"The Piano Has Been Drinking": On the Art of

Transcription

Robert
"The
On
Cohen
Piano
the Art
Has
Been
Drinking":
of the Rant
could be arguedthatthelastthingwe need in thiscountryis anotherrant.
IT Ours is not,lets face it,a demureculturalclimate.Ifyou re fullytuned in,
ifyou listento the radio and watch cable tv and waste a lot of time,as I do,
at the computer,thenyourhead is swimmingwithrantsalready,the dome of
your consciousness divided like a multiplexinto talking,or rathershouting,
heads. And so perhapsthe reallysmartand responsiblethingto do, as well as
themostartful,ifyou wish to be heard in thismaelstrom,is whisper.To swim
againstthe stream.
Having just typed"Rants"into Google, forinstance,I findI have now
gained access to some 1,700,000 entries,many of them Internetblogs like
this:
HereI startto speakon thingsthatpissme off,and therearea lotof
them.So shutup and readorleave.
Topics:
WHYI HATEHIPPIES
I AMALWAYS
RIGHT
WHYSMALLCOLLEGES
BLOW
SAY
THINGSASSHOLES
WOEIS ME
SAYII
THINGSASSHOLES
ASSHOLE
GETSOMEMANNERS,
EATME
[233]
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All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
234
THE GEORGIA REVIEW
Withso manypeople rantingintothevoid, it'stemptingto say thatwriters should put theirfingerson the otherside of the scale and rememberthat
is considerable.And we should.Butwe should
thepowergeneratedbyrestraint
likeanymuscle,can become overdeveloped,inflexalso be awarethatrestraint,
Restraintcan arriveat
ible,can begin aftera whileto exerciseitselfreflexively.
our desks so quicklywithits sober,judicious perspectiveas to choke offthe
veryinstinctsit'smeantto restrain.Restraintin shortis onlypowerfulifit is
power,and
somethingof great,all-but-unrestrainable
something,
restraining
the
lines.
ifwe can see glimpsesofthatpower eitherbetweenor inside
We all know thatold dietaryand philosophicalsaw,"Allthingsin moderation."As a rule of thumbthis seems simple and inarguable- until we're
say,on someone else'stab,or drivinga fastcar,or
sittingin a good restaurant,
thinkingabout some local or cosmic injustice,or (as in mywife'scase) thumbingthroughtheJ.Jillcatalogue,and suddenlywe realize,wait,no, moderation
in all thingsis a veryharshand unimaginativelifesentence.What'srequired
is not a lifewithoutexcess,butwitha moderateamountofexcess.And how to
tella moderateamountofexcess froman excessiveamount?For thiswe turn
The heighteningof perceptionthatartrequires,both in creation
to literature.
and in response,forcesus to attendto thoseintrepidinnervoices thatgo offto
charttheextremes,and bump againstthebarbedwireat theborder,and bloody
themselvesand refuseto shutup or be held back or dulled by the dictatesof
social propriety.
("Butyou complainso all thetime,"saystheyoungwifeto her
Bowles'sTheSheltering
in
Paul
husband,
Sky."Oh, not about life,"he answers,
"onlyabout human beings.")
Does one celebratelife,or sullyit,by railingagainstbeing? This is the
ranter'squestion.Neruda,whose Canto Generalcan be read as one long,variegatedrantborn ofbetrayaland exile,writes:"Perhapsman,like a blacksmith,
seekslivecoals,thehammeringofironon iron. . . thatseveritymaybe a conditionofhappiness."The hammeringoftheranteris an ontologicalcry,a pounding forentryupon the gates of knowledge.There'sa bilious, scorched-earth
and annoyingand oftenratherboring.This
qualityto it,one that'sfrightening
is whywe shyawayfromranters,
whywe crossthestreetto thesunnierside.We
Our tendencywhen
We
live on it comfortably.
don'twantto scorchtheearth.
confrontedby the hot lava of excessiveemotion,in artas in life,is to arch an
eyebrow,à la Letterman,withironiccondescension,as ifto make itdisappear
Butknowingness,liketoleranceand understandingand
bysheerknowingness.
moral relativismand the othergood liberalvirtues,can smotherart,or con-
ROBERT COHEN
235
strictit,withitsnice,carefullytucked-inblankets.Dale Peck notwithstanding,
our literaryclimate- the weatherscapeof our aestheticdiscourse- is rather
temperatethesedays,ratherblandlymild; ifwe are not inclinedto pick fights
witheach other,to believe such mattersare worthyof fighting
over,maybeits
usefulto look at some writerswho eithercan t or refuseto resistpickingfights
withus, and withthemselves.
It could be arguedthatmeaningin fictionis less a productoflanguagethanof
music,of a flowof sounds thatbecome language almost by default.Thinkof
Nabokovs lectureon Gogols "The Overcoat"Thestorygoesthisway:mumble,
mumble,
lyricalwave,mumble,fantasticclimax,mumble,mumble,and backintothechaosfromwhich
levelofart,literature
theyall derived.Atthissuperhigh
appealstothat
secretdepthofthehumansoulwheretheshadowsofotherworldspass
liketheshadowsofnamelessand soundlessships.
Or considera song by Tom Waits,"The Piano Has Been Drinking"- a song
characterizedby rhythmicrepetition,a slurry,maddeninglycircularbeat.
Thepianohasbeendrinking,
mynecktieis asleep
Andthecombowentbackto NewYork,thejukeboxhas to takea leak
Andthecarpetneedsa haircut,
and thespotlight
lookslikea prisonbreak
Andthetelephonesoutofcigarettes,
and thebalconyis on themake
Andthepianohasbeendrinking,
thepianohasbeendrinking
...
Here we can see one of the Ranters primarytools: the giddydrunkenmusic
of obsession, thatagitated,overstatedletting-go,which pushes us viscerally
to the edge of our conditionedresponses,and thenasks us to followour own
deepest,mostself-annihilatinginstinctsand plungewithitoverthatedge,into
god knowswhat (and thisis thepoint,in a sense,to know whatgod knows:to
see beyond,or beneath,the self) lies below.
Andthemenusareall freezing,
and thelightmansblindin one eye
Andhe can'tsee outoftheother
Andthepiano-tuner
s gota hearingaid,andhe showedup with
hismother
Andthepianohasbeendrinking,
As thebounceris a sumowrestler
cream-puff
caspermilquetoast
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THE GEORGIA REVIEW
Andtheowneris a mentalmidgetwiththeIQ ofa fencepost
causethepianohasbeendrinking,
...
