticated. . that simplicity is the ultimate sophistication today. .

They had turned their backs and stepped into the street. Max was guiding Stanley by the arm.

— Hey, what did the chicken say when she laid the square egg? Hey Stanley, I'll dream about you again tonight. Hey Stanley, I'll dream about you again tonight. What did the chicken say when she laid the square egg?. . Anselm cried after them.

None of them spoke as they walked together, until Otto, after an apprehensive look over his shoulder, said — God, he is crazy, isn't he. He reached up to stroke his mustache, which was quivering, and asked, — Who's that little girl?

— Don Bildow's daughter, Anselm takes care of her sometimes.

— I wouldn't let a daughter near him if she was five. I wouldn't even if she was one, I wouldn't even trust him as a baby-sitter, you know? I'm not kidding, I wouldn't.

Max glanced up from Collectors Quarterly smiling. — That story he told about that fellow, dressing that girl up in child's clothes, that was him.

— Who? Stanley asked quickly, and stopped short.

— Anselm. He's the one who did it, himself.

Stanley came on with his head lowered, staring at the pavement, walking carefully. — Do you think it's true, that he lives on dog food? he asked finally.

Otto laughed unpleasantly. — Where'd you hear that?

— From him, he told me himself. Canned dog food, he said it isn't bad if you have enough catsup.

— Somebody ought to shoot him, Anselm, said Otto, — his crazy yammering about God.

— But have you ever read any of his poems? Stanley asked across Max, who walked between them with the magazine open. — There was one that was a beautiful poem, it was about Averroes, the Arab thinker in the Middle Ages, and should we understand in order to believe, or if we should believe in order to understand. .

— Look at this, Max said holding up Collectors Quarterly open to a picture of a piece of sculpture by Lipchitz, titled Mother and Child II. —Who do you think writes these program notes? Listen, "It was some time after the sculptor began a series of studies of a woman's torso that he suddenly recognized in them a resemblance to the head of a bull. He developed the bull's head further until he achieved. ."

— But there's more, Stanley broke in, — when he says. . when Anselm says that God has become a sentimental theatrical figure in our literature, that God is a melodramatic device used to throw people in novels into a turmoil. .

— Fairly obvious guilt feelings, Max murmured, lowering the magazine to look up as they approached the curb. On either side of him, they walked watching their way carefully; though Max, who scarcely glanced up from the pages, was the only one of them who knew where they were going.

— But it isn't that simple. Don't you wonder why. . why everything is negative? Stanley craned round to look up at both of them. — Why just exactly the things that used to be the aspirations of life, those are just the things that have become the tolls? I mean, like. . well like girls having babies? They used to be the fruit of love, the thing people prayed for above everything, and now, now they're the price of… Everything's sort of contraceptive, everything wherever you look is against conceiving, until finally you can't conceive any more. Then the time comes when you want something to work for you, the thing you've been denying all your life, and then it won't work. .

And Stanley's voice fell behind them, as they crossed the street and he waited for a cab which turned in front of him. He caught up again saying, — Everything is so transient, everything in America is so temporary. . But Max was talking to Otto, who stopped at that moment wide-eyed on the opposite curb to demand,

— Her? I didn't even know you knew her. She needs a doctor? You mean, some man. .?

— What do you think I mean, a duck? Max laughed. — That's what I've heard, anyhow, he added, walking on with the magazine open again. — I guess we were just lucky.

— Lucky? Otto repeated, pausing, then hurrying up beside Max. — You mean you. . you've slept with her?

— Not for years, Max answered; and with a sidelong glance at Otto, went on in the same casual tone, holding up a two-page reproduction in Collectors Quarterly, —Look at this, they describe it as the "algebra of suffering," this Flemish painting. Hugo van der Goes. Otto muttered something, and looked at the picture if only because it was something to take his attention. But the confusion did not leave his face, and the lines round his eyes, gathered in a wince, became fixed so staring at the Descent from the Cross until Max turned the page.

— But… he murmured, commencing to raise a hand, commencing to speak (for though he had been seen carrying this magazine, which had cost a dollar, he'd only had it open once, and then, with chance venery, upon the Velasquez).

— This Dierick Bouts is remarkable, isn't it, Max went on of the reproduction on the next page, paraphrasing the caption, — the canniness, the control. Even in black and white, the rigid lines and the constrained attitudes, there is a sort of "algebra of suffering," isn't there. — That van. . the one on the page before, Otto commenced again.