“We won’t ask for examples”
“But there are some”
“It’s a can of worms, Inés”
“But isn’t that all you do together?”
She wanted a glass to continue the argument. The other guy handed her one.
“that thing about the history of Prague — I read it too. And it was — what can I say? Bankrupt, inane …”
“Well, there are periods in history of which nothing survives. Or a little, just a little”
“Psychedelia, psycholalia … who the hell knows … experimental cinema”
“they leave their mark”
“Vienna while in Prague”
“who really cares … whether any of that stuff survives?”
“I disagree entirely”
“it all goes back to the father, see”
“what survives of that era? I noticed the other day … what’s his name?”
“Bergsonne”
“So-so”
If I should awaken, I will try to go back to sleep.
Since the reader will find throughout this effort a lot of unnecessary, perhaps superfluous, punctuation, reflecting the anxiety and indecision of the writer, it wouldn’t be entirely presumptuous to include a preface [note the inconsistency of this regime]. For what it’s worth: I wasn’t trying to write something experimental (much less spontaneous) when I commenced this journal. I was trying to find a structure in the mass of [modest, always modest!] narrative/cyclical intermittencies.
NO
Cryptodermia/deafness
There are none so deaf as those who will not hear
Strum away
Occupation
Auden, poem on Melville
As though his occupation were another island
When he saw them again, on that morning in August after returning from a visit to the city, he found them quite as submissive and conceited as ever; and he, once again trapped in their especial variety of conversational antechamber (in which they oft belabored him with successions of halting effusions), sought escape by firing off — or more properly, stammering — a bêtise on the “perfumed scent” of his butler’s arrhythmic respiration, which was indeed perceptible to him in more than one — and to more than one — sense. Not that George Smith’s exhalations were any more perfumed or arrhythmic than usual, but his master, having grown accustomed to the salubrious air of the city, and being somewhat distracted by his servants’ tedious divagations, judged his Butler’s breath to be, on this occasion, especially noisome, which contrasted starkly with that natural air of unbending courtesy that poor old George exuded in his manner, the odor of which, in its many persuasive nuances, would, in fine, have made any other man feel at home in his company.
Interruption: explanation/reasons/stylistic(s)
A story in the style of Henry James — perhaps unnecessary. Telling a genuine anecdote from his life (it’s in Leon Edel) — try to make convincing and meaningful for the ever-vigilant eye of Agraphia, or else discard. Don’t just parody, like Beerbohm (hopefully, I can pull it off). Try anyway.
Could proceed as follows:
When George had finally left, it was only the two of them at home, and he, nonetheless longed to evade that situation too, and by the same exaggerated dissimulation that proved useful in his escape from their suffocating antechamber. But Lydia Smith wouldn’t leave his side, debriefing him, as was customary, concerning his engagements for the coming hours, one of which, she supposed, would be a luncheon; and accumulating in the course of her routine interrogation, was that mixture of “perfection and sherry” he’d once mentioned in a letter to his brother (a letter in which, with customary — or simply epistolary — reserve, he’d avoided giving too many details), which continued accumulating as they settled his provisional itinerary for the coming days.
Keep the action slow, focus on preferences:
He would have preferred — he muttered to himself, before repeating it aloud to Lydia — a simple dish, something botanical: vegetables, greens… and so he continued, spouting synonyms in triplicate until he made of simplicity a conundrum. Then, ignoring his interlocutor’s indifference at this attempt to impose on their quotidian yet another one of his literary manias — and resisting the urge to answer the snub with a boast on his palatial refinement — he informed her that he would be dining alone this afternoon. His friends would only arrive the following day, while his gentleman acquaintance might arrive as soon as Thursday afternoon; on which day, in the event he should be alone — and safe, after all — (for there was always the possibility his friend might decline the invitation, or else arrive late, or else leave early), he would then also prefer a simple botanical collation (greens, vegetables), for he always ingested complicated fare when dining out. And, for him, dining out was not unusual.
He saluted Burgess with an expansive wave through the window, and when Max entered, he also saluted him, although he refrained from leaning over to do so. Nonetheless, after uttering some preliminary endearments that would have been unintelligible to Max even had he been human, his master stooped to pet him — a complicated act, from his altitude, especially given that his characteristically slight but by no means willowy frame had lately expanded to the dimensions of a prosperous entrepreneur — at which point, Lydia, with the finesse of an accomplished supporting actress, seized the opportunity to make a discreet if nonetheless theatrical exit. He straightened back up. Now steady, and with his eyes closed, he recalled again the scent of Lydia’s breath — perfection and sherry — and judged it less offensive and noisome than that of George.
To be continued?
“Dos de Nosotros” gives an account of Nurlihrt’s reflections on adultery:
He doesn’t really care, he insists, but as with any issue where what’s really going on and how it’s reported vary depending on their respective subjects and objects — when we criticize others, it’s called invective; when others criticize us, it’s called abuse [Kingsmill] — adultery is a question best examined, dispassionately, with neither pleasure nor circumspection, as part of a larger phenomenon, in this case called — without bandying words, and sans musique—jealousy.
He doesn’t really care, he insists, and insists I pay such close attention that I feel remiss in not taking notes as he tells me about Elena’s imperturbability yesterday after he took her hands in his and remarked, “Cold hands, warm heart! Is there anyone in particular on your mind?”
He doesn’t care. He looks at me, idly curious — putting on a mask of indifference to shield himself from the pain he knows he causes: “And what about Sabatani, Dos,” I asked, “after the storm, when I got back the day before — remember? You know, I couldn’t help but think of the enduring and astonishing validity of what Powell said about women, that their greatest show of fidelity was to start fights with their lovers.”