Category Archives: Novel

The Telling of the Tale

Verbal distinctions should be valued, since they stand for mental – intellectual – distinctions. Yet one feels it is somehow a pity that the word “poet” should have been split asunder. For nowadays when we speak of a poet, we think only of the utterer of such lyric, birdlike notes as “With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, / Like stars in heaven” (Wordsworth), or “Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? / Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.” Whereas the ancients, when they spoke of a poet – a “maker” – thought of him not only as the utterer of those high lyric notes, but also as the teller of a tale. A tale wherein all the voices of mankind might be found – not only the lyric, the wistful, the melancholy, but also the voices of courage and of hope. This means that I am speaking of what I suppose is the oldest form of poetry: the epic. Let us consider a few of them.

Perhaps the first which comes to mind is the one that Andrew Lang, who so finely translated it, called The Tale of Troy. We will look into it for that very ancient telling of a tale. In the very first line, we have something like: “Tell me, muse, of the anger of Achilles.” Or as Professor Rouse, I think, has translated it: “An angry man – that is my subject.” Perhaps Homer, or the man we call Homer (for that is an old question, of course), thought he was writing his poem about an angry man, and this somehow disconnects us. For we think of anger as the Latins did: “ira furor brevis” – anger is a brief madness, a fit of madness. The plot of the Iliad is really, in itself, not a charming one – the idea of the hero sulking in his tent, feeling that the king has dealt unjustly with him, and then taking up the war as a private feud because his friend has been killed, and afterwards selling the dead man he has killed to the man’s father.

But perhaps (I may have said this before; I am sure I have), perhaps the intentions of the poet are not that important. What is important nowadays is that although Homer might have thought he was telling that story, he was actually telling something far finer: the story of a man, a hero, who knows he will die before [the city] falls; and the still more stirring tale of men defending a city whose doom is already known to them, a city that is already in flames. I think this is the real subject of the Iliad. And, in fact, men have always felt that the Trojans were the real heroes. We think of Virgil, but we many also think of Snorri Sturluson, who, in his younger era, wrote that Odin – the Odin of the Saxons, the god – was the son of Priam and the brother of Hector. Men have sought kinship with the defeated Trojans, and not with the victorious Greeks. This is perhaps because there is a dignity in defeat that hardly belongs to victory.

Let us take a second epic, the Odyssey. The Odyssey may be read in two ways. I suppose the man (or the woman, as Samuel Butler thought) who had written it felt that there were really two stories: the homecoming of Ulysses, and the marvels and perils of the sea. If we take the Odyssey in the first sense, then we have the idea of homecoming, the idea that we are in banishment, that our true home is in the past or in heaven or somewhere else, that we are never at home. But of course the seafaring and the homecoming had to be made interesting. so the many marvels were worked in. And already, when we come to the Arabian Nights, we find the Arabian version of the Odyssey, the Seven Voyages of Sinbad the Sailor, is not a story of homecoming but a story of adventure; and I think we read it thus. When we read the Odyssey, I think that what we feel is the glamour, the magic of the sea; what we feel is what we find in the seafarer. For example, he has no heart for the harp, nor for the giving of rings, nor for the delight of a woman, nor for the greatness of the world. He thinks only of the long sea salt streams. So that we have both stories in one: we can read it as a homecoming, and we can read it as a tale of adventure – perhaps the finest that has ever been written or sung.

We come now to a third “poem” that looms far above them: the four Gospels. the Gospels may also be read in two ways. By the believer, they are read as the strange story of a man, of a god, who atones for the sins of mankind. A god who condescends to suffering – to death on the “bitter cross,” as Shakespeare has it. There is a still stranger interpretation, which I found in Langland: the idea that God wanted to know all about human suffering, and that it was not enough for Him to know it intellectually, as a god might; he wanted to suffer as a man, and with the limitations of a man. However, if you are an unbeliever (many of us are) then you can read the story in a different way. You can think of a man of genius, of a man who thought he was a god and who at the end found out that he was merely a man, and that god – his god – had forsaken him.

It might be said that for many centuries, those three stories – the tale of Troy, the tale of Ulysses, the tale of Jesus – have been sufficient for mankind. People have been telling and retelling them over and over again; they have been set to music; they have been painted. People have told them many times over, yet the stories are still there, illimitable. You might think of somebody, in a thousand years of ten thousand years, writing them over again. But in the case of the Gospels, there is a difference: the story of Christ, I think, cannot be told better. It has been told many times over, yet I think the few verses where we read, for example, of Christ being tempted by Satan are stronger than all four books of Paradise Regained. One feels that Milton perhaps had no inkling as to what kind of a man Christ was.

