I had told Adrian Bennett’s secrets. Silent as the Sphinx and very gentle. You sit there the whole time keeping tabs, making mental notes, imagining people as books or case histories- I know that game. I don’t believe in dying for causes. With heigh! Then sometimes sleep became piqued, like a rejected lover, and crept up to try to seduce you. Marriage was no cure for loneliness. Dachau, Auschwitz, anywhere. As we approached the outskirts of Paris, we began seeing graffiti scrawled under the highway bridges. “One diaphragm, used?” “One diaphragm, much abused?” “Used clothing” perhaps? And she is treated that way: as a pariah. The doorbell, by the way, plays the first few bars of “When the Saints Come Marching In”-Bob’s one and only concession to negritude. “This loud?” He turned it up. Adrian tapped me on the shoulder just as I was spouting something about Borges and his Labyrinths. Three fingers? Pia and I were “free women” (a phrase which means nothing without quotes). As in a dream (I never would have believed myself capable of it) I got up from the couch (how many years had I been lying there? It is not having babies in itself which seems unfair, but having babies for men. Never fuck a kinswoman seemed to be his motto. “You’re right,” I said without apology. Savior and psychiatrist all in one. Sometimes, wandering around aimlessly, riding the Stras-senbahn, stopping for beer and pretzels in a café, or Kaffee und Kitchen in a Konditorei, I would have the fantasy that I was the ghost of a Jew murdered in a concentration camp on the day I was born. He spent the rest of the trip panicked. Not that I didn’t realize the hypocrisy of this reverse discrimination even then-but still, I had my share of honest integration. The fear of the intruder is the wish for the intruder. What I really wanted was to give birth to myself-the little girl I might have been in a different family, a different world. Psychopaths always do.”, “Now you sound like you’re quoting Bennett.”, “We, we, we-the smug editorial ‘we.’ My-it must be awfully cozy to be boringly married and use the editorial we. “You could have left Germany, you could have joined the Resistance, you could have done something!”, “But I was not a hero, and I didn’t want to be a refugee. She feels the convulsions of the orgasm suck violently around her fingers. “Are you ashamed of your own mother? Eustace Chesser, M.D., was good on all the fascinating details (“How to Manage the Sex Act,” penetration, foreplay, afterglow), but he didn’t seem to have much to say about my moral dilemmas: how “far” to go? Was it an auditory hallucination? Couldn’t he just have left them alone worshipping cats and bulls and falcons or living like the other primates (to whom-as my sister Randy always reminds me-they are so closely related)? Grayish blue with yellow flecks. Darling, I love you. Let it cleanse them of their sins. “The grape is the only true existentialist,” Adrian answers, holding me close. On the floor are heaps of presents, wrapped in the most fanciful tissue papers and festooned with paper flowers. One day when I told him that I had to go home and make dinner for Bennett, he said: “If your Mann is hungry, then you must go home and cook him.”. Those flats! The linen closets were locked, the lifeboats were too high to climb into, the public rooms were too public, the nursery was full of toddlers, and we couldn’t find any empty cabins. Forget the fact that I’m lonely and cold, that it’s Christmas Eve and again you’ve ruined it for me? That evening the festivities began with a candidates’ party at a café in Grinzing. In medical school I was feeding laboratory animals. “Pierre,” I said gently, “haven’t?you ever read Lolita?”. In twentieth-century novels, they get divorced. “I hate to see my little sister depressed,” he said, stroking my hair. But occasionally Hummel (who had once been a war correspondent at the battle of Anzio) wrote an editorial on some community issue, and from time to time he interviewed some town personality or visitor for fun. There is no power game. Adrian stopped the car and leaned over to kiss me. Will it be Bach I shall hear or just a Cole Porter song? chest strap zings the air Our arrival sent everyone into a frenzy of activity. “Please Bennett, please, please, please.”, “You don’t even have the guts to stay with him. “And what do you think you are-a safe little bourgeois doctor who plays existentialist in his spare time?” I was almost shouting. Now it was up to me. “You see!” he said, lunging into me. He was supposed to be my zipless fuck. My word, or the word of the multitude? We came to know the more posh sort of campsite with indoor toilets and a bar with a jukebox blaring the Beatles. Everything came back to us. Boring (pronounced as if in italics) was always one of his favorite words. A kind of paralysis of the will. Had I engineered this whole scene just for the intensity of it? “You’re not going to be alone-I am.” It was true. Nothing quite has reality for me till I write it all down-revising and embellishing as I go. They commuted by subway from their mothers’ matzoh-ball soup in the Bronx to the classrooms of Moses Hadas and Gilbert Highet on Morningside Heights, where they learned enough literature and philosophy to get straight A’s, but never seemed to lose their gawkiness, their schoolboy defensiveness, their total lack of appeal. After the first three times I was sore and wanted