William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— I'm sure that in the kitchen…

— Well, here you are! Benny stood over them, unsteadily, with a dripping glass in each hand. — Are you all right? He leaned over and spoke to Esther in a low tone, — Are you keeping my friend here supplied? He always needs a drink, poor fellow. We went to school together. I've had to take him to every party in town the last two weeks, I don't know what he does with himself when I'm up at the studio.

Esther felt that she had regained her strength, and stood as the arm beside her reached dutifully up for the glass. She did not see Ellery and the blonde, and started toward Don Bildow when Herschel took her arm. — Baby there is a kitchen here isn't there? Because we must have just a little but-ter. . and baby, has Rudy come yet? You know Rudy don't you? You must, he designed this new Doukhobor dress, the one that comes off with a touch, isn't that fright-fully Tolstoy? And now he's designing sports clothes for nuns. Why, before he's through he'll end up in the Church himself! Isn't that too camp? Why even Agnes says. .

— Bathysiderodromophobia. And that's only one of his troubles.

— But why does simply everyone join the Roman Church? When there are so many other divinely amusing religions.around.

— I think sun worship would be the most divinely inspiring thing, why just imagine everyone here running around without a stitch on…

— I'd like to start right now. .

— I want a new messiah. .

— Baby we all do…

— That tall stooped one in the open green shirt over there, I'd follow him any-where. .

— And it wouldn't do you a bit of good, said Agnes Deigh, leaning forward with a cigarette in her mouth, looking for a light. — He'd probably break every single little bone in your body.

— How fer-wocious! Agnes introduce me, promise.

Of the three lights proffered, Agnes Deigh leaned over one and then sat back, lowering her cigarette. — Darling he's not any stronger than you are.

— But he looks so m-timate.

— He does, Agnes said, looking across the room. — That's because he has myopia.

— Agnes darling you sound bit- ter. What's he to Hecuba, baby?

— Oh God, let's not talk about it. I spent most of a year listening to his troubles with his wife, with his childhood, with religion, with his work, honestly, nursing him. .

— Agnes, how angrwy you are!

She had, indeed, got a stern look on her face which none of them had ever seen; but as quick as it had come, it softened to one of weary disappointment. Then she said thoughtfully, not looking at anyone, — The people who demand pity of you hate you afterward for giving it, They always hate you afterward. She watched him plod across the room as though in deep snow.

The front door was opened and closed three times in quick succession, the first draft catching the flower of Agnes Deigh's patronage to detach a frayed petal and waft it across the room. — Buster! — Sonny! — But how did you get here? The second was Stanley; and the third a dark-skinned man about five feet tall in a snappy gray sharkskin suit, who looked round cheerfully, raised his eyebrows, shrugged, and accepted a drink. (He was, in fact, the Argentine trade commissioner, at the wrong party.)

Maude sat with her eyes closed, moving her head slightly in the hand of the man in uniform. — I just don't do happy things any more, she was saying. — I guess because it's easier not to, because when you do, and then remember them, it's much worse than if you never did them, it's much better if you don't have happy things to remember, and then you don't remember them and get sad because you're not doing them any more, it's easier just not to have anything to remember. . He leaned forward and blew softly into her hair.

— Who's looney now? someone said, as Mr. Feddle worked his way along the wall, with the care of coastal shipping not to venture into the open sea; his cargo was Seven Pillars of Wisdom, and he sought dockage where he might inscribe it in peace. Benny was approaching the very attractive girl who spoke with Boston accents. The tall woman said, — Then it's your husband who writes. What sort of thing? — God knows, said the girl with the bandaged wrists, — God and the Congregation of the Holy Office. Everything he writes goes right on the Index, and I can't read it. — Then you're Catholic? — My God yes.

The very attractive girl, indicating Benny, turned to Ed Feasley and said, — Tell your friend I'm a lost horizon, will you? — Chr-ahst, Feasley said, — I don't know him. He looks like a brush salesman in that outfit. Maybe I can sell him a suit. She raised her eyebrows. — Well Chr-ahst I've got to do something. Ever since I smashed this last car up I've been living on the free lunch at the Harvard Club, and going through the cushions of the big chairs there looking for change that drops out of those old bastards' pockets. Chr-ahst.

Benny turned unsteadily toward Agnes Deigh; but she had got up and gone to put an arm around Stanley, who shrank away. — Stanley, something awful has happened. . she began, and looked over his shoulder to see the dark face of the critic. — Hullo, he said. — How is everything, Agnes?

— Well enough, I suppose, she answered, and took her arm from Stanley's shoulders. — I didn't know you knew Esther.

— I just met her, he said. His tone was dull.

— How's your own novel coming along? She sounded impatient. — Well, I haven't finished it yet, but. .

— And the autobiography of Dostoevski?

— Look Agnes, don't start that with me tonight, that autobiography crap.

— Relax, Agnes Deigh said. — Have another drink.

— All right. But just don't start…

— I'm not starting anything. Now relax.

— You must be having a good time here. I never saw so many queers in one room, queers and uptown fluff and cheap advertising…

Agnes Deigh turned her back. — Stanley, I have something I want to talk to you about, she said, and led him back to her chair. Benny walked toward the other side of the room, where Ellery stood with the blonde backed up against a cabinet, his hand in the shadows there, hardly moving. Benny's lip was trembling.

— Lady. . lady. . Esther felt her skirt being pulled, and looked down to see the little girl from downstairs. — Mummy sent me up to ask you for some more sleeping pills. . — Just a minute, she said as she looked, and put her hand on the child's head. — You've got lots of friends, haven't you, the little girl said, looking up at her. — Mummy used to too, but not any more. .

— You must meet Mister Crotcher, said someone to Esther, beside her. It was Buster Brown (whom she did not know either). The pair had approached like a depraved version of body and soul, the one on little cat-feet (as he himself remarked), the other in a brown suit of heavy material, nearer the floor with each step, as though wheeling a barrow full of cement. He shook Esther's hand with an air of great fatigue. — But you didn't tell us what you do, said Buster to him.

— I'm a writer, he answered.

— Oh. What sort of thing do you do? Esther asked, dropping the weight of his hand, and looking down as though she expected to see it drop to the floor.

— Write.

— Yes, but… ah… fiction?

— My book has been translated into nineteen languages.

— I must know it, Esther said. — I must know of it.

— Doubt it, said the modest author. — Never been published.

— But you said. .

— I've translated it myself. Nineteen languages. Only sixty-six more to go, not counting dialects. It's Celtic now. A lovely language, Celtic. It only took me eight months to learn Celtic. It ought to go in Celtic.