Well, we have these stories and we have the fact that men did not need many stories. I don’t suppose Chaucer ever thought of inventing a story. I don’t think people were less inventive in those days than they are today. I think they felt that the new shadings brought into the story – the fine shadings brought into it – were enough. Besides, it made things easier for the poet. His hearers or his readers knew what he was going to say. And so they could take in all the differences.

Now, in the epic – and we might think of the Gospels as a kind of divine epic – all things could be found. But poetry, as I said, has fallen asunder; or rather, on the one hand we have the lyrical poem and the elegy, and on the other we have the telling of a tale – we have the novel. One is almost tempted to think of the novel as a degeneration of the epic, in spite of such writers as Joseph Conrad or Herman Melville. For the novel goes back to the dignity of the epic.

If we think about the novel and the epic, we are tempted to fall into thinking that the chief difference lies in the difference between verse and prose, in the difference between singing something and stating something. But I think there is a greater difference. The difference lies in the fact that the important thing about the epic is a hero – a man who is a pattern for all men. While, as Mencken pointed out, the essence of most novels lies in the breaking down of a man, in the degeneration of character.

The brings us to another question: What do we think of happiness? What do we think of defeat, and of victory? Nowadays when people talk of a happy ending, they think of it as a mere pandering to the public, or they think of it as a commercial device; they think of it as artificial. Yet for centuries men could very sincerely believe in happiness and in victory, though they felt the essential dignity of defeat. For example, when people wrote about the Golden Fleece (one of the ancient stories of mankind), readers and hearers werer made to feel from the beginning that the treasure would be found at the end.

Well, nowadays if an adventure is attempted, we know that it will end in failure. When we read – I think of an example I admire – The Aspern Papers, we know that the papers will never be found. When we read Franz Kafka’s The Castle, we know that the man will never get inside the castle. That is to say, we cannot really believe in happiness and success. And this may be one of the poverties of our time. I suppose Kafka felt much the same when he wanted his books to be destroyed: he really wanted to write a happy and victorious book, and he felt that he could not do it. He might have written it, of course, but people would have felt that he was not telling the truth. Not truth of facts but the truth of his dreams.

At the end of the eighteenth of the beginning of the nineteenth century, let’s say (we need hardly go into a discussion of dates), man began to invent stories. Perhaps one might say that the attempt began with Hawthorne and with Edgar Allan Poe, but of course there are always forerunners. As Rubén Darío has pointed out, nobody is the literary Adam. Still, it was Poe who wrote that a story should be written for the sake of the last sentence, and a poem for the sake of the last line. This degenerated into the trick story, and in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries people have invented all kinds of plots. Those plots are sometimes very clever. Those plots, if merely told, are cleverer than the plots of the epics. Yet somehow we feel that there is something artificial about them – or rather, that there is something trivial about them. If we take two cases – let us suppose the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, then a novel or a film like Psycho – perhaps the plot of the second is cleverer, but we feel that there is something more behind Stevenson’s plot.

Regarding the idea I spoke about in the beginning, the idea about there being only a few plots: perhaps we should mention those books where the interest lies not in the plot but in the shifting, in the changing, of many plots. I am thinking of the Arabian Nights, of Orlando Furioso, and so on. One might also add the idea of an evil treasure. we get that in the Völsunga Saga, and perhaps at the end of Beowulf – the idea of a treasure bringing evil to the people who find it. Here we may come to the idea that I tried to work out in my last lecture, on metaphor – the idea that perhaps all plots belong to only a few patterns. Of course, nowadays people are inventing so many plots that we are blinded by them. But perhaps this fit of inventiveness may flicker, and then we may find that those many plots are but appearances of a few essential plots. This, however, is not for me to discuss.

There is another fact to be noticed: poets seem to forget that, at one time, the telling of a tale was essential, and the telling of the tale and the uttering of the verse were not thought of as different things. A man told a tale; he sang it; and his hearers did not think of him as a man attempting two tasks, but rather as a man attempting one task that had two sides to it. Or perhaps they did not feel that there were two sides to it, but rather thought of the whole thing as one essential thing.