to stop. I began to publish poems in small literary magazines during my senior year in college (where I won most of the poetry prizes and edited the literary magazine). There’s plenty to go around, but it always goes to the wrong people, at the wrong times, in the wrong places. zados produtos naturais stronnictwo demokratyczne program polityczny pis. I was furrowing my brows and thinking of the end of the world. Most important, he was a piano player like my piano-playing father. Their shadows were slate gray. Adrian’s antic manners and ass-grabbing was the part of me that wanted exuberance above all. “Doctors always use their work as an excuse for not being human. And thanks to the National Endowment for the Arts for a grant which helped. The medical building of the University of Vienna is columned, cold, cavernous. I fell in love with a very courtly professor of Italian Renaissance philosophy who sniffed glue and screwed freshman girls. Think of those Egyptians who built the pyramids, for example. He says it with four umlauts “I don’t really want to fuck you anyway.”. All my high-falutin’ rebelliousness is only a reaction to my deep-down servility. I thought of my used red electric typewriter sitting in New York, and a pang of yearning went through me. The whole time he had his arm around my waist and sometimes his hand on my ass. I told you I felt nothing, why do you keep asking? But they are not honest. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I gasped. I fell in love with an Irish poet who kept pigs on a farm in Iowa. What if, as Sartre said, we were all in hell right now? Pia and I debate this. What did it matter that technically I was “faithful” to Bennett? The piles of bullshit you are dreaming about are, in reality, your analyst. We had filled the shelves with most of our own books (shipped, at great expense, by the government). But it was clear that if I failed, my own life would be over. Or perhaps it was cowardice. I bought my ticket, still not really knowing why I was going to London. I see him published in some of the magazines now. All natural disasters are comforting because they reaffirm our impotence, in which, otherwise, we might stop believing. I dragged my suitcase back to the café on. Some of these were to be given to a literary agent in London. The first man who approached me with a cynical or flirtatious look would get it: a knee in the balls or a punch in the jaw. She carried an oiled rice-paper parasol in the rain and had toreador pants made out of Japanese fingernail tapestries. I don’t know now whether I want to take you, quite honestly.”, “You really are a hard man, aren’t you? He clears his throat nervously, but says nothing. It might show him that he can’t go on living this way, suffering all the time and calling in Freud as his witness.”, “It’s so obvious. Should I make a brave front of it and say my husband drowned in jargon in Vienna? “Who do you think you are-Eleanor Roosevelt?”, “I just get sick and tired of everyone bleeding about the poor Palestinians. And he was so damned nice. You don’t have to grill me.”, “You’re a liar. So there were people who got up at noon, pared their toenails, and sat naked in hotel rooms without regarding each day as an apocalypse. Are you a woman? They’ve brainwashed you too.”. I had never realized. The truth-I was certain-would make us free. The energy remains, but, having no outlet, it implodes in a great black fart of rage which smokes up all the inner windows of the soul. Besides, when I was alone with Brian, all he did was attack me. He looked vexed. So it’s actually work, n’est-ce pas? In September we made the pilgrimage to California. Take the marriage I dreamed of in my idealistic adolescence (when I thought that Beatrice and Sidney Webb, Virginia and Leonard Woolf had perfect marriages). It took me years to learn to sit at my desk for more than two minutes at a time, to put up with the solitude and the terror of failure, and the godawful silence and the white paper. Bennett stiffly refused. Julien Sorel knew all about passion. I remember thinking I was not so sad that his grandfather had died, but that I was going to have to die a little bit more for it in penance. I’ll kill you if you mention me in any way at all. Actually, I informed him, I’d taught in college myself. Not so much what they learn there, but what they presume about themselves ever after-the albatross of being a Harvard man: the aura, the atmosphere, the pronunciation problems, the tender memories of the River Charles. 1965: pre-hippie and pre-ethnic. After the meeting I was hoping to talk to Adrian, but Bennett whisked me away before Adrian extricated himself from the crowd around the stage. Was anything? Through the blush, her mysterious calm smile stirred and slowly beat its wings, a seabird ascending through a spray of tomato soup. We forget about it. They collected on his walls for two years, chiming and cuckooing at odd intervals, driving his wife and children as crazy as the army was driving him. I think I really want to write.”, “Mrs. Well, why not? ), And then on New Year’s Day, there was the telegram- garbled as such messages often are, and coming on that dismal gray Saturday afternoon when the entire male population of Klein Amerika was engrossed in polishing the family car and the entire female population was walking around in hair rollers and the Germans on the other side of Goethestrasse