Patricide: Patricide is a bad idea, first because it is contrary to law and custom and second because it proves, beyond a doubt, that the father’s every fluted accusation against you was correct: you are a thoroughly bad individual, a patricide! — member of a class of persons universally ill-regarded. It is all right to feel this hot emotion, but not to act upon it. And it is not necessary. It is not necessary to slay your father, time will slay him, that is a virtual certainty. Your true task lies elsewhere.
Your true task, as a son, is to reproduce every one of the enormities touched upon in this manual, but in attenuated form. You must become your father, but a paler, weaker version of him. The enormities go with the job, but close study will allow you to perform the job less well than it has previously been done, thus moving toward a golden age of decency, quiet, and calmed fevers. Your contribution will not be a small one, but “small” is one of the concepts that you should shoot for. If your father was a captain in Battery D, then content yourself with a corporalship in the same battery. Do not attend the annual reunions. Do not drink beer or sing songs at the reunions. Begin by whispering, in front of a mirror, for thirty minutes a day. Then tie your hands behind your back for thirty minutes a day, or get someone else to do this for you. Then, choose one of your most deeply held beliefs, such as the belief that your honors and awards have something to do with you, and abjure it. Friends will help you abjure it, and can be telephoned if you begin to backslide. You see the pattern, put it into practice. Fatherhood can be, if not conquered, at least “turned down” in this generation — by the combined efforts of all of us together.
Seems a little harsh, Julie said, when they had finished reading.
Yes it does seem a little harsh, said Thomas.
Or perhaps it’s not harsh enough?
It would depend on the experience of the individual making the judgment, as to whether it was judged to be too harsh or judged to be not harsh enough.
I hate relativists, she said, and threw the book into the fire.
18
The jolting of the road. The dust. The sweat. The ladies in conversation.
Break your thumbs for you.
That’s your option.
Take a walk.
Snowflakes, by echoes, by tumbleweed.
Right in the mouth with a four-by-four.
His basket bulging.
I know that.
Hunger for perfection indomitable spirit reminds me of Lord Baden-Powell at times.
I know that.
Was there a message?
Buzzing in the right ball.
Sometimes forgets and uses too many teeth.
Pop one of these. Make you feel better.
What is the motivation?
I was suspicious of him from the first.
At the launching of his now rapidly fading career.
And in the poorest houses nuts are roasted and sweet brans.
Tattering leather and balding blue velvet.
Where can a body get a bang around here?
Certain provocations the government couldn’t handle.
A long series of raptures and other spiritual experiences.
He was pleased.
Beside himself.
Something trembling in the balance.
Codpiece trimmed with the fur of silver monkeys.
He was pleased.
Feeling is what’s important.
A gesture was made.
You were his second wife?
Second or third he lied rather often.
I wouldn’t put it past him.
The child’s interests were not protected.
Fill your face with bubblegum and suck your pacifier.
Saw a unicyclist in a brown hat.
I’m not into disgust.
Thought I heard a dog barking.
Handed him the yellow towel which he stuffed into his trousers.
Nobody ever died of it.
Worked them down over her hips.
Sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation.
Removing with a shout of triumph a whole live chicken.
He’s not bad-looking.
I’ve noticed that.
We couldn’t have been happier.
Mountain goats posing with their front legs together on the filing cabinets.
Feeling is what’s important.
What was the room like?
Gray and the ceiling white.
What was the room like?
A shrug and a burst into tears.
Long gowns to the floor one yellow-white and one cooked-shrimp colored.
Something trembling in the balance.
Content to suck on a black tiptoe.
I applied for more time spreading the documents out before them.
I thanked the large black woman and withdrew.
Would have pissed elsewhere out of my sight if the conventions were then as they are now.
It’s her own gut she’s after.
He said I respected you when you were younger.
That’s normal for cellists.
Got her a Rostropovich peg for her birthday.
She exhibited gratitude, blinked three times.
Mother.
Printed circuits reprinting themselves.
Did you let him see yours?
I assumed a brusque but friendly tone.
Probably afraid that she would drop it.
Probably afraid.
Got him right between the shoulder blades.
From such combinations in ancient days were sprung monsters.
This is not like me.
Wake up one dark night with a prick in your eye.
That’s my business.
Approached it with a charming show of fastidious distaste.
That’s my business.
Years not unmarked by hideous strains.
The letter a failure but I mailed it nevertheless.
That’s your opinion.
Quite. That’s my opinion.
Cracked half haired puckerfaced creature.
Mother.
Asked if I wanted to play. I noticed that all of the pieces were black.
I read about it in Le Monde.
He doesn’t know what he’s in for.
Sender of the sweet rain.
Keeps the corn popping.
The bourgeois press told stories.
The incredibly handsome waiter had been listening.
Carbon paper under the tablecloth all the while.
Knits the power grips.
Eats his kids they say.
Her red lips against the bone in my nose.
I can make it hot for you.
What is your totem?
The credit card.
When you are an old person you live in a small room small but neat and you don’t have any cymbals any more they’ve taken your cymbals away from you.
It’s a dirge not a dance.
Stop being petty, stop trying to cut each other’s throat.
Always quick to call another woman beautiful.
Definite absolute negative influence.
And never does so if it is not true.
Hoping this will reach you at a favorable moment.
Some use camel saliva.
Teeth in dreams flaking away like mica.
They like to suck.
They do like to suck.
Sitting on some steps watching the tires of parked cars crack.
Shame, which has made marmosets of so many of us.
Mandrills watching from the sidelines with their clear, intelligent eyes.
Very busy making the arrangements.
Appeals to idealism.
Grocers wearing pistol belts.
It’s perfectly obvious.
I was astonished to discover that his golden urine has a purple stripe in it.
It’s no mystery.
A few severed heads on stakes along the trail.
Polished tubes carried by some of the men.
Not sure I understand what the issues are.
String, quartets don’t march very well.