by Jack Kerouac
‘Now—I begin anew!’ and the world would
ask, well he has cleared out all the decks,
well? So now, what does he have to say?
That’s what I mean by what I was saying!
Don’t you see the psychoanalysis rids you of
the rich store of your imagination, it thieves
you, rich thievery, ha ha!”
Hubert, strangely enough, seemed to be
interested in all this prattle, despite its inco-
herence, and was maintaining a polite atti-
tude of receptivity; but of Marie and Toni,
this could not be said. Subtly, they had
opened a sub-discourse of their own and
were now standing slightly apart from the
two men, and any moment they would find
the opportunity to casually walk away.
Meanwhile, in the other room, there was
great noise, with Paul at the center of it all.
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He had come in wearing a rose in his hair,
and everybody seemed to be deriving great
enjoyment out of this. Paul was now taking
the flower out of his hair—he had previous-
ly purchased it in the flower store on M
Street—and with a deep bow and a flourish,
he was presenting it to Maureen.
“To the hostess, charming and lovely,” he
said. “A rose to keep you when you’re sad.
Food for the stomach, love for the heart, a
rose for melancholia.” He made a dramatic
gesture as she took the rose from his hand.
It was evident that he had been drinking, for
as he straightened up from his bow, he tot-
tered and wavered.
“You know don’t you,” Hubert was now
telling Michael, who had turned his eyes to
the slightly maudlin scene in the other room
while Hubert was seriously absorbed in
their topic, “that what you’re saying is, to
me, a whole mess of theoretical and aimless
nonsense?”
“Yes?” Michael said politely. “By the way,
have we met before?”
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“No. My name is Hubert. How do you
do.” They shook hands. Hubert went on:
“What did you precisely mean?”
“Another thing,” Michael said, “before I
explain the latter: it might as a matter of fact
illumine my whole conception of psycholo-
gy as a whole. Now. Do you know, for
instance, why my output—I am a writer, I
write poetry and other things—why this
output is so large, why I keep steadily writ-
ing? It’s because of what you would call an
insecurity sense in psychology. Now, look,
suppose I were to rid myself of this insecu-
rity sense through psychoanalysis, I would
not be driven to my work as before a wind—
perhaps I would never write again, because
I’d find out what it is that makes me want to
write, to create..!”
Hubert digested this slowly and with a
serious mien. Then he took a sharp little
intake of breath. “Overlooking the assump-
tion,” he said slowly, with precision, “that…
creation…might not necessarily be your
supreme individual function, why should
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quantity of output be set up as an argument
against psychoanalytical house-cleaning?..”
This quite overwhelmed Michael; and on
top of that, he wasn’t listening too attentively.
He was annoyed that Marie and Toni had
wandered away from his conversation. He
merely nodded, his eyes on Marie, who stood
in the other room talking to Julius, radiant in
red slacks, with a red ribbon in her dark hair,
and a sort of crimson shell bracelet on her
slender wrist. Michael, half-awake, feverish
from wine and sleepiness, could not take his
eyes off her.
Hubert, with his eyes fastened on
Michael’s face, was going to say something
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else devastating when Barbara suddenly ran
up to him and pulled him into the next room
to show him the watercolor reproduction of
Degas’ “Interior” over the small table in the
corner. There was complete chaos every-
where in the apartment, as is to be expected
at a gathering where wine has begun to be
the moving spirit. Michael was left standing
alone, and he began to sulk. He went to the
window and looked at the night outside in an
attempt to seem composed. The noise
behind him was beginning to annoy his
nerves.
Leo came up and handed him a glass of
wine. “Come on, you’re way behind every-
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body. Drink up! What’s the matter with you,
you seem annoyed?” The first notes of
Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony rang out behind them.
“Too much noise,” Michael mumbled. He
drank the wine. “And I’ve been snubbed,” he
added sharply.
“What?” Leo laughed. But Paul was sud-
denly beside them, laughing also.
“Snubbed, Michael?” he said, slapping
the latter on the back. “You resent it, my
asocial friend? How were you snubbed?
Who? Ha ha ha.”
Michael turned a glowering countenance
on Paul.
“You don’t like people,” Paul mocked.