were already breaking out the first bottle of Schnaps in preparation for the new year…. Do you have to quiz me like some kind of criminal. I went to my desk in the bedroom. The lacy white curtains, the quilts hanging out the windows to air, the housewives who scrub the sidewalks in front of their houses, and the storekeepers who scrub their front windows are all part of a carefully contrived facade to intimidate foreigners with Germany’s aggressive wholesomeness. Maybe this was the reason that three or four New Yorkers (none of them less than three weeks old) always arrived together in a heavy heap. (Nothing sounds quite believable in Italian anyway-not even Lasciate Ogni Speranza.) I learned from him that all women worship “the Phallos”-as he so quaintly spelled it. At Christmas reunions, when the whole family regrouped at my parents’ apartment, Adam looked like the sole Aryan in a playground of Third World children. Just one perfect fuck to remember him by. I would reach the amphitheater by driving across the river from the old town, down a wide street which led to the suburbs, then up the Holy Mountain, following the signs to the ruins of St. Michael’s Basilica. Was I going to keep passing up the adventures that were offered to me? Blond hair, blue denim, and cowboy boots. “It wasn’t pregnancy I was worried about for God’s sake-it was incest!” My reasoning didn’t seem to make a dent in Pierre’s resolve. Because you’d never go down on me. He was as rare a psychoanalyst as he was a German. “He’s impotent most of the time anyway,” I said. Mine. I was still, in short, tempted to take off with Adrian. “You see, Professor Stanton, I started studying eighteenth-century English literature because I love satire, but I think I want to write satire not criticize it. It infuriated me that he saw me more cynically than I saw myself. He kept banging away at me like an ax murderer. Just as you’re in hell and I’m in hell and we’re all in hell. A nice body. And I obliged. You were the one who sold me a bill of goods about honesty and openness and not living in a million contradictions. “Don’t you think we should reach a group decision?” Judy said. Not that falling madly in love was at all unusual for me. And I believed this despite the fact that I subscribed to quarterlies and religiously read the work in them. The incident, however, provided us with a mission. I know it must be tough on you to be only five foot four-but supposedly you were analyzed and that should make it easier to bear.”. And I the perennially second-born. He loved me, he said, he adored me, he said, and yet, he kept holding back. Can’t we just keep it between us?”, “I wish it worked that way. “If you’d stop being paranoid for a minute and use charm instead of main force, I’m sure nobody could resist you,” he said. Eventually we came to accept the living and the role-playing and the compromises so completely that they were invisible-even to ourselves. Freud puzzled this and never came up with much. It was the most terrifying sensation I’d ever known in my life. A toilet flushed in the hall and I jumped. If it meant seething resentment and giving lectures on the joys of childbearing, then I didn’t want it. He knew what I’d been through. Me. They are married, but they are not friends. We were attracted to men, but when it came to understanding and good talk, we needed each other. The doxy over the dale- What do you women want? “Speak for yourself,” he declared, leaping on top of her in a sudden paroxysm of passion. Pain was a religion then. She was plump and dark-haired and (according to him) had this most annoying habit of falling into a dead sleep after getting laid. It was their hypocrisy I abhorred. as anything. You never had anyone die. Stop this nonsense of running from one man to the next. I never had the courage to ask my mother directly. “Life has no plot” is one of my favorite lines. Brian laughed too. He was horny all the time, but he was terribly afraid of being vulgar. “You’re a real primitive,” I sneered, “a natural man.”. I remember the countryside around Neuschwanstein with almost nightmarish clarity: the picture-postcard Alps, the clouds hooked on the jagged mountaintops, the arthritic fingers of old snow sculpturing the Aretes, the silent horns of the peaks confronting the smoky blue sky, the velvety green meadows in the valleys (beginner ski slopes in winter), and the chalet-roofed brown and white houses placed as in a children’s game. Wasn’t I sounding like Bennett? I dropped it off quickly and left. It would never quite vanish, of course, but it would become easier to bear. Until women started writing books there was only one side of the story. We’d live like real existentialists instead of just talking about it. My unconscious believed that my jerking off Steve had made me pregnant and I was getting thinner and thinner to try to convince myself it wasn’t so. Did that prove you were God? My columns were like sending letters during a postal strike or keeping a secret journal. Marriages where both people have outgrown the bullshit of me-Tarzan, you-Jane and are just trying to get through their days by helping each other, being good to each other, doing the chores as they come up and not worrying too much about who does what. Two young white men named Goodman and Schwerner went south to Mississippi to work for voter registration, teamed up with a young black man named