We come now to our own time, and we find this very strange circumstance: we have had two world wars, yet somehow no epic has come from them – except perhaps the Seven Pillars of Wisdom. In the Seven Pillars of Wisdom I find many epic qualities. But the book is hampered by the fact that the hero is the teller, and so sometimes he has to belittle himself, he has to make himself human, he has to make himself far too believable. In fact, he has to fall into the trickery of a novelist.

There is another book, quite forgotten now, which I read, I think, in 1915 – a novel called Le Feu, by Henri Barbusse. “The author was a pacifist; it was a book written against war. Yet somehow epic thrust itself through the book (I remember a very fine bayonet charge in it). Another writer who had the epic sense was Kipling. We get this in such a wonderful story as “A Sahib’s War.” But in the same way that Kipling never attempted the sonnet, because he thought that this might estrange him from his readers, he never attempted the epic, though he might have done it. I am also reminded of Chesterton who wrote “The Ballad of the White Horse,” a poem about King Alfred’s wars with the Danes. Therein we find very strange metaphors (I wonder how I forgot to quote them last time!) – for example, “marble like solid moonlight,” “gold like frozen fire,” where marble and gold are compared to two things that are even more elementary. They are compared to moonlight and to fire – and not to fire itself, but to a magic frozen fire.

In a way, people are hungering and thirsting for epic. I feel that epic is one of the things that men need. Of all places (and this may come as a kind of anticlimax, but the fact is there), it has been Hollywood that has furnished epic to the world. All over the globe, when people see a Western – beholding the mythology of a rider, and the desert, and justice, and the sheriff, and the shooting, and so on – I think they get the epic feeling from it, whether they know it or not. After all, knowing the thing is not important.

Now, I do not want to prophesy, because such things are dangerous (though they may come true in the long run), but I think that if the telling of a tale and the singing of a verse could come together again, then a very important thing might happen. Perhaps this will come from America – since, as you all know, America has an ethical sense of a thing being right or wrong. It may be felt in other countries, but I do not think it can be found in such an obvious way as I find it here. If this could be achieved, if we could go back to the epic, then something very great would have been accomplished. When Chesterton wrote “The Ballad of the White Horse,” it got good reviews and so on, but readers did not take kindly to it. In fact, when we think of Chesterton, we think of the Father Brown saga and not of that poem.

I have been thinking about the subject only rather late in life; and besides, I do not think I could attempt the epic (though I might have worked in two or three lines of epic). This is for younger men to do. And I hope they will do it, because of course we all feel that the novel is somehow breaking down. Think of the chief novels of our time – say, Joyce’s Ulysses. We are told thousands of things about the two characters, yet we do not know them. We have a better knowledge of characters in Dante or Shakespeare, who come to us – who live and die – in a few sentences. We do not know thousands of circumstances about them, but we know them intimately. That, of course, is far more important.

I think that the novel is breaking down. I think that all those very daring and interesting experiments with the novel – for example, the idea of shifting time, the idea of the story being told by different characters – all those are leading to the moment when we shall feel that the novel is no longer with us.

But there is something about a tale, a story that will always be going on. I do not believe men will ever tire of telling or hearing stories. And if along with the pleasure of being told a story we get the additional pleasure of the dignity of verse, then something great will have happened. Maybe I am an old-fashioned man from the nineteenth century, but I have optimism, I have hope; and as the future holds many things – as the future, perhaps, holds all things – I think the epic will come back to us. I believe that the poet shall once again be a maker. I mean, he will tell a story and he will also sing it. And we will not think of those two things as different, even as we do not think they are different in Homer or in Virgil.

–J.L.B., Harvard lecture, AY 1967-1968

#OccupyHE

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Yes, I am a slow writer … but I will be faster

The darker side of mestizaje

When before the Congress of Angostura Bolívar proposes to shape nations by mixing the “diverse blood” of the new citizens (1819), he makes a double gesture. The new nations are conceived in racial terms and at the same time situate themselves, at least at the level of public discourse, beyond race and racialization. The mestizaje that would become a primordial sign of Latin American identity is neither a mixture that dissolves differences nor a transgression against hierarchies, but a hyperracial strategy for social control or in other words, a mechanism which keeps racial hierarchies in place while also disabling criticism of them. At stake in this and other key texts of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries is not only the formation of national cultures, but also that of the modern racial state.

