William Gaddis - The Recognitions

Otto studied the bill.

— And thank you for the book, Esther said as she did her lips. — It was kind of you to bring it, just because you heard me mention it the other evening. Did you like it?

— As a matter of fact, he said, unable to interrupt himself so that he paid the thirty-cent overcharge without question, — I haven't had a chance to read it yet.

— Well then you take it back. She pushed it toward him.

— No, no, I brought it to you. But maybe, I might come up and borrow it when you're done? I mean, if neither of you mind?

— I hope you will come up, she said. — He would too. I know he would, because he… because you can talk to him. And you must, she said taking Otto's hand in hers as they reached the sidewalk outside. Her eyes darted back and forth, looking from one of his to the other. — And you. mustn't be put off by the way he seems to withdraw. He does like you. And I'm glad you like him. I'm glad you told me you did just now, because I told him you did last night.

— What did he say? Otto asked anxiously.

Esther smiled. — It was funny, she said. — He said it made it like there were three of us in the room where there should only have been two. He said I shouldn't' try to make explicit things that should be implicit. She was looking beyond him as she said this, into the crowd of people passing on Fifth Avenue, looking searchingly. Then she looked quickly back at his face. — But you understand, don't you?

— Yes, I…

— You. it's as though you bring him to life.

Otto turned to watch her leave him. Then, a hand moving in his pocket, he counted his money by memory. Then he looked at his watch. Then he took a slip of paper from his pocket.

— Chr-ah-st. Otto. I mean what are you doing standing in the middle of the street writing a note?

— Oh Ed, I… it's just something I thought of for this play I'm working on.

— A play? Chrahst, how unnecessary. Who's in it? asked Ed, who, though he did not know it, was himself in the play, with the unlikely name of Max.

— Well no one yet, Otto said, returning to his pocket the slip of paper on which he had just written: Gordon says nt mke thngs explict whch shd be implict ie frndshp. — I haven't finished it. The plot still needs a little tightening up. (By this Otto meant that a plot of some sort had yet to be supplied, to motivate the series of monologues in which Gordon, a figure who resembled Otto at his better moments, and whom Otto greatly admired, said things which Otto had overheard, or thought of too late to say.) — The whole plot is laid.

— Chrahst what lousy weather, I mean I've been everywhere and wherever you go all you find out is that it's hot as hell in summer and cold as hell in winter. Got time for a drink?

— Why yes, yes fine, I… — I mean Chrahst what else do they expect you to do? he said as they walked south.

— Are you going to the reunion?

— What reunion?

— Our class, the class reunion, it's going to be…

— My Chrahst, I mean who wants to go to a thing like that? I mean Chrahst you just get drunk with the same stupid guys you were drunk with for four years, except every year they manage some goddamn way to get a little stupider and lose their hair and bring their wives instead, and why go all the way up there to get drunk? I mean Chrahst it's as though you hadn't grown up any.

— Say, while we're near here I want to stop in at Brooks for a minute, Otto said. — I have to get.

— O Chrahst I might as well stop too. I've got to get some drawers. I mean, I'm going to get married next week, and I've got to get some drawers. We could take my car.

— But it's only four blocks away.

— I know, and I lost the goddamn car anyway.

— You lost it?

— Last night, I left it somewhere. I think it was uptown, but I mean Chrahst, you can't expect me to remember everything.

Pillaged by a cold wind about his midriff (for fashion confided that he might button only the bottom button of his jacket, hybrid heritage of the Guards, which forbade an overcoat), Otto reached their doorway. He paused there to look back up the street, and then take a slip of paper from his pocket. Gordon's speeches were becoming more and more profound. Gordon would soon be at home only in drama; and, though his author had not considered it, possibly closet drama at that. Otto often disappeared at odd moments, as some children do given a new word, or a new idea, or a gift, and they are found standing alone in some private corner, lips moving, as they search for the place where this new thing belongs, to get it firmly in place and part of themselves before they return to adult assaults, and the incredible possibility that they may one day themselves be the hunters. Like their lips, his pencil moved, getting the thing down before it was lost, not to himself but to his play; for once written, it need be reconsidered only for sound and character, and the scene it would best fit in, while he returned to the assaults and possibilities that only the hunter knows. In the past few months, Gordon had begun to lose his debonair manner, and become more seriously inclined; he tossed off epigrams less readily, but often paused and made abrupt gestures with his hands, as though to shape his wisdom in plain view of the large audience, halting between phrases to indicate the labor they cost him; he was liable to be silent, where he had chatted amiably; and where he had paused upstage, thoughtfully silent, he was liable not to appear at all. Grdn: We hate thngs only becse in thm we see elemnts whch we secrtly hate in rslves, Gordon's creator wrote, at the foot of a page almost covered with notations (one of which covered half the page, and only two of which were not Gordon). He paused for a moment, tapping his lip with the pencil; then, Grdn: Orignlty not inventn bt snse of recall, recgntion, pttrns alrdy thr, q. You cannt invnt t shpe of a stone. N. Mke Grdn pntr? sclptr? By now Gordon was some three or four inches shorter than he had been, and considerably less elegant. With this note that Gordon's profession was still open to change, Otto pushed at the outside door and found it open. He entered and climbed the stairs. He was commencing to envy Gordon.

A full minute passed before the door was answered. Even then, Esther returned quickly to her typewriter and sat over it biting a thumbnail, while he crossed the room to stand and look out the window, turned to stare into the empty studio, and finally sat on the couch and opened a book. It was a collection of plates of the work of early Flemish painters. A single snap of the typewriter brought him up straight. — What was that? he asked.

— A comma. She looked regretfully at the page before her. — It makes a lot of difference sometimes, a period or a comma. She suddenly looked round. — Where is he, he isn't with you?

— I just left him, we've been up at the Metropolitan. He said he wanted to take a walk.

— I knew he wasn't with you, she said sitting back and speaking more slowly, — and yet, by now sometimes I just don't know, I don't even know whether he's here with me or not.

Otto looked up, to see her staring at the floor, and he cleared his throat. — Is this his, this book on Flemish painters?

— No, it's mine, she said looking up vaguely. — He has something against reproductions.

— Yes, Otto agreed, open upon a Dierick Bouts, — but these art especially good, aren't they. This kind of stringency of suffering, this severe self-continence of suffering that looks almost peaceful, almost indifferent. But in a way it's the same thing, this severe quality of line, this severe delicacy and tenderness. She was staring at him, but he did not look up. He turned pages, and continued to speak with casual and labored confidence. — You can see how well these men knew their materials, using color like a sculptor uses marble, not simply filling in like cartoons but respecting it, using it as a servant of the pattern, the tactile values, this, this van Eyck, the white headdress on Arnolfini's wife, how sharp the lines are, look at how smoothly they flow, it's perfect painting in stand oil, isn't it. It isn't difficult to see why Cicero says. what's the matter? He'd glanced up, to see her eyes fixed on him.