Note too the escalation in the imagery.We go fromthe sleeping necktieto
the deaf piano tunerto an aggressivelyhatefulwaitressto blazing bar stools,
as ifthe fireof rage is spreading,thevirusgrowingunchecked,seekingmore
assertiveexpression- feedingon itself,as firesdo. The displaced aggression
hereis characteristicof the Ranter.As Camus says,"thereis
and self-loathing
no love oflifewithoutdespairoflife."And vice versa. The Ranter,like his felat thebar,the Cynic and the Depressive,is a disappointedlover,
low sufferers
a failedRomantic(what'stheoppositeofan oxymoron?A moron?That'swhat
you'dhave to call a failedRomantic); unlike them,however,he eitherhasn't
learnedor refusesto learnto represshis disappointment.He has too much of
it: hes fullup withdisappointment,allergicto disappointment,the slightest
brushfromitsnettlesreopensall his wounds,makes his long historyof prior
disappointmentswell up like a hemorrhageand bleed rightthroughhis skin.
He eithercant or won'tinternalizehis rage: he's too heated up, too seething.
Irritation,whetherof the skin or the soul, generatesfurtherirritation:thatis
itsnature.
witha Geigercounter
Andyoucan'tfindyourwaitress
andyoujustcantgetserved
Andshehatesyouandyourfriends
her
without
andthebarstoolsareon fire
is drooling,
Andtheboxoffice
haveretired
and theashtrays
werefooling,
Andthenewspapers
causethepianohasbeendrinking,
notme,notme,notme,notme,notme
Thepianohasbeendrinking,
What Waits'sdrunkdoes withhis innerrage is projectit outward,spattering
itlike so much action paintingonto the canvas of an indifferent
world,which
it frenziedlyanimatesand illuminates,to vivid,viscerallymetaphoriceffect.
Thinkof van Gogh. Or Francis Bacon. Or, forthatmatter,D. H. Lawrence:
considerthe protagonistin Kangaroo, who "wearied himselfto death strugglingwiththeproblemofhimselfand callingit Australia."
Lawrenceis unavoidablein anydiscussionofRanting,so lets gethim out
of theway,or embracehim,I mean, straightoff.Here'sa paragraphfromthe
second page of his wacko novella,"St Mawr,"in which the narratordescribes
one oftheprincipalcharacters,Rico:
ROBERT COHEN
237
Ricowas handsome,elegant,butmostlyhe had spotsofpainton his
trousers
and he ruineda necktiepullingitoff.He behavedin a most
to the Italians.But at thesame
floridly
elegantfashion,fascinating
timehe was cannyand shrewdand sensibleas anyyoungposercould
anxious.He was anxiousforhis
be, and,on principle,
good-hearted,
and anxiousforhis placein theworld,he was poor,and sudfuture,
denlywastefulin spiteof all his tensionof economy,and suddenly
in spiteofall hisingratiating
and suddenlyungrateful
efforts,
spiteful
in spiteofall hisburdenofgratitude,
and suddenlyrudein spiteofall
his good manners,and suddenlydetestablein spiteof all his suave,
courtier-like
amiability.
Notice how the tug of war being foughtover Rico in the narratorssensibilthe moral relativismand sympathywhich allows
ity- the whole-sightedness,
us to see this man as at once phony and good-heartedand earnest- begins
to wobble and degenerateas the paragraphgoes on. You can feelthe ranting
impulsein Lawrence- thestewingspite- heatingup underthepressureofhis
darkscrutiny.Soon enough,itpours out,elbowingtheForsteriangenerosities
aside (the whole Lawrence-Forstercorrespondenceis a festivalof elbows,but
thenso is prettymuch everycorrespondenceinvolvingLawrence) untilfinally
itbreaksthroughthescrimofomniscientneutrality
altogether,
sayingin effect,
"ah fuckit,whymince words,I detestthe guy."
Of course it deservesmentionthatthiscontemptiblecreatureRico does
not in factexist: he'sonlya constructionofthe author,a paper tiger,or target,
forhim to shoot at. But theneveryferociousmoralistneedstargetsto shoot at:
iflifedoesn'tsupplyhim withenough of them,and even ifit does, hell have
to inventa fewmore.
This is also whats so tiresomeabout Lawrence,or forthatmatter,any
compulsiveranter:theeternalshadowboxing.AfterSons and Lovers, thenovels
become increasinglyafflicted
withthistendency,and sufferforit.The novel is
afterall a supremelyinclusiveand forgiving(read incredibly
indulgent)form.
There'sno one to shutLawrenceup. Perhapsthisis whyhe is at his best in his
shortstories,where the rigidcompressionof the framework,and the messy
expansivenessof his narrativevoice, are beautifullyand productivelyheld in
check,each by the other:the genie and the bottle.The resultingsuspended
tensionis powerfuland unique. Anotherwayofsayingthisis thattheviolence
is dramatizedand localized, ratherthan assertedand generallyimposed.
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THE GEORGIA REVIEW
I'm thinkingof the amazing story"Tickets Please," with its vengeful,
riotousending,whereall the spurnedwomen taken out by the rakishyoung
conductoron whatthenarratorwarnsus is "themost dangeroustramservice
in England" convergeupon him wildly,literallytearinghis clothesfromhis
back and practicallystranglinghim,beforehurryingoff"withmute,stupefied
faces."What allows theviolencein thisstoryto breakthroughthewhitespace
around it is the sense thatthis is a delimitedscene in a delimitedtime (the
- in power) and that
war is goingon, the men are all off,the women- briefly
ultimatelywe can t lingerhere,the writerand the women too mustgo home,
recompose themselves,tamp down theirmurderousvengefulinstincts,and
make dinner.
When thefencesare down,however,when the requirementsofformno
longerobtain,we get the Other Lawrence- the soapbox-straddling,spittlelate-NietzcheanLawrence."The older I get,"he admits,or boasts, "the
flying,
He writesto his friendEarl Brewster
angrierI become, generally."
andabout
a bitwhatyoumeanaboutTightness
No,I dont understand
the
world
world.
Damn
the
and
about
anyhow.And I
relationships
hate"understanding"
people,and I hatemorestillto be understood.
I refusetounderstand
morethananything.
Damnunderstanding
you.
a qualm,andneverbother
without
can
what
Therefore
youlike,
you say
to alterit.I shant understand.
