DOSTOEVSKY
In Dostoevsky’s story, a condemned prisoner — at the penultimate instant before a firing squad — is reprieved by the czar. Dostoevsky says it was his own experience. The reprieve was announced, he says, and the firing squad — not the prisoner Dostoevsky — sublimated. What follows? In life and art at once, the czar is a champion of imaginative forms. For condemned prisoners — which is all of us — the czar, a true aristocrat, is godlike in his manifestations. Astonishing, arbitrary, inscrutable. More evil than good — but thus are we saved. From above! Of course, in historical fact the czar and his family were slaughtered. Trotsky considered this “action” indispensable. Stalin’s considerations, regarding Trotsky and his family, were identical. It is impossible to live with or without fictions.
THE NIGHT I BECAME A MARXIST
I heard a voice, turned, saw nobody, walked on, heard the voice again, but didn’t turn. Nobody would be there. Or somebody would. In either case — very frightened — I walked faster, stiffened back and neck, expecting a blow, anxious to swivel about, but not doing it until I could no longer, and, walking quickly, stiffly, swiveling to look back, walk on, I noticed street lamps were smashed, blackness took sections of everything, signs were unreadable, windows glossy blotches, doorways like sighs issuing from unimaginable interiors. I felt absolutely outside, savage, and I’d have begun running, but there was the park, the streets beyond. I continued to walk, swivel, walk, saving power, holding self — and then, hearing it, whirled, dropped into a crouch, legs wide, fists raised. I’d have seen nothing, nobody, but — crouched low — realized, suddenly, I was face to face with it, shorter than a midget, speaking mouth, teeth like knives: “Always having fun, aren’t you? Night after night, dancing, drinking, fucking. Fun, fun, fun.”
CONCLUSION
Long before ruling-class, ideological superstructures, there were myths describing ecstasies like those of Jaromir Hladík and Jesus. Nymphs and beautiful boys, fleeing murderous gods, were always sublimating into flowers, trees, rivers, heavenly constellations, etc. The earliest stories, then, already convey an exhilarating apprehension of the world as incessantly created of incessant death. Nothing changes. Stories, myths, ideologies, flowers, rivers, heavenly constellations are the phonemes of a mysterious logos; and the lights of our cultural memory, as upon the surface of black primeval water, flicker and slide into innumerable qualifications. But Jaromir Hladík, among substantial millions, is dead. From a certain point of view, none of this shit matters anymore.
Hello Jack
JACK PHONED.
I said hello Jack.
He said he was going to the hospital.
I said all right I’ll go with you.
I asked if I should phone his wife. They weren’t living together.
He said he wanted me to know where he was. He didn’t want me to do anything.
I said you’re the boss. What’s wrong? I made my voice little.
He yelled let’s not talk about it. I’m in the hospital.
I said you said that you had to go to the hospital. Little words. Cheepee cheepee cheepee. His wife couldn’t stand him. I knew plenty.
I said hello Jack and rushed to the hospital.
I had a bad foot. Every step was a wolf bite.
But Jack was in the hospital. He was the boss.
Jack phoned so I said hello taxicab. He’d do the same for me. We were old friends from Novgorod. Nothing to think about.
Taxi. Taxi.
In the hospital I noticed everyone was dead. Then a nurse was walking. I yelled rooms rooms rooms.
She said she personally didn’t build the hospital.
I said so where’s Jack?
She said he was in a room with another man.
In a hall I was running.
I saw Jack. Compared to the other man, Jack was Mr. Universe. What the Mongolians did to one grandmother the Germans did to the other. They made a big blond Chinese Jew His wife hated him. She was from Budapest. I didn’t say anything.
What’s with that man I said. I limped to a chair and took the shoe off my bad foot. The other man was blankets up to a face the color of chicken fat. His eyes were sticking out like swords.
Jack said the man was recovering from pneumonia. I didn’t say anything.
If you ask me that man finished recovering I said. I put my shoe on Jack’s bed.
Jack said what’s the matter with your foot?
Nothing I said.
The man heard us. He said virus.
My foot was sweating.
Jack said virus is different from plain pneumonia.
I rubbed my foot. Poo I said. Open a window.
Jack said don’t do anything. It’s not important.
I said how much are they paying you to stay here? Stinks is not important?
I hopped to the window in one shoe and asked the virus I’m opening the window.
His eyes didn’t move. They looked like a sign: BE QUIET. BE QUIET. Two killers, shining, pushing. He said virus.
I asked him again I’m opening this window so it will stop stinking.
He said virus.
A little snow came in. You couldn’t notice. Like feathers. Nothing. It melted on the radiator. The virus didn’t complain. Only a maniac would complain. The virus looked at the ceiling as if a movie was playing there. I looked too. I knew there was no movie on the ceiling but I looked. I was right. Jack was happier with the window open. Why not? He was a man with a friend. He began a speech why he was in the hospital.
He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep. This. That. He fell down at work. In his stomach a pain. So his union sent him to the hospital.
Talk talk talk. I knew plenty.
I said I’m glad you want to talk.
He said is it wrong to talk?
I said tell me if what you have is serious and forgive me for laughing. A friend can laugh.
He said you think it’s not serious?
I said to you serious is to the world ridiculous. Sure an enemy wouldn’t laugh. He doesn’t care so he can care. You have no sense of proportion. I rubbed my foot.
The other man said virus.
Jack said nobody told him not to talk.
I said maybe you would like to sing.
He began to sing. Ya-ya-ya.
The man said virus.
Me too. Ya — ya — ya.
All of a sudden the virus pushes his blankets on the floor and gets out of bed. His gown was pinched in his behind. His legs were bones, his face green. Like a tomato. I thought he was a tomato not a virus. He walked out of the room.
We stopped singing.
I said he went to the toilet.
Jack said a toilet is behind the door over there. He didn’t go to the toilet.
I said how do you know? Maybe he doesn’t like that toilet.
Jack said he didn’t go to the toilet.
I said he’ll be back in a minute. He went to another toilet because he didn’t want us to hear him make a tinkle.
Jack said he didn’t go to any toilet.
I said all right. Then he recovered. Why should he pay another penny? He recovered. Stop the clock. A motel is cheaper. I noticed I had a headache.
Jack gave me a face like Genghis Khan. A rock with eye slits. I could see the tomato was my fault. I could see it in the rock.
I said I know how it is Jack. You come in with trouble and they put you with a virus. Look at my foot. Is that sweat Jack? It’s sweat believe me. Jack’s wife hated him.A small skinny from night school. Hair and pimples.