William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— Philogyny? I thought you said phylogeny.

— I said, misogyny recapitulates philogyny.

— Misogamy. .?

— Never mind.

— What's the name of this book you're writing?

— Baedeker's Babel.

Noting only the striped tie on the taller of these two, Otto brought the handkerchief up again, and got by them.

— And you say you've become a misologist?

— Whisky-soda, Otto ordered at the bar, slurring his tone in casual rudeness as he imagined one used to command.

— Where's the head in this place? Someone bumped him. — Right through that door, it's called Tiffany's here.

— But I ordered whisky-and-soda.

— You said whisky sour. Sixty-five cents.

Max's back was turned to him at a near table, where a battered copy of Collectors Quarterly lay open to Mother and Child II, under the elbow of a man hunched in a green wool shirt who was saying to Max, — You had some work at the New School, well look. Would I have to prepare "my lectures? or could I just bullshit. Otto took a step toward the table. He was blocked by a haggardly alert face, speaking to someone behind him, — She would have drownded herself if she could have found something to drownd herself in. And the response over Otto's shoulder, — She's been way out for a long time, man. You can't fool with horse without getting hooked.

— That magazine, Otto said to a girl standing behind the table, — do you know what happened. . where it…

— A bear chewed it.

— What? I mean that. .

— Oh I thought you meant this Vogue. She held up a tattered copy of Vogue. —A bear chewed this in Yellowstone Park, the craziest bear. . She turned her back and went on with her conversation, — Oh very very very very very much. .

— Hello. Can you buy me a beer?

— Hello Hannah, of course, I'd be glad to. Otto ordered it, handed her the dripping glass, and said, — Really, I've just had the most maddening. .

— Thanks, said Hannah, and returned to the tall colored boy she'd been talking to, and shared her glass with him in the corner. At Otto's side a blond boy in dungarees said, — I tell you I felt just for all the world like Archimedes in his crwazy bathtub. . But how could I? I tell you I was stuck. And at the near table, a green wool elbow knocked a glass of beer over Mother and Child II.

Otto winced, saw Stanley seated staring at a cup of coffee, started to approach, saw it was Anselm seated with him staring at nothing, and stopped. The haggard boy came up to their table and dropped into a chair with neither invitation nor greeting.

— You know how I made her the first time I made her? Anselm went on. — I described a wet dream to her, one I'd had about her, she listened as though it had really happened, and then before she knew it I was in again. He laughed, but sounded weary, not really interested in what he was talking about, and sat drumming blunt nail-bitten finger-ends on the table.

— She was probably high then, the haggard boy commented dully.

— You shouldn't. . Stanley commenced.

— What are you pretending you're worried about her now for? Christ, she didn't make it, did she?

— She could never make anything real, man. The gas was on all right, but there was air coming in all over the place.

— Just the same, Stanley appealed, — if her intention. . — Her intention! what's that to you? Christ, wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? She ought to get her ass into a nunnery.

Stanley said nothing. He lowered his eyes, sipped his coffee, and opened a newspaper.

— What does Saint Jerome say about women? Anselm persisted. — She's the gate of Hell. "A foe to friendship, an inescapable punishment, a necessary evil," says Chrysostom. . And he broke off, watching Otto's approach without recognition.

Otto got round the two young men whom he had interrupted with his entrance. — I'm doing for writing what Bruckner did for music, said one. — So what did Bruckner do for music? — Well put it this way, I'm doing in writing. .

— Freud!. . came borne in a pleasing Boston-bred voice from a tall girl. — Hahaha. . Freud my ahss.

— You know what the trouble is, like Pascal says, all the malheurs in this world come from a man's inability to sit alone in a small room, said the taller of them. — Can I buy you a drink? He was wearing a tie from the first crossing of the Queen Elizabeth.

— But why. .? why? Stanley repeated, plaintive and incredulous. — Why would Max say a thing like that? He'd know it's not true, that Hannah and I were. . sleeping together. .? He looked up and included Otto in his appeal. Anselm was laughing. He shrugged.

— I am one to tell you, my lord, Stanley and a palindrome are making the beast with two backs, he said, and took Stanley's newspaper.

— But why do they. . people have to… say such things?

— People? You sound like it's the first time in history somebody got laid, Anselm said, his tone musing and vague. — Das Unbe-schreibliche, hier wird's getan. . He did not look up, from the paper, whose pages he turned without apparent pauses to read. — Das ewig-Weibliche, for Christ sake, he mumbled.

Otto stood unable to turn away, bound by the hurt accusal in Stanley's eyes, which lowered uncertainly back to the table.

— The last time I saw her, the haggard boy said, — she had to have somebody around her all the time, so she could ask if she'd really done something or gone somewheres. She looked like she was going to flip then.

Anselm tore something out of the paper and pushed it across the table. — This ought to cheer you up, Stanley, he said. — The bell tower at Saint Mark's is ready to flip too.

— She told me once the reason her eyes bug out like that is some doctor gave her henbane, did you know that? She said she can even see the stars in the daytime. If she'd really wanted to make it she would have sliced her wrists like Charles. .

— For Christ sake! will you. . stop talking about it? Anselm broke out at the haggard boy suddenly, then looked at Stanley who was staring dumbly at the headline. — You better get over there before the whole thing falls down, Anselm said to him.

— Hannah. . Otto interrupted, — tried to kill herself? I just saw her.

— Hannah! Anselm looked up and laughed at him.

— It was Esme, Stanley said quietly. — Last night.

— But what happened?

— You're spilling your drink. What are you drinking whisky sours for anyhow? Anselm demanded.

— She flipped, man. Chaby found her with the gas on. Then the haggard boy returned to Anselm. — Did you hear about Charles? His old lady came from Grand Rapids to take him back there, she's a Christian Science.

Otto put his glass on the table. He looked back as though minutes were hours, and the hours had been days since he'd seen her: he had driven her to it. His chest expanded as he got his breath and turned away.

— She came on all sweetness and light, you know man. She thought she could turn him on with Mary Baker Eddy, but she won't give him a penny unless he comes home with her. I don't blame him for flipping.

Anselm reached for Otto's glass as Otto hurried toward the door, pressing on between the two young men, interrupting

— Scatological?

— Eschatological, the doctrine of last things. .

— Good lord, Willie, you are drunk. Either that or you're writing for a very small audience.

— So. .? how many people were there in Plato's Republic?

Otto passed through the streets in a great hurry, but he was moving almost mechanically, one foot before the other and the load of the sling pounding against him, so that his excitement did not show until he passed the head of her stairs and stood breathless at her door. All the way his lips had been moving, and slight single sounds escaped them, chirps of forgiveness which he was trying to draw together.