William Gaddis - The Recognitions

— What's a basilica? What was she, Eyetalian? They didn't teach Eyetalian at Yale.

— I guess so. It's where Saint Francis of Assisi lived. The poor one. A place called Portiuncula.

— How come they call him Saint Francis of Assisi if he lived in Port. .

— I don't know, but that's not the point. Look, for the program that inaugurates The Lives of the Saints on TV, this is a natural. The story line is terrific. This poor girl, she lives near Saint Francis, and finally she went around to ask him how she could be a saint too, like he was, except to start one for women. So he said. .

— Start one what?

— Like a nunnery, but that's not the point. So he gave her this hair shirt, and told her to go out and beg for awhile, and then come to his place at Portiuncula dressed like a bride. So she did. It's a natural. This scene where all these monks meet her with lighted candles and walk her up to the altar.

— Then what. They get married?

— I guess so. Why else would she come dressed like a bride?

They walked in thoughtful silence for a moment. The long bare corridor was brightly lighted and empty, until a young man with a thin face, a slightly crooked nose, and a weary expression which embraced his whole appearance, passed them. — There, there's the guy who was working on this, he's one of the writers. Hey, Willie. . But the weary figure went on. He was carrying two books, one titled, The Destruction of the Philosophers, the other, The Destruction of the Destruction. He rounded a corner away from them muttering, — Christ. Christ, Christ, Christ, Christ, Christ.

— It would be nice if we could get some kind of testimonial on this.

— She's dead, this saint.

— I know that, for Christ sake. I mean from somebody like the Pope. It would make a nice tie-in.

They walked on in thoughtful silence for a minute.

— Ever since the Vatican pulled that stunt of telling Catholics that seeing Mass on TV wasn't enough, that they still have to get out and go to church, when right in the comfort of their own living rooms they could. .

— Ellery. .!

— Morgie!

— You two guys know each other? Ellery, this is Mister Darling, he's the account exec handling Necrostyle. .

— Know each other! Morgie's an old Skull and Bones man. The whole industry's being taken over by the Ivy League. How the hell are you, Morgie?

— I was saying the same'thing at a party last night, Morgie said. — We all used to end up in the old man's brokerage, and now. . you can't tell me advertising isn't the new Wall Street. He and Ellery walked down the bright corridor with their hands on one another's shoulders. The third man said, — The highest paid business in the U.S. today. . and fell in behind them. He was an old Alabama Rammer-Jammer man.

— I just came up for a look at our new morning show, said Morgie. — But why you've got a kids' ballet school on for Necrostyle, now what the hell Ellery, with kids' shows like the Saints. .

— That's how you reach them, Ellery said, — through the kids. There's something about kids. People trust them, you know?

— But a ballet school! We want. . — We know what you want, Morgie. Just be patient, we know what you want.

A girl in a wedding dress stood outside a door in the empty corridor. She was very young, and the heavy make-up on her face almost hid her bad case of acne. She smiled uncertainly as they approached. — Lost, baby? Ellery asked her. She nodded and sniffed, up this close she looked about to cry. — You're on the Let's Get Married program? Ellery winked at her. She nodded and sniffed hopefully. — Look, down there, quick, see that guy in the skirt coming out of the men's room? Quick, follow him. It's studio thirty-seven, he called after her as she ran, hampered by her tight wedding skirt, her sharp heels calibrating the silence of the corridor, away from them.

The third man turned and watched the restricted motion of her thighs. At present he had a single modest ambition: he was trying to get a line he had heard somewhere into the script of a highly paid comedian. The line was, It looked so nice out this morning I left it out all day. The censors would not have it: they said it was immoral. Nevertheless, he thought it was one of the funniest things he had ever heard. He also had a salt-shaker which he carried and used in public places. It was a crude plastic reproduction of the Venus de Milo. The sign in the place where he had bought it said, Because of the amusing way in which these shakers pour, better hide them when Grandma's around. He was becoming a "character," which was exactly what he wanted. When he went out he wore a cap. The person who had sold it to him had told him that he looked like the Duke of Northumberland in it. Now he said, — What a nice tight little can.

Morgie looked at the girl too, over his shoulder. — You couldn't get into that with a can-opener. It's a crime the way they tie it in.

— No disparaging remarks.

— What d'you mean?

— We got the Kanthold Korsets account.

— What's the tape over your eye, Morgie? Did she bite you?

— This party I was at last night. A bunch of scared intellectuals, you know? A bunch of goddam unamericans.

— But you told them, didn't you Morgie. Ellery turned to the third man. — Morgie's serious as hell. He was always serious, even in college.

— This is serious, goddam serious. Don't kid yourself, Morgie said. — They corrupt, these goddam intellectuals do. They corrupt.

— I told you Morgie was serious, Ellery said, and grinned. — See what he got defending his country?

— Don't kid yourself. Some bastard started in on how New York would change if prostitution was legalized. Clean honest whorehouses, see?

— In that case, you'll have to consider me unamerican too, in Alabama. .

— No, the point was sublimation, see? This is the whoring of the arts, and we're the pimps, see?

— You should have hit him.

— I did. That's where I got this. Morgie pointed to the tape above his eye. — No matter how much you talk to them, they don't get it. It's too simple. It's too goddam simple for them to understand. They still think their cigarettes would cost them half as much without advertising. The whole goddam high standard of American life depends on the American economy. The whole goddam American economy depends on mass production. To sustain mass production you got to have a mass market. To sustain a goddam mass market you got to have advertising. That's all there is to it. A product would drop out of sight overnight without advertising, I don't care what it is, a book or a brand of soap, it would drop out of sight. We've had the goddam Ages of Faith, we've had the goddam Age of Reason. This is the Age of Publicity.

— O.K. Morgie, you believe in it. Come into the control room and see your dancing girls.

— Goddam right I believe in it. You got to regard advertising as public information, that's what it is.

— O.K. Morgie, relax. Put out your cigarette.

Morgie dropped his cigarette on the floor, and stopped to put it out with his shoe. — I know it, but I get browned off the way some people talk. They talk as if we weren't respectable.

— It's the highest paid business in the U.S., said the old Alabama Rammer-Jammer man.

A man in shirt-sleeves came through the door. — You seen Benny? Ellery asked him.

— Benny who?

A girl going the other way heard this. — I know who you mean, she said to Ellery. — He's in OP, nobody around here knows him. I know who you mean, he was here earlier and he left.

— Thanks, said Ellery; hunching up one shoulder he dropped his cigarette, put it out, and watched the girl go down the hall as he held the door.