Chaney, and all three of them ended up in a ghastly common grave. His slippers on the floor. Then I swam in the pool for five minutes and went back upstairs to confront my “work.” But I found it nearly impossible to work. Whenever they roll toward the depression in the center of the bed, he is the first to draw back. As he once said when his famous uncle took him to Le Pavilion: “These crepes are vulgar.” He pronounced it with a great gap between the two syllables-as if between vul and gar he was trembling on the brink of a revelation. The loved get more love and the unloved get more unloved. Brian repeated them at me like a catechism. The walls were old striped wallpaper, very splotched and discolored. It’s human.”, “Bennett goes into long silences too. I had to cope with the terrifying feeling of having no plans, not knowing where we were going next, having no privacy at all, being dependent on three other people for everything all the time. Bennett may be hooked on jargon. I had no sense of myself as a writer and no faith in my ability to write. “Typical tight-ass English middle class,” Adrian said of his Mum and Dad. “But don’t you see,” I shouted from the couch, “that’s just the trouble! Isadora Wing whose mother wanted her to fly. Why did my sisters and my mother all seem to be in a conspiracy to mock my accomplishments and make me feel they were liabilities? Remembrance of things past. “How do you like it, honey?” he asked, all naiveté. Or the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”, “If what you have is paradise-I thank God I’ve never had the experience.”, “To Paradise, to my cozy little marital boredom, to my editorial we, to my stultification. You know that awful expression “tickle the ivories”? But somehow I was pleased. That was the only heating facility. The absurdities our bodies subject us to! My brother-in-law Bob is actually cocoa brown, but his mind is white as a Klan member’s member. “I think I’ll sit this one out. It wasn’t easy, and it was always painful. Bennett and I spent a long night of mutual recrimination, wondered whether to attempt a trial separation or a double suicide, declared our love for each other, our hatred for each other, our ambivalence for each other. Loose papers, notes for poems I was working on, tape cassettes, film, lipsticks, paperback novels, a dog-eared Michelin Guide. And then we inspected the photographs: Freud, cigar in hand, with the first psychoanalytic circle, Freud with a grandson, Freud with. And I wasn’t exactly flattered by the idea that our nose3 looked alike either. I needed to feel the flow of ink beneath my fingers as I wrote. You think you’re a hedonist because you take off and run around with me. We commiserated in her parent’s gloomy apartment on Riverside Drive. But right now I was happy. Old fur coats, English children’s coats with leather leggings, ski parkas, rain capes, trench coats, autographed slickers from our camp days, school blazers with name tapes in the necks and forgotten skate keys in the pockets, velvet evening coats, brocade coats, polo coats, mink coats… thirty-five years of changing fashions and four grown daughters… thirty-five years of buying and spending and raising kids and screaming… and what did my mother have to show for it? Foggy and half-dazed as I was, I knew to keep my legs together. Charlie was going to a conducting competition in Holland; I had friends to visit in Yorkshire, was due to meet my old buddy Pia in Florence for a jaunt through southern Europe, and was going to see my sister Randy in the Middle East. The cynicism came later. I hated their fanatical obsession with the illusion of cleanliness. Certainly their banality was such that if Brian were God, they wouldn’t know it. Pia and I both wanted someone to sing in the wilderness with, and we knew that John Stock and Ron Perkoff were not exactly what we had in mind. They scratch. I knew he would throw me out of the car if need be. Me in apron and gingham shirtwaist waiting on my husband and kiddies while the omnipresent TV set sings out the virtues of the American home and the American slave-wife with her tiny befuddled brain. Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen, Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing. What else could I do? You’ll find it so much more fulfilling than writing…”, “Look, Randy, it may seem absurd to someone with nine children, but I really don’t miss having children. I found it harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning. Isn’t it high time you changed your life?”, “Iago-that’s what you are. A planeload of shrinks and my adolescence all around me. Bennett could understand that. But I was just sitting there looking at the curly blond hair on his chest and feeling the beer trickle between my legs. By the summer of ’65 when we were both twenty-three and toured Europe together, our disillusionment was such that we slept with men principally to boast to each other about the number of scalps on our belts. Abel and Chloe had one son, Adam, who was blond and blue-eyed and obviously the favorite grandchild. “My superego is soluble in Europe,” I say. Is that why you hate me? I have no man. It was 1965 and things were not as spastic in the Middle East as they became after the Six Day War. Louise had been trying to give Roger a bath and he had been screaming. In Heidelberg, we set up house in a vast American concentration camp in the