William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— Forget it, Max said, and patting his shoulder before he removed his hand went on as cordially, — Say, I've meant to tell you again how much I liked your play, Otto. . Otto mumbled something without looking up. — Because when other people have said they didn't like it, I've told them. .

— You've told them what! Otto broke out. He looked up to see Max smiling at him.

— Don't be so touchy, Max said to him.

— It's just… all this. . damned. . Otto hunched again, looking down before him. — And when people say I stole it, that I plagiarized.

— Somebody, I can't think, who was it, Max appeared sympathetically thoughtful, — said they thought you'd lifted parts of The Sound and the Fury.

— The what?

— Faulkner's novel, The Sound and the Fury, that you'd plagiarized. .

— I've never even read it, I've never read The Sound and the Fury damn it, so how the hell. . Otto looked over to see Stanley look troubled and start to speak. — I mean, damn it…

— What's the difference? Max laughed. — I noticed a couple of little things you'd picked up, but what's the difference.

— What do you mean, what little things?

— Little things, lines here and there. That line of Ben Shahn's, "You cannot invent the shape of a stone" for instance.

— But. . who the hell is Ben Shahn? That line, a friend of mine, a long time ago, somebody I used to know, said. .

— What's the difference. Max smiled. — As Stevenson says, we all live by selling something. He raised a hand to Otto's shoulder again. — What's the difference. The money? You have a real complex about money don't you Otto, a real castration complex without it.

— Yes, the money, Otto muttered, — but, damn it…

— It doesn't have to be money, just money, Stanley broke in, — if he… if it's his work, if it's his own, and he wants. .

— His own! Max repeated, and his laugh this time was sharper, more unkind, edged with contempt. — Look, he said to Otto, — that magazine of mine you've got there, open it. Max made no gesture of surrendering Collectors Quarterly, and taking the other magazine himself. -Just open it to… there, here it is, this thing on

Sherlock Holmes, "the first authorized Sherlock Holmes story to appear" since Arthur Conan Doyle died. See? Authorized. It "was written after exhaustive study of Sir Arthur's literary methods. ." he read, as Otto held the magazine before them. — See? these two men who wrote it, "They studied such minutiae as Doyle's sentence rhythms, his use of the comma, the number of words in the average Holmes sentence. . The authors have felt no temptation to vary the pattern which Doyle usually observed. . Special pains have been taken to reproduce certain Doylean literary tricks. ."

— But what do you mean? Otto asked him.

— What's the difference? Max asked in return, bringing Collectors Quarterly up. — Authorized paintings by Dierick Bouts? van der Goes? Who authorizes them? Somebody says, One wishes there were more stories by Conan Doyle, somebody else wishes there were more paintings by Hugo van der Goes. So, after a careful study of the early Flemish painter's technique. . such minutiae as his brush-stroke rhythms, his use of perspective, the number of figures in the average van der Goes canvas. . What's the difference? You fake a Dürer by taking the face from one and turning it around, the beard from another, the hat from another, you've got a Dürer, haven't you?

— But only on the surface, Stanley said.

— On the surface! How much deeper do people go? the people who buy them?

— But this, this isn't a… forgery, Otto said holding out the large picture magazine. — It's no secret, they tell you right here. .

— That's just what I mean, Max said impatiently. — What's the difference now? In our times? He laughed again, and folded Collectors Quarterly under his arm. — As long as it's "authorized." Isn't that right, Stanley?

Stanley answered immediately, — No.

— No? He studied Stanley's face with mock interest and shock. — Is there something diabolic about bringing Sherlock Holmes back to life?

— The devil is the father of false art, Stanley said quietly. He was walking carefully on the pavement along the edge, his face expressing a concentration which Otto's echoed, but a vague echo, as Otto walked staring at the pavement, not listening to them.

— Stanley believes in sin, don't you, Stanley? Max persisted.

— If we believe that love is weakness? Stanley brought out, — and people resent it, because they think it's an admission of weakness, and they draw away from it… and that's why you kill the thing you love, because it's your weakness personified. If you kill it, you kill your weakness before it kills you.

— I said sin, Max cajoled him. — But, was there love? before sin, a sense of sin, made it possible? Stanley said in the same low tone, without looking up. — Before there was sin, to be suffered and forgiven?

— Love! You in love? Max laughed.

— Art is the work of love.

— Art is a work of necessity, Max said.

— Was it a good story? Otto asked finally.

— The Sherlock Holmes thing? It was lousy.

— No I mean, I mean, the one that I… that was sent up to… her.

— It was lousy too, Max answered.

— But isn't there a moment. . Stanley went on, — a moment when love and necessity become the same thing?

They reached an open square where the sky was almost black, looking north, as most people were doing. Shops were lighted, and the lighted windows of the buildings stood out against the sky, holding it off, and themselves to earth.

— Where are we going, anyhow? Otto asked.

— I'm going right up here, Max said, nodding ahead. Then, noticing Stanley's careful walk again, he said, — Step on a crack, Break your mother's back. . and Stanley stopped. — Come on, Max laughed, and when Stanley came on, now obviously avoiding cracks in the pavement, Max said to him, — I can believe you'd really believe that, Stanley. What an unspotted soul for the devil to bid for. What do you think he'd give me, if I sold you to him?

— You couldn't, Stanley said.

— All right, we'll sell Otto. You wouldn't mind, would you Otto?

— Christ no, not at this point.

— You couldn't, Stanley said again.

— Well Faust did, damn it, Otto broke out morosely, — Faust sold his soul to the devil.

— No. That's a fallacy, Stanley said looking round at him soberly. — That evil can take entire possession of the soul like that. Evil is self-limited.

— Damn it, it was his soul, Otto said defiantly, — and he sold it to the devil.

— No. It was not his to dispose of. We belong to our souls, not our souls to us.

— Ontological dialectics, said Max, as they approached a subway entrance.

Otto stood unsteadily, as though afloat, away from them, as Max clapped Stanley jovially on the shoulder and said, — Stanley's fired by a divine spark. The words seemed to come from the great distance of sounds over water before a storm. He turned to Otto without breaking his smile. — But you and me. .?

Otto stood there, his arm shivering in the sling, the wind blowing his hair up from behind. — Yes, he said, raising his eyebrows, — sometimes it's difficult… he curled his lip slightly against its tendency to tremble, — it's difficult to shed our human nature. Then he turned away quickly and stepped back to the curb, where he stood with his back to them, scraping the edge of his shoe. He heard Max laugh, and call to him, — A little always sticks. . And when he turned, Max was disappearing into the pit of the subway. There was only Stanley, frail against the dark sky.