Andrea Dworkin - Ice And Fire

big desk buried under piles of papers. There were books,

thrown, strewn, left for months open at one place so that the

binding broke and the page itself seemed pressed to death.

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There were books in all stages of being opened and closed

with passages marked and pages bent and papers wedged into

the seams of the binding with hand-scribbled notes, yellowing.

The books were everywhere in great piles and clusters, under

typewriter paper that simply spread like some wild growth in

moist soil, under heaps of dirty clothes, under old newspapers

that were now documents of an older time, under shoes and

socks, under discarded belts, under old undershirts, under long-

forgotten soda bottles not quite empty, under glasses ringed

with wet, under magazines thrown aside in the second before

sleep. Oh, my love could sleep. In the ice, in wind, in rain, in

fire, my love could sleep. I watched him, content, a goldenhaired child, some golden infant, peaceful, at ease in the world of coma and unremembered dreams. It was Christian sleep, we

both agreed, mostly Protestant, impervious to guilt or worry

or pain, Christ had died for him. To my outsider’s eye it was

grace. It soothed, it was succor, it was an adoring visitor, a

faithful friend, it loved and rested him, and he knew no suffering that withstood its gentle solace. I had seen the same capacity for sleep in persons less kind, one was born to it, the

great and deep and easy sleep reserved for those not meant to

remember.

I sat on the other side of the room where he slept, in a

typing chair bought in the cheapest five and dime, slightly built,

perilous, covered in cat hair. His desk was huge, an old, used

table, big enough to hold the confusion, which, regardless,

simply billowed over its edges and onto the floor. The ground

between the typing chair and his heavy, staid double bed was a

false garden of tangle and weeds, or a minefield in the dark,

but he slept with the light on, even he never quite safe because

it was more like sleeping outside than sleeping inside. He would

never be vagabonded: never desolate and out in the cold. But I

would be, someday, putting on all the old trashy clothes, army

surplus, of these cold years, walking forever, simply settling

outside because inside was ridiculous, too silly, an insupportable idea: the absurd idea that this was a place to live.

Sleep kept him believing he had a home— somewhere, after all,

to sleep. But I spent the nights awake, I had to sit at a desk,

turn on electric lights, refer to many different and highly

important books, pace, sharpen pencils, change typewriter

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ribbons, make drafts, take notes, make phone calls, in meaningful and purposeful ways, with dignity and skill, physically inside, certainly inside. That old woman I would soon be,

always outside, sat right near me, I could smell her savage

skin, the mixture of sweat and ice, fear and filth. I already had

her sores on my feet and her bitterness in my heart. I knew

her: I was her already, carefully concealing it: waiting for the

events between this moment and later when I would be her.

My gray hair would hang from the dirty saliva in my mouth

and I would push along some silly belongings: books no doubt,

and some writings, and maybe a frazzled cat on a leash, because

otherwise I would be desperately lonely. Between us, this old

woman and me, there was just this sweet sleeping boy, a giant

of pale beauty and barely conceivable kindness. He was at

least slightly between her and me, and all my rush to despair

was moderated by this small quiet miracle of our time together

on earth. There was nothing perfect in it: but it was gentle: for

me, the kindest love in a life of being loved too much. I sat in

the typing chair, warmed by watching him sleep that foreign

sleep of peace, I watched him and I believed in his peace and

his rest: what was impossible he made real: and then his eyes

fluttered open, and with so many different sounds in his voice,

the whole range of calling and wanting, he called me: said my

name, reached out, and I walked over and touched his hand:

and he said, you’re home, and he asked what was wrong.

And I raged. I bellowed. I howled. I was delirious with pain.

I was shrill with humiliation. I was desperate with accusation

and paranoid but defensible prophecy and acrid recrimination

against what would happen to me. To me. The insufferable

editor, the arrogance, the terms of the agreement: my fury, my

rage, my memory of my life as a woman. Nearly keening in

anguish, I told him about the cafe, the literature, the obsessed

man, the kiss.

“ You’ve done it before, ” he said quietly. And went back to

sleep.

*

You know what I meant. This is the world you live in. You’ve

done it before, he said. Oh, yes.

Shit you know what I meant.

You know what I meant.

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I am trying to pace, windows open, under the weight-of

blankets. He is sitting up on his bed, under blankets.

You know what I meant.

Oh, I do.

Some things are true. What he meant is true. I know what, I

know how, I know where, I know when, I even know why.

Oh, I do.

*

But I don’t want to.

He says my name. Please, he says, wanting me to stop.

But really, I don’t want to.

He says my name, pleading. Please, he says, please, I know,

I know, but what can you do?

But I don’t want to. I want, I say, I want, I say, to be this

human being, and I want, I say, I want, to have somebody

publish my book, I say, this simple thing, I say, I want, I want,

I say, to be treated just like a human being, I say, and I don’t

want, I say, I don’t want, I say, to have to do this. I have

nowhere else to go, no one else who will do this simple thing,

publish my book, but I don’t want to have to do this.

He says my name, softly. Please, he says, please, stop, you

must, he says, stop, because, he says, this is making me crazy,

he says, softly he calls my name, please, he says, there is

nothing to do, he says, calling my name softly and weeping,

what is there to do, what can you do?

I want, I say, I want to be treated a certain way, I say. I

want, I say, to be treated like a human being, I say, and he,

weeping, calls my name, and says please, begging me in the

silence not to say another word because his heart is tearing

open, please, he says, calling my name. I want, I say, to be