postwar section of town (a far cry from the beautiful old section near the Schloss, which tourists see). I could make out no system or code at first glance, but there were furious notes in the margins. Regressed. We are back in love with each other-that second stage of love which consists of nostalgia for the first stage. Adrian had laughter, and at that point I was ready to sell my soul for it. We were sitting in Adrian’s Triumph, parked on a back street near the university. It’s not a game!” Professor Stanton seemed to have found his true subject. He was a great mimic, a spellbinding talker, one of those gifted raconteurs who seems like something out of a Dublin pub or a J. M. Synge play. Literature is work, not fun,” he said. It never occurred to him that he was part of any pattern. But we knew nothing about what was happening to the Jews, they told me again and again. I’ll be able to get free of him now, I thought; he isn’t a good lay. The opposite of Brian exactly. From some angles, the city looks a little like Athens-minus the Acropolis. Adrian had an antic grin. Blood stiffens in the corners of their mouths. (Was it just jerking him off which inspired such loyalty?). Have I the right hunch or have I the wrong? But your shrink insists that it’s Daddy you really want. One of the most memorable occasions of the Congress was the reception at the Rathaus of Vienna. “I’m leaving,” I said crying. Would CBS Evening News cover the occurrence? And Lillian Hellman wants to be as much of a man as Dashiell Hammett so he’ll love her like he loves himself. But if all that was true, then why did she sign her letters to him “I love you”? I had never seen thumbscrews and racks before. Nobody’s family, in short, was as transcendentally evil as the modern autobiographical novelist (or poet) imagined his family to be. It won’t be easy. Both led nowhere except toward the loneliness both were designed to avoid. And one of the disadvantages of being a woman is peeing in your shoes. I hadn’t the taste for total self-annihilation. I decide to attempt phoning him. Lalah was, in fact, on fertility pills for two years (as she later informed us and all the newspapers), and last year gave birth to quintuplets. The greatest hun-gerer. The masochism is built in at a very early age. He was eccentric, he was not like anyone else, he saw the world through a poet’s eyes (though he had little talent for writing poetry). You were supposed to keep all the names of the professors and all the theories straight so that you could pass exams on them. New York is farther away than the moon. But Charlie surprised me. To lead a secret life and go home to you as if nothing had happened. “As long as you want it,” he said, ambiguously. In the days that followed, the jokes multiplied. I would dash down the hill over the tiers of seats and stand in the dead center of the stage reciting my own poetry to an audience of echoes. I’m sure you couldn’t be worse. Brian was now completely panicked and his delusions became more and more colorful. “Then why are you making such an issue?” Pierre was now using his sweetest Middle-Eastern French accent. She was a tall, rail-thin woman with high cheekbones and long red hair, and her strange get-ups and extreme make-up sometimes gave her a Charles Addamsy look. But you’re enough of an Ethel Kennedy for one family-why the hell do we need any more? And thanks to Betty Anne Clark, Anita Gross, Ruth Sullivan, Mimi Bailin, and Linda Bogin. I straddled the bidet and peed rivers into it, astonished at how long I’d gone without emptying my bladder. Since I had no. With my family? It’s easy to be an intellectual with a mute wife.). “Who do you think will go to heaven?” he asked. They point out quaint stone carvings on the second stories of townhouses. I’d expected the worst going through customs, but there was no trouble at all. It wasn’t fancy, but it had a swimming hole, a snack bar, a place where you could shower. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, et cetera. Myself, most of all, it seemed. I have always been devoted to cultural shrines: the house where Keats died in Rome, the house where he lived in Hampstead, Mozart’s birthplace in Salzburg, Alexander Pope’s Grotto, Rembrandt’s house in the Amsterdam ghetto, Wagner’s villa on Lake Lucerne, Beethoven’s meager two-room fiat in Vienna… Any place where some genius had been born, lived, worked, ate, farted, spilled his seed, loved, or died-was sacred to me. Even Bennett, with all his supposed psychology and insight, maintained that men tried to pick me up all the time because I conveyed my “availability”-as he put it. I cringed when I heard ignorant Jewish chauvinists talking about how Marx and Freud and Einstein were all Jewish, how Jews had superior genes and brains. In the morning, we haggardly made our way to the Congress, and listened to the closing remarks on aggression by Anna Freud and the other dignitaries (among whom Adrian was included, reading a paper I had written for him a few days earlier). Then dressing, nursing, praying-and all’s over. Crisply he notches Now I had betrayed them both. Then I went back to bed where Adrian was snoring like a pig. After that he was an insect on a pin, a newspaper clipping laminated in plastic. I would go home instead, and write poems to the man I really loved (whoever he might be). But it was gone. 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