Later in the same letterhis patience for language itselfruns out- he can
no longermanage to find,in words,sufficient
shape and dimension forhis
a
kind
of sputteringonomatopoeia:
to
So
he
reverts
all-encompassingrage.
"Pfui!- pish,pshaw,prrr!"
The irony is that Lawrence himselfdeclares elsewhere that he hates
"people who rave withunreasonableantipathies,"and denounces a friendas
"one of those irritatingpeople who have generalizeddetestations."But we'd
be wrongto dismisshis rage as merelythe productof a surlytemperament,
thoughitsurelyis thattoo. Thereis also an activephilosophyatwork,one quite
earnestand hopefuland idealistic,a revoltagainstthecheerfulpassive driftof
he writes
theculture- of,we mightsay,all culture."I am essentiallya fighter,"
s peace ... All
in one letter."To wish me peace is bad luck- exceptthe fighter
truth- and real livingis the only truth- has in it the elementsof battleand
repudiation."And, to a friendstudyingBuddhism:
ROBERT COHEN
239
to otherpeoples
I prefermystrife,
Butalwaysremember
infinitely,
and
peace,haven,andheavens. . . moreandmoreI feelthatmeditation
theinnerlifearenotmyaim,butsomesortofactionandstrenuousness
... oh god,mustone
and struggling
andpainand frustration
through
limit,thento comeback?
go theextreme
Note thatthisis posed notas an answer- nothere,anyway- butas a searching
and ratherbeautifulquestion,one thatcould serve as the epigraphto many
ambitiousworksofart,fromConrad to Genetto FlanneryO'Connor.Thismay
be whyforAmericanwritersof our generation- those of us conditionedby
proprietiesof the graduirony,by postmodernrelativism,by the ingratiating
ate workshop,and by the generaltendencyof middle class cultureto insulate
us fromextremetemperaturesand discomfortsof all kinds- Lawrenceposes
a genuinethreat.
GeoffDyer, in Out of Sheer Rage, his wonderfulbook on Lawrence,
locates him squarely in the European traditionof the literatureof neurasthenia, of anxiety,fretting,and complaint. Think of Kafka, Beckett,Italo
Svevo, RobertWalser,Thomas Bernhard- all fascinatingexemplarsof what
Lawrence calls "the life-exhaustionfeeling."This feeling,as Dyer points out,
qualityforwhichLawrenceis
actuallyis quite closelykin to thatlife-affirming
so admired "thereis no love of lifewithoutdespair of life."Lifeexhaustion,
lifeaffirmation:
theseare nervoustwins,we mightsay.Anyonewithanysense
knowsthatifyou run around theworldlookingforitto affirm
yourexistence,
re
to
suffer
disappointment.
you going
But "sense" is itselfsomethingto be radicallydistrustedin Lawrence.
Lawrence,and Rantersgenerally,are,like all artists,emissariesof antireason,
surlyand compulsivehit men. Theywant to crash throughthe glass walls of
our houses,to wake us, eventerrorizeus,withtheludicrous,irrationalquotient
outside. In his essay "Chaos in Poetry"Laurence statesthiswith
of suffering
vehemence:
characteristic
Man mustwraphimselfin a vision,makea houseofapparentform
In his terrorofchaoshe beginsbyputtingup an
and stability,
fixity.
whirl.Thenhe paints
umbrellabetweenhimselfand theeverlasting
. . . Man fixessome
theundersideofhis umbrellalikea firmament.
thewildchaos,
himself
and
between
wonderful
erectionofhis own
underhisparasol.Thencomes
andgradually
goesbleachedandstifled
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THE GEORGIA REVIEW
a poet,enemyofconvention,
and makesa slitin theumbrella;
andlo!
Theglimpseofchaosis a vision,a windowto thesun.
This is not so different
fromthe famouspassage in Chekhovs "Gooseberries"
about theman withthehammer,our conscience,who pounds upon the door
of our complacencies.
Thereoughtto be behindthedoor of everyhappy,contentedman
someonestanding
witha hammercontinually
himwitha
reminding
that
there
are
that
however
he
tap
unhappypeople;
happy maybe,life
willshowhimherlawssoonerorlater,
willcomeforhim- distrouble
ease,poverty,
losses,andno onewillseeorhear,justas nowhe neither
seesnorhearsothers.
Thomas Bernhard,in his novel Concrete
, perhaps in homage, puts his own
black-on-black
on
spin thisidea:
hilariouslynegative
Thereoughttobe onlyhappypeople- all thenecessary
conditions
are
but
thequestionis really
present- thereareonlyunhappypeople
thewinter
as painlessly
as possible.Andthe
onlyhowwearetosurvive
muchcruelerspring.Andsummerwe'vealwayshated.Thenautumn
takeseverything
themostravawayfromus again.Thenshedisplayed
ishingbosomtheworldhad everseen.I dont knowwhythissentence
occurredto mejustnowand mademelaugh.Itdoesn'tmatter
either:
whatmatters
was entirely
is thatthelaughter
unforeseen.
... we go
whichcan sometimes
lastforweeksand
periodsofagitation
through
cant be switched
off.Thensuddenlythey're
gone. . .
Thatwonderfulitalicizederuptionabout the ravishingbosom is the Ranters
savagehumor.The licenseto spill,to cutloose, gives
greatgift:unpredictability,
the ranterentréeto everything-includingthe irrational,the non sequitur,
and the digressive.As Charles Baxterputs it, "The digressionis not identical to the Rant,but theyare both childrenof thatdifficult
but lovable father,
Mr. Not-Getting-to-the-Point."
This line of rambling,near-plotlesschattiness
comes down to us fromat least as long ago as Laurence Sterne,and takes on
darkerhues as it approachesthe twentiethcentury,whereit becomes identifiedwith the discontentsof the self.(At least in the NorthernHemisphere:
in the Southern,you have workslike Machado de Assis Epitaph of a Small
Winner-a prettysunnyaffairconsideringits dictatedby a corpse- as well as
HumbertoCostantinis TheLongNightofFranciscoSanctis, at theend ofwhich,
ROBERT COHEN
24I
however,we re sucker-punchedwiththehorrorofwhatthechatty,trivializing
consciousnesshas been holdingoffall night:thepoliticalterroraround him).