Latin American theories of mestizo identity also have origins and analogies in Spain, where racial models of Hispanic identity have been proposed from the Renaissance forward (Piedra 1987, Branche 2006). These models took on a new layer with the scientific racism of the nineteenth century. Faced with the Spanish defeat of 1898 eugenicist doctors cited insufficient mestizaje as the cause of the Spanish soldier’s lack of resistance to tropical disease; the Francoist state also offered a culturalist definition of the “Hispanic” race (Goode 2009). The inclusivist model bases national identity on attributes such as language, religion, and “character” and is thus able to embrace a diverse palette of colors and origins. Mixture is not merely tolerated, but is almost required as a strategy for the building of empire and later, the nation. Language and faith were key elements in the imperial “Hispanic” identity from the fifteenth century forward, conferring authority and cultural strength upon Spain and offering syncretic assimilation to its conquered subjects. Piedra writes,

The final result was an “impure,” but unified empire. . . . The fact that the “impurity” of the system was not officially accepted only served to strengthen imperial hold. Furthermore, it would offer outsiders a false sense of accessibility and a similarly false hope of equality within Spain’s implicit, unofficial heterogeneity. (304)

The concept of raza is thus not a merely a particular system of classification, but a racial order in which culture and cultural identity have an important role and the meaning of color varies. It is nonetheless administered by the state as racial, and despite its flexibility as a category, it remains inflected with questions of color and descent. Piedra’s discussion of the Hispanic self as a text into which Otherness is woven in a “tactical compromise” shows why mestizaje as state policy has not meant racial tolerance but “literary whiteness,” or subjugation to the colonial letter (307). The estatutos de limpieza de sangre, created in 1449 to identify descendants of converted Jews, persisted through much of the nineteenth century. In the Americas, they were used to exclude people of African and indigenous descent from access to education and from some government posts. Latin America’s fabled valorization of mixture, furthermore, coexists with racial hierarchies in which European descent is highly valued (Portocarrero 2007).

The idealization of mixture reconsititutes originary or essentialist identities, reinforcing the bases for racism (Wade 2004). As Nicola Miller notes, ideologies of mestizaje were “based on racialized state structures and official national iconographies” and excluded darker or less Europeanized people (2006: 304). Joshua Lund discusses mestizaje as a statist discourse that hardly moves beyond race, as it purports to do, but rather confirms racialization as a state project (2012).

This is to say that inclusivity does not resolve the problem of racial difference but functions to mask or render unspeakable the mechanisms of exclusion and hierarchization which still persist. The elasticity of the category Hispanic does stand in contrast to the less flexible categories that have operated in the United States or South Africa, enabling José Martí to posit in 1891 the existence of a specifically Latin American cuture where “[n]o hay odio de razas, porque no hay razas” and “El alma emana, igual y eterna, de los cuerpos diversos en forma y en color” (38-39). Yet inclusion in the raza hispana does not confer recognition as blanco, as Martí’s own text suggests by positing a Latin American “we” that is identifiably criollo (Ramos 1989). Bolívar’s earlier call for mestizaje had come in the wake of the challenge to elite classes that the Haitian revolution represented, and he expressed concern toward the end of his life that Venezuela would become a pardocracia” (Helg 2003).

If mestizaje in the colonial period was a strategy supporting hispanization and European hegemony, the nineteenth century nation-states harnessed it to marginalize blackness and indigeneity yet more thoroughly than the colony had done (Mariátegui 1928, Lund). The mestizo as idealized citizen-subject supported, and did not contest elite hegemony; mestizo alliances were with the lighter, not the darker classes. These were also the eugenicist years, when the new republics sought to “whiten” by encouraging European immigration. At the same time the Amerindian as symbol and mestizaje as trope affirmed Latin American originality, authenticity, and difference from the United States and Europe (Martínez-Echazábal 1998). It is in the twentieth century that this racialized discourse becomes cultural, and mestizaje becomes a trope for the nation.

