by Philip Roth
mean you just have ideas about Judaism. Well, the same holds for C-c-communism.”
Conversation #12 about New York. “Where do you eat your meals in New York?” “Not
at Vincent’s, thank God.” “Where then?” “Where everybody else eats their meals.
Restaurants. Cafeterias. People’s apartments.” “Who are the people who live in
these apartments?” “Friends of mine.” “Where did you meet them?” “I met some
here, I met some in the city—” “Here? Where?” “At the high school. Sh-sh-sh-
sherry, for instance.” “I never met Sherry.” “Sh-sh-sh-sherry is the one, do you
remember, who played the violin in all the class plays? And she goes into New
York b-because she takes music lessons.” “Is she involved with politics too?”
“Daddy, everything is political. How can she not be involved if she has a b-b-b-
brain?” “Merry, I don’t want you to get into trouble. You’re angry about the
war. A lot of people are angry about the war. But there are some people who are
angry about the war who don’t have any limits. Do you know what the limits are?”
“Limits. That’s all you think about. Not going to the extreme. Well, sometimes
you have to fucking go to the extreme. What do you think war is? War is an
extreme. It isn’t life out here in little Rimrock. Nothing is too extreme out
here.” “You don’t like it out here anymore. Would you want to live in New York?
Would you like that?” “Of c-c-c-course.” “Suppose when you graduate from high
school you were to go to college in New York. Would you like that?” “I don’t
know if I’m going to go to college. Look at the administration of those
colleges. Look what they do to their students who are against the war. How can I
want to be going to college? Higher education. It’s what I call lower education.
Maybe I’ll go to college, maybe I won’t. I wouldn’t start p-planning now.”
Conversation #18 about New York, after she fails to return home on a Saturday
night. “You’re never to do that again. You’re never to stay over with people who
we don’t know. Who are these people?” “Never say never.” “Who are the people you
stayed with?” “They’re friends of Sh-sherry’s. From the music school.” “I don’t
believe you.” “Why? You can’t b-b-b-believe that I might have friends? That
· 105 ·
people might like me—you don’t b-b-b-believe that? That people might put me up
for the night—you don’t b-b-b-believe that? What do you b-b-b-b-b-b-b-believe
in?” “You’re sixteen years old. You’re to come home. You cannot stay over in New
* * *
York City.” “Stop reminding me of how old I am. We all have an age.” “When you
went off yesterday we expected you back at six o’clock. At seven o’clock at
night you phoned to say you’re staying over. We said you weren’t. You insisted.
You said you had a place to stay. So I let you do it.” “You let me. Sure.” “But
you can’t do it again. If you do it again, you will never be allowed to go into
New York by yourself.” “Says who?” “Your father.” “We’ll see.” “I’ll make a deal
with you.” “What’s the deal, Father?” “If you ever go into New York again and
you find it’s getting late and you have to stay somewhere, you stay with the
Umanoffs.” “The Umanoffs?” “They like you, you like them, they’ve known you all
your life. They have a very nice apartment.” “Well, the people I stayed with
have a very nice apartment too.” “Who are they?” “I told you, they’re Sh-
sherry’s friends.” “Who are they?” “Bill and Melissa.” “And who are Bill and
Melissa?” “They’re p-p-p-people. Like everyone else.” “What do they do for a
living? How old are they?” “Melissa’s twenty-two. And Bill is nineteen.” “Are
they students?” “They were students. Now they organize people for the betterment
of the Vietnamese.” “Where do they live?” “What are you going to do, come and
get me?” “I’d like to know where they live. There are all sorts of neighborhoods
in New York. Some are good, some aren’t.” “They live in a perfectly fine
neighborhood and a perfectly fine b-b-b-b-building.” “Where?” “They live up in
Morningside Heights.” “Are they Columbia students?” “They were.” “How many
people stay in this apartment?” “I don’t see why I have to answer all these
questions.” “Because you’re my daughter and you are sixteen years old.” “So for
the rest of my life, because I’m your daughter—” “No, when you are eighteen and
graduate high school, you can do whatever you want.” “So the difference we’re
talking about here is two years.” “That’s right.” “And what’s the b-big thing
that’s going to happen in two years?” “You will be an independent person who can
support herself.” “I
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can support myself now if I w-w-w-w-wanted to.” “I don’t want you to stay with
Bill and Melissa.” “W-w-w-why?” “It’s my responsibility to look after you. I
want you to stay with the Umanoffs. If you can agree to do that, then you can go
to New York and stay over. Otherwise you won’t be permitted to go there at all.