Bernhards narratorsremain largelyindoors, roaming around theirrooms,
knockinginto furniture,
hammeringtheirown heads intotheirown walls,as
it were,rummagingthroughthe drawersof consciousness,top and bottom,
raidingwhatevertakestheirfancy.
But a steadydiet of hammeringgrowstiresomeand repetitive:ifit isn't
modulated, it too can put us to sleep. Hammering is only interesting,we
mightsay,if its counterposedwith not-hammering.Any one extremeemotion quicklygrowsdulling,predictable;even the urgentwhoop-whoop of an
emergencyvehiclebegins to sound, aftera fewmoments,a littletranceyand
ofvoice: once we beginto predictitsregisterand
glazed. So too withextremity
range,its rhythmicpotentialities,our attentionfallsoff.Bernhardsbook for
example is one long unbrokenparagraph.What makes it work is its sneakiness; itsone-notekvetchinessprovesdeceptive,a slidingdoor throughwhich
we sneak peeks at other thingsentirely,all those memories of bosoms and
whatnot.
Even thesingularintensity
oftheRant,in otherwords,requiresfromthe
writera kind of Chekhoviandoubleness,collidingextremeswhichcan sometimes(thinkofBeckett)taketheformofslapstick.The humorunderlies- and
at times undermines- the surfaceanger.Afterall, thereare two parts of us
we mustaccount for.Ifpartof us is mad, as Rebecca Westwrote,and "prefers
the disagreeableto the agreeable,loves pain and its darkernightdespair,and
wantsto die in a catastrophethatwill set lifeback to itsbeginningsand leave
thenit followsthatpart
nothingofour house save itsblackenedfoundations,"
of us is notmad. Partof us is sane. And thisparttoo mustbe somehow made
implicitlyfelt,ifthe writingis not to degenerateinto mere crankiness,mere
boredom.
In Beckettand Kafkaand Dostoevski,we encounterthemind both at war and
envelopedbyitself,shoutingto be freedfromitslocked cell. The Underground
Man rails againsta world in which,to his infiniteannoyance,two timestwo
equals four.Reason- rationalconsciousness- is forhim an airlessroom.Dostoevski'sheroes,like Lawrences,and Saul Bellows, do whatMalcolm Lowrys
Consul does: theyturntheirback on reason and "choose hell,"recastingtheir
and indignationand failuresinto heroism,the heroismofthe inept,
suffering
tormentedheart.StephenCranes "I like it /because it is bitter/ and because
THE GEORGIA REVIEW
242
it is myheart"comes veryclose to this.So does Chekhovs "Lady and the Pet
Dog," withits image of the inkstandGurov findsin his room when he visits
Anna Sergeyevna,"graywithdustand topped bya figureon horseback,itshat
in its raised hand and its head brokenoff."To findones heartis to lose ones
head. Hence thatinspiredrantLolita, whichtakesitsinspiration,as Nabokov
tellsus, fromthe firstdrawingproduced by an ape in captivity:a drawingof
delineatedin Elias Canettis
thebarsofitscage. The cage itselfis nightmarishly
schema forAuto da Fé, which takes as its subtitle"A Head withouta World:
Headless World:The Worldin the Head."
Canettis titlewould serveforprettymuch all of Beckett,too. Whenever
I tryto pictureone of Beckett'snarrators,I thinkof a Giacomettisculpture,
an attenuatedbody supportingan enormous open-mouthedhead, yammering itsway towardsilence- attemptingto rub itselfout, in the same way that
Giacomettisdrawingsinevitablywind up looking more erased than drawn.
But even the eraserleaves smudges. Here's an almost random excerptfrom
Molloy:
it is to speakofthemoonand notlose ones head,the
How difficult
witlessmoon.Itmustbe herarsesheshowsus always.Yes,I oncetook
I dontdenyit.Thenitwasgeologythatkilled
inastronomy,
an interest
and
a fewyearsforme.The nextpain in theballswas anthropology
thatare connectedwithit,
suchas psychiatry,
theotherdisciplines,
tothelatestdiscoveries.
thenconnected
disconnected,
again,according
ofnegation,
wasitsinexhaustible
WhatI likedinanthropology
faculty
ofman,as thoughhe wereno betterthanGod,
definition
itsrelentless
in termsofwhathe is not. . .
*
Havingsaid all this,we mightpause hereand ask ourselveswhetherrantingis
exclusivelytheprovinceofthemodernEuropean mind. SurelyJob,to go back
a bit,drawshisheatfromtheranters furnace.And closerto home,thePuritans
were nothingifnot ranters.Or were they?Lets say,forthe sake of argument,
thatthere'sa distinctionto be drawnbetweenthe sermonand the rant.Both
sermon- and thisincludes
thepropheticjeremiadand thefire-and-brimstone
even such eloquent practitionersas MartinLutherKing Jr.,or more recently
and less eloquently,Howard Dean- are essentiallytop-downaffairs.Theyrail
againstinjusticefromthe lectern,the altar:theydeliverfocused outrageand
ROBERT COHEN
243
passion towardsa specifictargetfromthestandpointofone who knowsbetter
thanthe powersthatbe.
The literaryrant,in my view, is both a humblerand a granderthing.
Whats being decried is not a social (and perfectible)injustice,but an existentialone: the factthatwe are what we are, more or less. Its the productof
a small, caged selfsquintingup uncertainlyfromits basementwindow,and
at thelight,and theparade ofanklesgoingpast.Among
raging,semi-enviously,
American writers,Whitman is not a ranter,but a celebrator.Poe qualifies,
certainly,and Twain at his darkest and Melvilletoo, thoughhe justifiesthis
tendencymost ingeniously:
Itdoes seemto me thathereinwe see therarevirtueofa strongindividualvitality,
and therarevirtueofthickwalls,and therarevirtueof
interior
afterthe
spaciousness.Oh, man! Admireand modelthyself
whale!LikethegreatdomeofStPeters,andlikethegreatwhale,retain,
О man!In all seasonsa temperature
ofthineown.
As a case studyforone way that the discourse of Ranting arrivedon
theseshores,both culturallyand linguistically,
Ydliketo look at theJews,who
seem to me, fromJobto Allen Ginsbergto LarryDavid, disproportionately
representedin the RantersHall of Fame. Why? One quick answeris thatwe
are afterall just transplantedEuropeans: Ranting,you mightsay,is one ofthe
black bags we broughtover fromRussia in steerage.Were all familiarby now
withthe iconic figureof Sholom Aleichems Tevyathe Dairy Man, his village
crumbling,his familyfallingawayfromhim,his horse,or mule,inadequate to
thetask,who raiseshis fistto theheavensand letsflywitha mad, bewildered,
but reallycatchysong.