“You hate people. Your emotions are unre-
servedly aesthetic, aren’t they? Didn’t you
tell me that when you left?…”
“When he left where?” Leo asked curious-
ly. “What’s all the mystery?”
“Shut up,” said Michael to Leo. Suddenly,
Paul was standing just in front of Michael,
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and swaying a little.
“I need some money,” he said quietly. “I
just spent my last sous on a few drinks and a
flower for Maureen.”
“Well?” Michael grunted, turning away.
“I’ve lost my job. I can’t work. I’m too
nervous. Michael, I’ve had enough of this
anyway. If you can’t… well, at least give me
some money. I’m hungry, damn you!”
Leo began to edge away in embarrass-
ment, but he couldn’t bear to miss what was
going on, so he hovered a few feet away and
pretended to be absorbed in his glass.
Michael was morosely silent. Paul waited.
Then finally Michael withdrew several bills
from his wallet and pushed them to Paul
across the top of the bookcase that stood
beside them. Leo could not help noticing
that it was an unusually large sum in view of
the circumstances.
Paul put the money in his pocket and said,
“Thank you.” Michael have him a look
drenched with contempt, put out his hand to
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“What’s that?”
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RPHEUS EMERGED 110
push Paul out of the way, and strode into the
other room to mingle with the others.
Paul turned to Leo and smiled happily.
“Come on Leo,” he said. “Let’s have some
more wine. This is a wonderful party.”
“I should say it is,” Leo drawled signifi-
cantly. Paul’s eye flashed for just a moment,
but then he began to laugh heartily at Leo’s
hint and dragged him along into the other
room, to the table where the bottles were.
They poured themselves some wine.
“Leo,” said Paul, “I’ve a little acte gratuit
in mind. Did you ever hear of the acte gra-
tuit—as in Gide, for instance? I was reading him the other week. People commit atrocities on an impulse, but the impulse is gra-
tuitous, there’s no reason for it.”
“I know,” said Leo. “What about it?”
“I have here a little acte that is not
entirely gratuitous. But just because it’s so
coldly premeditated, it becomes more than
an acte gratuit.”
“What on earth are you driving at?”
Smiling, Paul raised his glass and poured
some wine down the back of Leo’s collar.
Leo yelled excitedly and backed away.
“What’s that? What’s that for?” But Paul,
laughing loudly, was patting Leo on the back.
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No one had noticed this little incident,
except for Julius, who lay languidly on the
couch watching every move that Paul made.
He had been the only one in the party, as
well, who had seen the exchange of money
between Michael and Paul.
“You’re crazy!” Leo spluttered at Paul,
wiping his neck with a handkerchief, half-
angry, half on the point of laughing good-
naturedly. He couldn’t quite express what
he really felt about Paul’s having poured
wine on him. “You’re a sadist, I think, Paul.”
“Just a little premeditated acte gratuit,”
Paul said. “I took great pains to explain
everything…”
Julius had sauntered over to them.
“A little wine bath for little Leo?” he
inquired softly. “Paul, you do surprise me
sometimes. What a strange form of
revenge!”
“Revenge!” mocked Paul. “I don’t know
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what you mean…revenge.” But Julius
maintained a teasing silence.
“Julius,” Paul said at length, “I think
you’d better get back to your couch and
observe further events—for you are an
observer, you know, you observe things,
that’s why you live. A super- voyeur. But
your fault is that you think yourself omnis-
cient. You types are all the same; you think
you have everything figured out. Now,” said
Paul, taking a letter from a pocket of his
filthy jacket, and waving it at Julius, “try to
figure this out.” He started away, then he
came back and looked closely at Julius:
“Ah, now I see. You saw Michael giving me
money. Tell me, omniscient one, what was
that for? Explain it.”
“Perhaps I’m not up to it,” Julius said.
A clamorous Shostakovich sequence
thundered behind them, with Anthony’s
happy yells exceeding all other sounds.
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“Come now,” said Paul. “Do you suspect
that Michael is my brother?”
“I’m not saying a word,” Julius smiled.
“And that I punished Leo for thinking
cheaply of the money incident, hey?” Julius
still smiled. “All figured out?” Paul cried.