Beginning in the 1920s, Latin American writers like José Vasconcelos, Fernando Ortiz, Nicolás Guillén, Gilberto Freyre, and Oswald de Andrade began to formulate new theories of cultural identity, based on earlier models but with a reversed emphasis: in their festive and exuberant representations, the mestizo became superior rather than degraded. The result was a seemingly more inclusive mestizo nation. Post-colonial critics and scholars of race and ethnicity have welcomed these theories as counter-hegemonic. Mestizaje in the national mold is still one of the prevailing models for those wanting to overcome racism and racial difference. Critics of mestizo theories, however, have pointed out that despite their mixed origins, they are as essentialized and monocultural as are other, ‘purer’ racial and national categories. Positing a unified culture and a national race, they work toward homogeneity, dissolving otherness or engulfing racial others.

The image of the mestizo nation cultivated during this period of “cultural readjustment” (Osorio 1982) is still highly influential; Doris Sommer (1991) is not the only one to have read earlier discussions of mestizaje through this interpretation. In Sommer’s nineteenth century, mestizaje is “the way of redemption in Latin America, a way of annihilating difference and constructing a deeply horizontal, fraternal dream of national identity” (39). The difficulty is not only that this dream of national identity is to some extent illusory, but also that its prior history and textual precursors are more conflictive and conflicted than Sommer and other critics suggest. A rereading of some key texts, less filtered by the mestizo strategies of the early and mid-twentieth centuries, may be revealing, since the shift in racialist discourse that took place in the 1920s and 1930s was sharper than is always remembered now. Nineteenth and early twentieth century discourse and social policy did create images of mestizo nations and forge loyalty to these, but their larger project was to form modern racial states.

This paper considers nineteenth century discourse in light of current theoretical work on race, modernity and the state. Novels like Jorge Isaacs’ María, Aluízio de Azevedo’s O Mulato, or Cirilo Villaverde’s Cecilia Valdés, among others, have been read as stories through which the national community is “imagined,” with the miscegenated subject as a figure of union for the new nations. Their tragic endings do not entirely support the romanticized readings they have sometimes elicited. In fact, these texts may not so much project future harmony as trace interlocking conflicts around race and identity, paternity and patrimony, legitimacy and exile; at stake is not only the formation of the mestizo nation but also that of the racial state that lies behind it.

If race is consitutive of the modern state, as scholars including David Theo Goldberg (2002) hold, or of modernity itself, as Denise Ferreira da Silva argues (2007), the liberal assumption that inequality can be addressed within the framework of the modern nation may misrecognize the situation it addresses. A look at theoretical and historical work on race and the state, as opposed to mestizaje and the nation, may help understand some of the ambiguities in these texts and their dominant readings.

[Continuation: what is the relation of race to the new nation-states? In US it was to be “overcome” as the dream of the próceres is fulfilled, and in LatAm it is superseded as the national colors are consolidated (Guillén’s “color cubano”); now in US it was to be overcome again in the 1990s through “postethnicity” (Hollinger) and now through mestizaje; now in LatAm through multiculturalism and multinationalism … but what is striking is how it comes up again and again, as a rhizome. Also: the LatAm discussion often veers to questions of how it is defined, almost as though it were a problem that could be put to by the discovery of adequate categorizations. But beyond these differences, its contours as a global problem are remarkably uniform and I want to look at this: race as global issue and issue in modernity.]

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Aquí se trabaja mucho

Yesterday was my day off. I worked on service related issues, and attended a social meeting for Spanish majors where I got a lot of advising done. At night I went out and saw two new rock bands who were very good. At the meeting with the students and at this barzinho later I had the distinct feeling of being in the 1970s, when I was an undergraduate. I am getting this feeling from my classes this semester, as well. It is as though people had finally thrown off the yoke of Reaganism, and had become curious once more.

Saturday and Palm Sunday

→Scrub deck, work out, grade three classes
→Minutes for that meeting and attachment with legislative bills and AAUP webinar information, as well as note on actual date that motion was voted upon
→Study abroad proposals
→NO research or writing allowed until all grading and planning for courses is finished!
→Remind students about time / location of Monday office hour
→Arrange bibliographic instruction

Monday

7: Plumber
10: Office hour
1: Appointment off campus
2: Appointment off campus
Work on the deck, work out, prepare classes, work toward abstract in Spanish

Tuesday

Call roofer
Drop off car
Teach
Work out
Get signatures on study abroad proposals
Keep working on deck
Keep working on Spanish version of abstract

Wednesday

Clean house
11 Jerry
Office hours
Finish writing letters, including to Mihai
Keep working on Spanish version of abstract
Prepare classes
Kayak — aim to leave 5:30 PM