But sometimesthe song is not so catchy.In StanleyElkins "Criersand
Kibitzers,Kibitzersand Criers" Greenspahn,who has recentlylost his son,
is whirlingangrilydown the drain of his life,succumbingto rage,grief,and
entropyeven as his grocerystorysuccumbsto theinevitablepull ofthechains.
He is,we mightsay,bound up in thesechains,and whats worseis he no longer
cares. Or rather,he does and he doesn't.This tug of war between caringand
not-caring,betweenlivingand suicide,betweennoticingin masochisticdetail
the objects thatwall him in (Jobwas verygood at this too) and seeing right
throughthem to nothing,provides the storystension,its dynamic,furious
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THE GEORGIA REVIEW
stasis.This Elkin makes manifestin everypossible way,sparingGreenspahn
no indignities.
In theafternoon
Greenspahn
thoughthe mightbe able to movehis
bowels.He wentintothetoiletoffthesmallroomat thebackofthe
store.He sat,lookingup at thehighceiling.In thesmokydarkness
abovehis head he couldjust makeout thesmall,squaretinceiling
armor.
plates.Theyseemedpitted,soiled,likepatchesofwar-ruined
was
stained
The
sink
bowl
is
a
the
dark,
Agh,hethought, place pigpen.
theenamelchipped,longfissures
radiatinglikelineson themap of
Thesinglefaucetdrippedsteadily.
somewastedcountry.
Greenspahn
water
bill.On theknobofthefaucethe sawagain
of
his
sadly
thought
whatthehelldoes S standfor?H hot,
a fadedblueS. S, he thought,
С cold.Whatthehellkindoffaucetis S? Old clotheshungon a hook
on thebackofthedoor.A mansbluewashpantshunginsideout,the
zippersplitlikea peeledbanana,thecrowdedconcourseofseamsat
sewnpatches.
thecrotchlikecarelessly
weremaliciouslystrippedawayfromhim,even his manIt is as ifeverything
hood (thatsplitzipper),even a coherentlanguagewhereletterssignifysomethingyou understand,ratherthan just wanderingout into the meaningless
marginslikeso manyfecklesssons- stripping,in theend, even his one sacrosanctpossession: his purityof mourningforhis dead son, who is revealedat
theend to have been yetanotherthiefin a worldofthieves.Greenspahns rage
and rantshave been misprojected,we understandnow,all this time; and so,
Elkin suggests,he mustlike Lear pay the ultimateprice forhis blindness,his
He mustbe strippedof his ruinedarmor,and wander naked
self-indulgence.
throughthe storm.
Reading Elkin is a reminderthat the sound of Yiddish, or Yiddish
inflectedEnglish,is a marvelousvehicleforrants:builtinto its constructions
is a relentlesscriticalironywhich is oftenas not applied againstthe self.Self,
shmelf.Shmo,shmendrik,shlemiel,shlimazel,shmuck:theresa kind ofplayful,irreverentpleasure (we feel it in the mouth and the ear) in the tearing
down,the deconstructionof pretentiousairs,pretentioushopes. Yiddish,the
which means "language of
linguiststell us, was originallyknown as "teytsh,"
voice of the lower
people" or popular speech the bantering,story-telling
in
with
the embattled;those, short,
classes, the street-smart,
somethingto
complainabout. ("Complaint,"saysthe poet Carl Dennis, "is one of thebasic
formsof spiritualexpression") So we get the shtik
, the
, the shpiel, the kvetch
ROBERT COHEN
245
shpritz,the whole device of theatricallyhumorous complaint,which spreads
to thehost countryvia Yiddish Theaterand itsstepchild,vaudeville,and then
findsitsultimateexpressionin standupcomedy,wherethenoisytransmutation
ofhistoricalalienationand pain are converted,in good Freudianfashion,into
laughterand cash and thelove ofwomen. Yiddish and Englishmake a nice fit:
they'reboth mongrelsat heart;theenergiesthatfeedthemare playful,improvisatory.Each gives the impressionof a language making itselfup as it goes
along,crossingbordersofhighand low expression.Hence Saul Bellows signal
achievement- to bringthishybridenergy,thishigh/lowmix,to the novel,to
crow out in the firstlines of Augie March: "I . . . go at thingsas I have taught
and will make the record in my own way. . . . Everybody
myself,free-style,
knows thereis no finenessor accuracyof suppression."
Among the unsuppressed energies that feed the great Jewish-American writersof the previousgenerationis the rage of feelingboxed in by that
tojump fromone side to the
hyphen.PhilipRothis a writerwho,in attempting
other fromthenice Jewishboy to thelicentious,unbridledAmerican- finds
himselfimpaledon theveryfencehe hoped to hurdle.And makesofthathowling,stabbingpain both subject and fuel.Heres a characteristicpassage from
:
Portnoy
to thinkits practicallymiraculousthat
Look, am I exaggerating
I'm ambulatory?
The watch-its
The hysteriaand the superstition!
and be-carefuls!You mustn'tdo this,you can'tdo that- hold it!
Don't you'rebreakingan importantlaw! What law? Whose law?
a glassofmilkwithmysalami
... I couldn'tevencontemplate
drinking
to God Almighty.
sandwichwithoutgivingseriousoffense
Imagine
thenwhatmyconsciencegaveme forall thatjerkingoff!The guilt,
- theterrorbredintomybones!Whatin theirworldwas
thefears
withgerms,fraught
withperil?Oh,
notchargedwithdanger,
dripping
wherewas thegusto,wherewastheboldnessand courage?
Portnoys rantis both a sons plaintiveOedipal cryfora fathers understanding
and theliberatingwar-whoopofthatwild nativeAmerican,his id, againstthe
old-worlddictatesof his conscience. Its not fornothingthatPortnoys father
is constipated:he is "imprisoned"by his lifeas a salesman and familyman;
ownershipof the mans intestinaltract"is in the hands of the firmof Worry,
No wonder he cant let go. Ironically,Roths firstnovel,
Fear & Frustration."
called LettingGo, is most noteworthyforitsmoral equilibrium,itsthorough,
246
THE GEORGIA REVIEW
patient,judicious explorationof the compromisesone makes along the road
It wasn'tuntilRothhimselflet go- stoppedbeingthedutifulson,
to maturity.
the decorous younggraduatestudentof literaturewho studiedthatfamously
constipatedgreatwhitefatherHenry James,and let flywithhis own unruly,
aggressive,parricidalinstincts,thathe became the messybrilliantwriterhe
now is, the one withan almostinfinitecapacityto appall us.