“Then watch this—oh, by the way, this will
mark the end of the party!” And, saying this,
Paul started off again with the letter in his
hand, going straight to Michael, who was
standing with Arthur listening to the latter’s
anecdote of his last foray into the Bohemian
Quarter.
Paul thrust himself between them,
waved a letter before Michael’s face, and
said: “Michael, I have a letter.”
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Michael frowned and pushed the letter
away. “All right, so you have a letter. What
do I care?”
Paul smiled. “But it’s from Helen.”
Michael opened his mouth in an expres-
sion of great exasperation; but suddenly, as
he understood Paul’s words, the expression
turned to that of pain—pain and anguish.
He seemed on the verge of a stroke, he had
become so pale and trembling, with his fists
knotted hard at his sides.
“And she’s coming here soon,” Paul
added, still waving the letter.
Michael seemed to take a deep breath,
with his lips compressed; then suddenly he
emitted a loud yell of rage at Paul and
pushed blindly at him. Paul backed up a
few steps. Thickly, Michael was now curs-
ing Paul, and his face had grown so red that
Maureen, who had turned swiftly at the
sound of the yell, now advanced anxiously
to do something about this latest atrocity of
Paul’s. A hush had fallen over the party,
although the music played on unmindful of
the surrounding tension, and weaved out a
little drama of its own. “You!” Michael was
thickly yelling. And suddenly, now at the
height of his rage, he wrapped his hand
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around the brass stem of the floor lamp next
to him and began hoisting it with great
effort.
“Look out!” cried Leo, jumping back.
Michael had lifted the floor lamp now with
both hands and was raising it aloft over his
head, trailing the light cord. Paul stood
indecisively.
Down came the lamp in a slow but
vicious arc, and Paul stepped aside just in
time, for on the spot where he had been
standing, the lamp, lampshade and bulbs
and all now smashed jarringly and hissed
and sparked on the floor and went out. The
room was plunged in the half darkness of
the candlelight, and all the girls had
momentarily screamed in terror. And the
music played on as indomitably as before.
There was a frantic scuffling as Michael
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reached out for Paul, who had begun to
hurry towards the window of the other
room. Michael tripped over the fallen lamp
and fell with a crash, precipitating a vase to
the floor with him. Paul, now at the window,
was raising the sash and letting himself out
on the fire escape. Michael was back on his
feet—but hands had reached out to restrain
him. Shaking them off violently, Michael
broke loose and lunged to the window. But
Paul had disappeared, and Michael,
panting
with emotional exhaustion, now fell to his
knees and leaned his elbows wearily on the
windowsill.
“What? What? What?” Barbara kept sob-
bing, while Leo and Arthur and Hubert were
anxiously hovering behind Michael, who was
staring down from his station at the win-
dowsill, at the next landing of the fire escape.
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“Good Lord!” Leo was panting, “what’s all
this damned business?! Stop it, will you, the
both of you? You’re crazy, the both of you!”
“My lamp!” Maureen suddenly cried
from the other room, and Toni was forced to
giggle.
“But Paul’s not gone,” Arthur now said
wondrously, for he had leaned over
Michael’s head and was looking down.
“He’s on the flight of the fire escape below.”
Paul was sitting on the landing below,
looking up calmly at Michael, who, kneel-
ing at the window, was looking down with
equal calm.
Michael motioned his hand at Paul and
said, gently, almost sorrowfully, “Go away.”
Paul was silent. Then he stood up and
grasped the handrail. Across the apartment
building court, some windows were opening,
and people were looking up and down the
darkness trying to fathom the mystery of the
noise.
“You feel like sending everybody home,
don’t you?” Paul said, still looking up calm-
ly at the fellow who had just tried to brain
him. “But you don’t know how. Love or
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“My lamp!”
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hate, you’re a failure.”
“Go away,” Michael repeated, as gently
and sorrowfully as before.
Arthur was so amazed at all this, he
wouldn’t budge from the window as Leo
tugged at his sleeve so that he too could wit-
ness the strange scene. Julius had gone to
the other window and was opening it.
Paul began to descend the fire escape.
Then, pausing once again, he looked up at
Michael through the framework of the bars.
“The moon,” he pronounced, pointing up at
the sky. “Why don’t you fly to it?”
Michael didn’t answer, and Paul descend-
