Andrea Dworkin - Ice And Fire

flower, no variation. The street running alongside the wall of

glass was stones, the old kind of street, suffering under the

cars, humans push ourselves on it and it moves under us, trying

to get away.

His ears meanwhile flared out. His tongue splattered water.

His nose was caked. His shoulders dropped, trying to find

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China. His shirt was open to the middle of his chest, showing

off his black hairs, all amassed, curled, knotted. It is not normal

for a man not to button his shirt. God was generous with

signs.

His fingers intruded, reaching past everything, over the ashes

and butts, over the hills and reservoirs and deserts of torn

matchbook covers that I had erected as an impenetrable geography, and they were so finely tuned to distress that they went past all those piles, and they reached mine, small, stubby,

hard to find. Oh, his teeth were terrible.

All round there were students, archangels of hope and time

to come, with dreams I could hear in their chatter and see

circling their heads. Faces unlined, tired only from not sleeping,

those horrible reminders of hope and time. Hamburgers were

abundant. Serious persons, alone, ate salad. We drank coffee,

this man and me.

*

I was appropriately frail and monosyllabic. “ No. ” Soft. No.

His was a discourse punctuated with intense silences, great

and meaningful pauses, sincere and whispered italics. “ Look—

I need you— to do something on jeans commercials — Brooke

Shields —something on the First Amendment — I want— you —

to talk about little — girls— and seeing— their tooshies. I

mean— listen — what

you— have— is — terrific — /

mean— /

know— I know — how good it — is — and I d o n 't — want — you —

to change— it. But the country needs — to know— what you —

think— about Calvin Klein— which is — to— me — frankly — and

I— tell— you — this— straight —out — worse than cocaine— and

I want— you — to say — that. I want —your voice — right —

up — there — right — up— front. "

No. My Crime and Punishment. My Inferno. My heart. Soft,

frail, no arrogance. “ No. ”

“ Listen— I— need—something

hot— something — like—

Brooke — Shields— and — something hot for the lawyers— an—

essay on the— First — Amendment. I mean — I know — your

book— isn't — about — the— First — Amendment— but I need—

you to tear— those bastard — lawyers — apart — and something

on— advertising. I mean— The New York— Times — is— as

bad — as Hustler — any day — and we all know— that— and I

need — you — to say— so. And why —aren’t you — advocating —

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censorship— I mean— the bastards— deserve — it— and— we—

could get— some press— on that.

“ I need — something from you — I mean— I— can't — just—

say— to the fucking salespeople — I don't have anything — on—

jeans

commercials— and— I— don’t— have — anything— on—

Brooke — Shields— and

everyone

thinks

you — want —

censorship— so why don’t you — just give — us— that — and

then — we can sell— the fucking thing. I mean— listen— I think

you are— right — all the way—I do. I — want— you— to know—

I hate — pornography— too — more — than— you— even. I have

my reasons. I mean. I don’t think you are— completely — right

in everything — you say — but listen— just — add — a few —

things. You can have — the rest — I mean— listen. I am — with

you— one

hundred— percent— because —I— see — what

all

this— does — to — women — but— the thing is— teenagers — and

all those— tooshies — on tellie— in the — living room — and I—

mean— that is what people — understand. ”

“ No. Thank you for seeing me. ” Soft smile. “ Listen, I appreciate your time, but no. ” Homer would die. Dante would shit.

Dostoyevsky would puke; and right too. Quiet, frail, polite, not

daring to show the delusions of grandeur in the simple

“ Thanks, no. ”

I stand up and reach out to shake his hand. I am ready

to go. This is in the first five minutes. Then he begins with

literature, my heart.

*

He does the canon, my heart. Dostoyevsky, Rimbaud, Homer,

Euripides, Kafka my love, Conrad, Eliot, Mann, Proust. His

courtesy is sublime. Dickinson, the Brontes, Woolf, Cather,

Wharton, O’Connor, McCullers, Welty. Oh, I love them but I

have ambition like a man. I am curt, quiet, tender, bleeding,

especially quiet, but lit up from inside. He seduces. Dante.

Bach, the greatest writer. Months later I will finally read

Faulkner and he will be the only one I can tell, trembling in

my pants.

The next three hours are him, seducing, talking this passion,

I am building my little castles in the sand. Tess. Flaubert.

Hedda. Marquez. Balzac. Chekhov.

He wants to publish my book. As Is. It is bold and has

no manners. I am in life now confused, overwhelmed. On the

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page never: but here I am dizzy, why does he, why will he, can

he, is it true? Hush hush little baby, hush hush my dear. As Is.

I am profoundly loved. We go to dinner in the rain.

*

Byron, the Song of Songs, Dickens, Mozart, Jean Rhys, Tolstoy

and the Troyat biography and the new biography of Hannah