Leaveoffwiththeblushing,
burytheshame,youareno longeryour
a maninhis
Where
little
s naughty boy!
mother
appetiteis concerned,
Thaťswhatsso niceabout
tono onebuthimself1.
is responsible
thirties
a little
Debauch
take!
You
want
to
take?
You
bit,forChrists
up!
growing
sake!stop denying yourself! stop denying the truth!
Portnoys rantaccelerates- or degenerates- untilithas clearedall theground
aroundit,made an enormousspace foritselfto lie down in (likeBecketts Molloy),untilfinallyitarrivesat itsterminaldestination,a kind ofprimalscream
which,as the final(punch) line of the novel remindsus, is really,as Chekhov
would say,onlya beginning:
and anyothergood doctor/therapist
of the
It makesme wantto scream
, theridiculousdisproportion
in
the
out
too
much
them
shake
Will
that
I?
waiting
up
guilt!May
room?Becausethat'smaybewhatI needmostofall,to howl.A pure
howl,without
anymorewordsbetweenmeand it!. . .
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaahhh!!!!!
We mightsay thatall rants,indeed perhaps all writers,aspire to pure
howl, to transcendtheirown materials- to get beyond language altogether,
to slip the bonds of artificialconstructsand engage withthe dark mess that
lies below.The factthatwe can'tuse languageto getbeyond language is more
oftenthannot a comic premise,a paradox thatgoads us forward,a bad joke.
The ranterfeelsthisacutely;its the salt he rubs his wound in, revelingin the
discomfort.And documentingit.
This kind of hyphenatedethnicrage,thisfeelingofbeing squeezed into
categoriesand wantingto breakfree butnot toofree,notso freethatyou can t
recognizeyourselfor be recognizedby yourpeople, who driveyou crazy,or
rather,reflectback at you how you driveyourselfсrazy- is perhaps the great
ROBERT COHEN
247
Americancomplaint,and thesourceofour bestrantsand some ofour bestart.
ThinkofEllisonsInvisibleMan, listening,down in his undergroundhole,to the
blues ofLouis Armstrong,
communicatingwithus on "ourlowerfrequencies."
PercivalEverettsrecentnovel Erasure- not so much a meditationon black
Ellison-influenced
black
ofthe contemporary,
as on the invisibility
invisibility
a protestagainst
writer-is,likePortnoysComplaint, a screedand an effrontery,
theconstraintsofphilistineperception,whichwould box theethnicwriterinto
a cornerand traphim there.For all its trickypostmodernstructureEverett's
novelis also bitterly
directabout whatwe mightcall Percys Complaint:
howmuchI hatedthechain
I stoodin themiddleofBordersthinking
and chainslikeit.I'd talkedto too manyownersoflittle,realbookstoreswho werebeingdrivento thepoorhousebywhattheycalled
theWal-Martofbooks. I decidedto see ifthestorehad anyof my
books,firmin mybeliefthateveniftheydid,myopinionaboutthem
and did notsee me.I went
wouldbe unchanged.I wentto Literature
Fictionand did notfindme,butwhenI fellbacka
to Contemporary
AmericanStudiesand
I
found
a sectioncalledAfricanof
couple steps
undisturbed
and
read
, werefour
there,arrangedalphabetically neatly,
ofmybooksincluding
myPersiansofwhichtheonlythingostensibly
I becamequicklyirate,
African-American
was myjacketphotograph.
storewas
.
.
.
brow
furrowing thatfucking
mypulsespeedingup,my
takingfoodfrommytable.
"I wentto Literatureand did not see me": isn'tthiseverywritersnightmare,thecorollaryofgoingto the mirrorand not findingyourface?Invisible
men.
I havent consciouslyintendedto excludewomen fromthisdiscussion,though
of course so farI have, haven1 1? Such writersas VirginiaWoolf,JeanRhys,
CynthiaOzick, JamaicaKincaid, MargaretAtwood, KathyAcker,and even
FlanneryO'Connor deservediscussionhere,notjusttokenmention.(I worried
while writingthis essay thatit was skewingheavilymale, and so I did some
informalpollingofmyfemalewriterfriends,all ofwhom werebreathtakingly
quick to agree- until,thatis, I asked themforexamples,at whichpointa certain amountof slow,thoughtfulshruggingensued.) "Women are supposed to
writesCharlotteBrontë,"butwomen feeljust as men
be verycalm generally,"
feel."True. And yetthe matterof expressiongrowscomplicatedhere.No less
248
THE GEORGIA REVIEW
an arbiterthan VirginiaWoolf worries,in her brilliant(if ratherdecorous)
rant,A RoomofOnes Own, thatBrontës books "willbe deformedand twisted.
She will writein a rage where she should writecalmly.She will writefoolishlywhereshe should writewisely.She will writeofherselfwhereshe should
writeof her characters."Would anyonesay this,or even thinkto say it,about
Lawrence or Dostoevski? And what does that suggest?That women writers
are held,or hold themselves- thinkof JaneAustencoveringher manuscripts
withblottingpaper- to a higherstandardofdecorumor artfulnessthanmen?
Or simplya different
one? "It would be a thousandpitiesifwomen wrotelike
Woolf
men,"
says.
And perhapshereinlies theproblemin identifying
thefemaleranter,for
whomtheaccess to rage,and theexpressionofit,has historicallybeen filtered
througha more complex screen.In JamaicaKincaid s work,forexample,we
sense a kind of withheldrant,anothermarginalizedcomplaintagainstinvisibilityand voicelessness,against a world in which ones face does not show
up in the mirror.Kincaids repetitive,somnolentrhythmsare like the seiche
leftbehind by an explosion- a furiousnear-silence.Consciousness of selfimprisonment,and a vengeful,irritablecompulsion to assign blame, refuse
to assign blame, and then assign blame all over again forthe narrators loss
and exile and powerlessness,resultin a smolderinglitanyof sensationsand
subverbalfeelingswhichthe narratoralternatelystampsout and pours gasoline over.
