David Markson - This is Not a Novel and Other Novels

Blake’s insistence that at the age of four he had seen God watching him through a window.

Amy Lowell died of a stroke.

Vesalius was condemned to death by the Inquisition for dissecting humans. But was permitted to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in penance instead.

And then died en route home of overexposure after a shipwreck.

Sestos. Abydos.

St. Francis of Assisi probably died of malaria.

How vain it is, and how futile, to lament the dead.

Said Stesichorus.

William Burroughs killed his wife while trying to shoot a glass perched on her head à la William Tell.

The Egyptian Book of the Dead. From papyri and pyramid inscriptions dated as early as 1580 BC.

Or a contemporary variant on the latter, if Writer says so.

Writer incidentally doing his best here — insofar as his memory allows — not to repeat things he has included in his earlier work.

Meaning in this instance the four hundred and fifty or more deaths that were mentioned in his last book also.

Burroughs died of heart failure.

Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire.

Your last novel was a flop.

All of this preoccupation implying little more, presumably, than that Writer is turning older.

Stockholm, Greta Garbo’s ashes were buried near.

They’re going to cut a street through.

They would, Bill said.

Plutarch says that to force himself to study oratory, Demosthenes once shaved half his head — so that he would be too embarrassed to leave his house.

Though with Writer also now recalling the refrain from Dunbar’s Lament for the Makers, about the deaths of such as Chaucer and Lydgate and Henryson and Gower:

Timor mortis conturbat me.

The fear of death distresses me.

And what is the use of a book, thought Alice, without pictures or conversations?

There is no such thing as a great movie. A Rembrandt is great. Mozart chamber music.

Said Marlon Brando.

Eliot died of emphysema in conjunction with a damaged heart.

Pound died of a blocked intestine.

Being less than surprised that Rouault began his career working at stained-glass windows.

She said he was a village explainer, excellent if you were a village, but if you were not, not.

Otello. Verdi was seventy-four.

Falstaff. Verdi was eighty.

Office of the Dead.

The friendship of John Donne and Isaak Walton.

Rudolph Valentino died of a perforated ulcer.

Trollope, as remembered by a schoolmate at Harrow:

Without exception the most slovenly and dirty boy I ever met.

Ben Shahn died of a heart attack after surgery.

Andy Warhol died after gallbladder surgery.

East Coker, for Eliot’s ashes.

Roman Jakobson, in opposition to a novelist, namely Nabokov, teaching literature at Harvard:

Should an elephant teach zoology?

Arnold Schoenberg and George Gershwin were tennis partners.

John Donne. Anne Donne. Undone.

Camoëns died unknown and penniless in a plague.

A lieutenant of Alexander’s, before the Battle of Arbela:

Don’t think we fear their vast numbers, Sire. They’ll not stand the stink of goat that clings to us.

For centuries, in England:

The burial of a suicide under a high road, ideally at a crossroads.

And with a wooden stake driven into his/her heart.

Bertolt Brecht wrote a poem about one of the Dempsey-Tunney fights.

Xanthippe was a shrew.

Living with her teaches me to get along with the rest of the world, Socrates said.

Gershwin died of a brain tumor.

Edward MacDowell died mad, probably from syphilis.

Manolete. Islero. Linares.

The wife of Johann Strauss, Jr., once asked Brahms for an autograph. Brahms sketched out the opening notations for the Blue Danube.

And signed them Alas, not by Johannes Brahms.

Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.

Wolfgang Pauli: You probably think these ideas are crazy.

Niels Bohr: Unfortunately they are not crazy enough.

Katyn.

Nanking.

Kyd’s scene in The Spanish Tragedy where Hieronimo finds the corpse of his son hanged from a tree in his garden.

Luciano Pavarotti’s inability to read music.

Ronsard died of gout.

Conan Doyle died of a heart condition.

Fichte once badly needed to borrow money from Kant.

Kant said no.

Frederick Exley died of a stroke.

Joanna Baillie.

Auden was known to show up at the opera in a stained tuxedo and bedroom slippers.

Samuel Johnson died of dropsy.

Gregor Mendel died of dropsy.

Albert Pinkham Ryder lived in such filth, with even his bed spilling over with rubbish, that he generally slept on a patch of rug on the floor.

Willie Maugham, he was commonly called.

Archie MacLeish.

Joe DiMaggio died on Al Gionfriddo’s birthday.

Scriabin died of a blood infection.

W. N. P. Barbellion.

Daydreaming of a MacArthur Foundation award.

Writer talking to himself yet another time.

As did Gogol, in addition to Yeats and Hölderlin and Hesiod.

Talkative, outgoing, inquisitive, formidably erudite, and sharp.

Stamford, Connecticut, Ezio Pinza died in.

Lakeville, Connecticut, Wanda Landowska died in.

That blockhead John Stuart Mill, Nietzsche anointed him.

Passage to India. 1871.

A Passage to India. 1924.

Then again Kant did help Fichte find a teaching post.

Jonas Salk died of heart failure.

O tu, Palermo.

George Gissing’s father was a druggist.

I am a lost man! I whispered to myself. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a lost man! And I repeated that over and over as I went on jumping on my hat.

Augusta Leigh died in poverty.

Ouida died in poverty.

Mary Webb died in poverty.

Jane Avril died in poverty.

Jane Avril.

Monk Lewis died of yellow fever on board a ship in the Atlantic.

Two of the Le Nains died within two days of each other.

The third would continue painting for twenty-nine more years.

Mill died of what was termed a local fever.

Hubert van Eyck died in 1426.

If there was a Hubert van Eyck.

Thorstein Veblen was once fired by the University of Chicago for — quote — womanizing.

Anaxagoras, in exile, when told that the Athenians had condemned him to death for impiety:

Nature long ago condemned them and me both.

Dashiell Hammett died of lung cancer.

Raymond Chandler died of pneumonia, hardly warded off by uncompromising alcoholism.

The Loss of the Eurydice.

Where Hopkins rhymes portholes and mortals.

Beckett died of complications from emphysema.

Einstein once gave private lectures to small groups in Prague.

Some of which included Kafka.

Montaigne could not swim.

Unfortunately neither could Shelley.

Dish-washings, Carlyle called Jane Austen’s novels.

Swill, Steve Crane called Tennyson.

Antoine. Louis. Mathieu.

Orfamay Quest.

Sir Thomas Malory may have died in prison.

Vincenzo Bellini died of tuberculosis.

Or of an intestinal inflammation.

Handel owned a number of Rembrandts.

Schoenberg taught at the University of California at Los Angeles for eight years after leaving Nazi Germany.

And then was made to retire on a pension of $38 per month.

Rome has spoken. The debate is concluded.

How shall this be, seeing I know not a man?

The suspicion that Ambrose Bierce was a suicide. And perhaps did not even go to Mexico.

Teresa Guiccioli had hemorrhoids.

Edith Wharton and her husband used separate bedrooms.

Jones Very spent time in the same Boston insane asylum where Robert Lowell would be a patient a century later.