Maundy Thursday

Teach three classes
Work out
Keep working on Spanish version of abstract
Commemorate proposed death of César Vallejo

Good Friday

Maybe take kayak to the bayou — I am not sure
Get ready for sewing, gardening, and painting Easter week
Keep working on Spanish version of abstract
Work out
Commemorate actual death of César Vallejo

Saturday

Finish and submit Spanish version of abstract
Work out
Work on deck

Sunday

Easter. Do something entertaining

Easter Week

No research, no writing, only recreational reading and movies
Get everything ready for classes and the end of the semester
Sew, paint, garden, fix door and finish deck
Take dress to tailor
Chase roofers to get an answer
Finish writing letters
Deck helper comes Monday, dermatologist is Wednesday, dentist is Friday
Work out, go hiking, visit prison, visit Creole plantation Laura, do different things like this

Special

I am going to run for something, and I am going to have a campaign speech. Things to remember for it:

♦ my academic background and affiliations make me an effective advocate for several disciplines
♦ I am not doing this for a course release or for money
I am not anti administration; I am even pro administration because administrators do a great deal of useful and necessary work.
♦ At the same time I put research and teaching, and therefore faculty first, and I am a union maid
♦ I stand for research, quality teaching, student power, and a strong faculty voice in policy and governance

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Short story noir II

There is a character in the story I would like to interview so as to understand. I do not understand her or identify in any way but I would like to understand, to be able to see the world from her view. I want to find other literary characters like this.

It is a person who has risen out of poverty but misses it. I do not know whether she romanticizes it — that is easy to say. I think what she misses is the real thing, not the financial struggle but the rough people and circumstances, certain cultural things that went with it in her region.

It is perhaps because she was young then and the pleasures of youth are associated with this environment; that is the rational answer I have now but what I want to know is, how does it feel to miss the things she misses?

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Shenaz Patel

Le gardien du port connaît bien Charlesia. Elle passe régulièrement devant sa guérite et se dirige vers le quai. Elle scrute l’horizon, dans l’attente vaine d’un bateau qui la ramènera dans son île natale.

Diego Garcia n’est plus qu’un souvenir, la nostalgie douloureuse d’une vie simple rythmée par la production de Coprah, les jeux des enfants, le seraz de poisson-banane et le séga du samedi soir.

Depuis des années, Charlesia se heurte à l’incompréhension, aux questions sans réponses qu’elle ressasse et que lui pose un jeune homme. Désiré pourrait être son fils. Confronté au mystère de la naissance, il découvre peu à peu le drame de ses parents, et de son entourage. Les voix de Charlesia et de Désiré sont légères et inquiétantes.

Au-delà de leur révolte, c’est le drame intérieur des Chagossiens que raconte Shenaz Patel, leur déportation et leur existence de déracinés à l’île Maurice, depuis que Diégo Garcia est devenue une base militaire américaine.

That was about a book I really need to read.

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Old Boys

External review may not really be external. I feel like a character in a narcocorrido but I might just be viewing an old boys´ club.

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Fragment 1: Like A Rolling Stone

I will write a novel, and these are fragments from that proto-text.

*

He would play this song for them as an example of what would happen if they were not good, or if he were not. Their anger at being taunted this way is branded into their musculature. They do not like it.

The song used second person verbs in scorn and steady hatred.

Of course they must do their utmost to avoid living out on the streets. And the One would have been living out on the streets now had she not had his help. Don’t do what I have done, she sang.

Yet by learning the skills that would keep them from living out on the streets, they were distancing themselves from the One. This was harmful and they might be thrown out before they knew enough.

And he and the One had not wanted to succeed, but had been forced to it. They resented that, and felt proud of time spent not trying. That time was their identity.

Their success surprised them, they said.

“We were not as talented as  they, it was clear, because we had to try. They were made of finer stuff.”

“We did not know history because we had no personal memories of the Depression or the War, and because our school had not covered Europe yet. We did not know history.”

*

The two dyads battled each other for their lives, and this novel will not use the first person except in quotation marks. It will write in the third person of some characters falling into darkness.

*

They had suffered a great deal when they were poor and then again later, when they made the sacrifices they must to ensure they would not be poor again.

They would have liked to be artists and they felt bereft; there were great holes in the air around them where once their work had been.

They fall into darkness and mild water fills their gaps and breaches; wavelets rock and cover them.

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