Consider thispassage fromKincaids At theBottomoftheRiver:
I tryto
I walkoverto thefireplace.
ofthefireplace,
Standingin front
writemynamein thedead asheswithmybigtoes.I cannotwritemy
namein thedeadasheswithmybigtoes.Mybigtoes,nowdirty,
I try
on a cleanroyal-blue
to cleanbyrubbingitvigorously
The
rug.
royalbluerugnowhas a darkspot,and mybigtoeshas a strongburning
sensation.Oh, sensation.I am filledwithsensation.I feel-oh,howI
feel.I feel,I feel,I feel.I haveno wordsrightnowforhowI feel.
Her impatiencewithlanguage,and her retreatfromit into anotherlanguage,is somethingthatLawrenceand Beckettwould recognize.So too would
theyrecognizethatothersignaland parallelfeatureofKincaids work:itsfiery
and intemperateself-regard.
Does she "writeofherselfwhereshe should write
of her characters"?And in so doing, is she writingmore "like men,"or less?
ROBERT COHEN
249
And are these distinctionseven valuable or interestingat thispoint in world
culture?
Me, I dont claim to know. I'm as tremulousand humble in the face of
femalerageas thenextman. For one thing,italwaysfeelsmore authenticthan
myown, and somehow more selfless,too. The refusalto demur can of course
be viewed (and licensed) as a nod to the long historyof femaledemurralit
trailsin itswake, and thus distinguishedfromthe typicalmale rantby virtue
of itspolitics.But perhapsthisis sentimental.The didactic and self-justifying
we see in Lawrencesurelyfindsechoes in SylviaPlath,whose
over-the-topness
oft-quoted"Daddy,"in blurringthelinesbetweenOedipal rageand thehorrors
of fascismI thought
everyGermanwasyou.
Andthelanguageobscene
An engine,an engine,
me offlikea Jew.
Chuffing
A Jewto Dachau,Auschwitz,
Belsen.
I beganto talklikea Jew.
I thinkI maywellbe a Jew.
-
manages to remain "so entangledin biographicalcircumstancesand rampages so permissivelyin the historyof otherpeoples sorrows"(I am quoting
Seamus Heaney here,but its hardlya unique response) "thatit simplyoverdraws its rightsto our sympathy."
And that'sputtingthe case mildly.Plaths
poem, forall its brilliance,is disproportionateand thereforein both ethical
and aesthetictermsat least partly(perhaps usefully)stupid: the emotional
energygained fromits awful,obscene conflationis a cheap high.And yetits
a hell of a rant.
Still,one growstiredofthesenot-so-veiledconfessions,ofsquintingoverthese
blurredlines between persona and personhood. Some of my favoriterants
achievetheireffects
froma greaterdegreeofironicdistance.Take Don DeLillo,
whose rockand rollnovelGreatJonesStreetfeaturesanothernarratorin retreat
fromsocial discourse,travelingan innerroad ofpure sensation,tryingto stop
doingwhathe does best,move people to worshipbythecoiningofmemorable
lyrics- trying,as he puts it,to withdraw"to thatunimprintedlevel whereall
sound is silkenand nothingerodes in themad weatheroflanguage."The irony
250
THE GEORGIA REVIEW
ofthenoveland thesource ofitsenergyare thewaythenarrators repudiating
silence provides a stillcenteraround which everyother character(and the
authorhimself)forms,or projects,or imposes, baroque verbal patternsthat
more oftenthannot takethe shape of rants.Heres his manager,Globke:
for
Mywholelifeis a studyin bad taste.Bad tasteis thefoundation
that
mogulin an industry
everysuccessIve everhad.I'ma self-made
all overme.How
aboundsin bad taste.Look at me.Mogulis written
did I getthere?Aggressiveness
gotme there.Massivedouble-dealing.
Insultsbeyondbelief.Littlewhitelies. Fartsand
Loudmouthedness.
aboutit.Thesearethe
a friendand thenbragging
belches.Betraying
Not
in
the
stature
that
industry. justrespector clout
things giveyou
Thatgivesyou
not
Its
Stature.
ornotability.
enoughtobetraya friend.
attheverymost.Youhavetosupplytheextratouch.Youbetray
respect
a friendand thenyoubragaboutit.Thatsstarquality.Thatgivesyou
stature.
and startlingnarrative
bad tastelikeGlobkes can be putto terrific
Aggressively
find
ourselves
we
often
uses
kind
of
the
uses,
shyingaway from,eitherconclimateof American
sciouslyor unconsciously,in the timid,lets-not-offend
letters.MartinAmis slobbyantihero,JohnSelf,is ifpossible even less politicallycorrectthanGlobke and Portnoy.Selfis all self;his superego,presuming
he ever had one, has gone entirelyAWOL. Whats leftis a restless,churning
energyin search of direction,and, in the absence of thatdirection,a bewilderedsurrenderto appetite,a hungerforsex and food and moneythatcannot
be appeased byanyofthesethings,can onlybe sated,finally,
throughlanguage.
But no singlelanguageis adequate:
Thereare,at thelatestcount,fourdistinctvoicesin myhead. First,
as the
ofcourse,is thejabberofmoney,whichmightbe represented
bluron thetoprungofa typewriter$%@+&$- sums,subtractions,
This
andgreeds.Secondisthevoiceofpornography.
compoundterrors
oftensoundsliketherapofa demented
DJ:thewayshemoveshasgotto
begoodnews
, bitch
,
, cantgetloosetillI feelthejuice- suckand spread
of
.
the
voice
on.
.
.
.
.
.
and
so
me
bounce
Third,
ageing
yeah
for baby
oftimetravelthrough
andweather,
weakening
daysanddays,theevervoiceofstungshame,sadboredomandfutile
protest Numberfour
dont
I dontwantanyofthesevoicesbutI especially
istherealintruder.
wantthisone. It has to do withquittingworkand needingto think
aboutthingsI neverusedto thinkabout.Ithas theunwelcomeliltof
ROBERT COHEN
25I
madearticulate
inspasmsofvividness:
paranoia,ofrageandweepiness
drunktalkplayedbacksober.
Notice theprogression,or devolution,fromouter-directed
voices ofrage
and greed and terrorto the inner-directedones of sadness and shame and
strangeness,voices so inner thatat a certainpoint theyare no longer (as in
theWaitssong) distinguishablefromouter.And so theRanterstalkshis maze,
thathall of mirrorsin which it is impossibleto see past his own head.
This is also of course the writers predicament,and so its no surprise
that some of our most successfulfictionalrantsare about the failureof the
writers language- not the characters- to capture what must be captured.
GilbertSorrentinosstory,"The Moon in Its Flight,"strikesme as a gorgeous
example of this.The cride coeurat the heartof it- "turnthatinto a joke,"the
narratordares us- is thevoice ofa man writingforhis life,tellingus a storyat
once so universal(who has not failedto grasp the keyof firstlove at the right
moment?),so American (the unfathomabledistance between Riverdaleand
Brooklyn,betweenupper-middle and workingclass in a societythatpresents
itselfas classless),and so literary(the writersneed to redressold wounds, to
attemptto salve them and/orexploitthem in art),thatits almost impossible
notto respondto its operaticpleadingsforunderstanding,forhelp,forrelief.
Letme comeand sleepwithyou.Let me lie in yourbed and look at
youin yourbeautiful
pajamas.I'll do anything
yousay.I'll honorthe
beautiful
father
and mother.I'll hidein theclosetand be no trouble.
I'llworkas a stockboyinyourfather
s beautiful
sweater
Itsnot
factory.
fault
I'm
not
Marvin
or
I
don
t
even
know
where
CCNY
is!
my
Shelley.
Who is ConradAiken?Whatis BronxScience?Who is Berlioz?What
is a Stravinsky?
Howdo youplayMah-Jongg?
Whatis schmooz,schlep,
Purim,Moo Goo Gai Pan?Helpme.
Sorrentinopresentsus withthe furioushum of a word enginelaboringto get
beyond words,to grasp the key thatwill unlock the selffromits cell. But it
can t: thatrantingyou hear is the sound of a head bangingagainstthe bars of
thepoor creatures (thatis,writers) cage. Or,as thenarratorbitterly
concludes,
"Artcan t rescue anyonefromanything."
It strikesme,thinkingback overtheseand otherexamples,thatthereis somethingboth deeply satisfyingand deeply honest about rants.Not just about
readingthem,but about writingthem,too. This may well have physiological
252
THE GEORGIA REVIEW
roots.Neurologiststellus thatthelimbicsystem,whichtakesitsname fromthe
ringit formsaround the cortex,drivesmanyfunctionswe wish we had conscious controlover,but dont- like hungerand sexual desire,and the experience ofinspiration.The limbicsystemconnectsmorestronglyto thetemporal
lobes than to any otherregionof the cortex.Which may be whyresearchers
like Kay RedfieldJamisonand Alice Flahertyare now suggestingthatmanic
mood swings,and the dark sedimenttheydislodge, are not a byproductof
but itssource.
creativity,
So: picturethelong distancefictionwritersittingalone at his or herdesk,
into place, then another,then
plodding along,wheelingthe scenes furniture
another,feelingan increasingsense (unless the workis goingverywell) that
one is engaged in the verykind of labor one became a writerto avoid: this
this pedestrianand then, and then, with its simultaneous
furniture-moving,
ofnot quitefeelingitmatters,
theweightlessness
heavinessand weightlessness,
When writinga novel,we oftenfeelthateven as we are narrowparticularly.
ingin on our story,our storysnarrownessis narrowingin on us. Limitingour
options,our rangeofpossibility.Our characters,it seems to me, mustfeelthis
too. Foreverydoor we open in frontofthem,thereareseveralothersthatare de
factoclosed off,and thisbusinessofdoor-closingmakesus and our characters
restless,liketheprocessofsittingat a deskbyyourselffortoo
restless,
physically
much coffee,and lets say that,like me, when thephone
far
too
long,drinking
happyto do so,
ringsatyourelbowyou answerit,and findyourselfwonderfully
the
most
minute
about
a
mile
a
inconsequentialthings- gosaway
chattering
in silence- and as you
beats
lets
face
because
it,
working
anything
sip usually,
begin to exhaustyourlistener,and yourself,and know thatyou are doing so,
which
thisonlyfeedsyourrapidlygrowingsense of shame and time-wasting,
characters
meanwhile
and
inside
machine
the
in turnfeeds chattering
your
you,
arejust sittingthereon pause waitingto do something,to play, ifyou can only
findthesong,and you feeltrappedin a maze comprisingexclusivelyyourown
and so, and so . . .
limitations,
So what?You cant go on, you go on. But ideallyin creativework ones
going on is colored,lent energyand impetus,by the temptationnot to. Like
is to go fromwhinHumbert,weVe onlygotwordsto playwith.The difficulty
ing about this stateof affairsto feedingoffit. And one possible vehicle for
doingso, I would argue,is therant.Which is onlyto say,thevoice ofour longor our charactersrant
ings,our agitations.We rantbecause we re frustrated,
is.
Its
novel
rants
because
it
because theyare,or our
good to pay attentionto
ROBERT COHEN
253
it,and perhapsat timeseven to accentuateit- to ridethatroughbeast intothe
darkness.Stop denyingthetruth
, as Portnoywould say.The selfhas only one
essentialmessage- we hear it in Bellows Henderson: I want! I want! I want!
Or in invertedformin the Tom Waits song: Not me. Not me. Not me. Or in
PeterLorres plaintiveshriekin M: "You have no idea what its like to be me."
Or in KingLear. "Who is it thatcan tellme who I am?"
Anyway you phrase it there'sa power thatcomes fromfinallytouching
bottom.As Charles Lamb writesof Lear, "The explosions of his passion are
terribleas a volcano. Theyare stormsturningup and disclosingto thebottom
ofthatsea, his mind,withall itsvast riches."Lear has shed all thevestmentsof
personalityand opened himselfto somethingthatwells up, or waits,below it,
somethingelementaland richthatlies at themurkybottomoftheself.His loss
of control,of temperateness,gains him a growthin consciousness of feeling.
When thepersonalityand itsnoisyrebellionare crushed,a heartofwondrous
depthsopens up.
Going to the extremelimit,and not quite gettingthere,and thentrying
to come back, and not quite gettingthereeither.And livingwithit. And not
gettingdulled into sleep. I'm all forhappiness but I dont seek inner peace.
Honestly,I dont. Not yet,not while I'm tryingto get some work done. The
s peace.
onlypeace that'suseful,I mean usefulforpeople likeme, is thefighter
The Me thatlongs not to be Me. But is. But is.

"The Piano Has Been Drinking": On the Art of

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