The choice is yours.” “I’m in there to stay with the people I want to stay
with.” “Then you’re not going to New York.” “We’ll see.” “There is no ‘we’ll
see.’ You’re not going and that’s the end of it.” “I’d like to see you stop me.”
“Think about it. If you can’t agree to stay with the Umanoffs, then you can’t go
to New York.” “What about the war—” “My responsibility is to you and not to the
war.” “Oh, I know your responsibility is not to the war—that’s why I have to go
to New York. B-b-b-because people there do feel responsible. They feel
responsible when America b-blows up Vietnamese villages. They feel responsible
when America is b-blowing little b-babies to b-b-b-b-bits. B-but you don’t, and
neither does Mother. You don’t care enough to let it upset a single day of
yours. You don’t care enough to make you spend another night somewhere. You
don’t stay up at night worrying about it. You don’t really care, Daddy, one way
or the other.”
Conversations #24, 25, and 26 about New York. “I can’t have these conversations,
Daddy. I won’t! I refuse to! Who talks to their parents like this!” “If you are
underage and you go away for the day and don’t come home at night, then you damn
well talk to your parents like this.” “B-b-but you drive me c-c-c-crazy, this
kind of sensible parent, trying to be understanding! I don’t want to be
understood—I want to be f-f-f-free!” “Would you like it better if I were a
senseless parent trying not to understand you?” “I would! I think I would! Why
don’t you fucking t-t-try it for a change and let me fucking see!”
Conversation #29 about New York. “No, you can’t disrupt our family life until
you are of age. Then do whatever you want. So long as you’re under eighteen—”
“All you can think about, all you can talk about, all you c-c-care about is the
* * *
well-being of this f-fucking 1-1-little f-f-family!” “Isn’t that all you think
about? Isn’t that what
/> · 107 ·
you are angry about?” “N-n-no! N-n-never!” “Yes, Merry. You are angry about the
families in Vietnam. You are angry about their being destroyed. Those are
families too. Those are families just like ours that would like to have the
right to have lives like our family has. Isn’t that what you yourself want for
them? What Bill and Melissa want for them? That they might be able to have
secure and peaceful lives like ours?” “To have to live out here in the
privileged middle of nowhere? No, I don’t think that’s what B-b-bill and Melissa
want for them. It’s not what I want for them.” “Don’t you? Then think again. I
think that to have this privileged middle-of-no-where kind of life would make
them quite content, frankly.” “They just want to go to b-bed at night, in their
own country, leading their own lives, and without thinking they’re going to get
b-b-blown to b-b-b-b-b-bits in their sleep. B-b-blown to b-b-b-b-bits all for
the sake of the privileged people of New Jersey leading their p-p-peaceful, s-s-
secure, acquisitive, meaningless 1-1-1-little bloodsucking lives!”
Conversation #30 about New York, after Merry returns from staying overnight with
the Umanoffs. “Oh, they’re oh-so-liberal, B-b-b-b-Barry and Marcia. With their
little comfortable b-b-bour-geois life.” “They are professors, they are serious
academics who are against the war. Did they have any people there?” “Oh, some
English professor against the war, some sociology professor against the war. At
least he involves his family against the war. They all march tugu-tugu-tugu-
together. That’s what I call a family. Not these fucking c-c-c-cows.” “So it
went all right there.” “No. I want to go with my friends. I don’t want to go to
the Umanoffs at eight o’clock. Whatever is happening is happening after eight
o’clock! If I wanted to be with your friends after eight o’clock at night, I
could stay here in Rimrock. I want to be with my friends after eight o’clock!”
“Nonetheless it worked out. We compromised. You didn’t get to be with your
friends after eight o’clock but you got to spend the day with your friends,
which is a lot better than nothing at all. I feel much better about what you
have agreed to do. You should too. Are you going to go in next Saturday?” “I
don’t plan these things y-years
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in advance.” “If you’re going in next Saturday, then you’re to phone the
Umanoffs beforehand and let them know you’re coming.”
Conversation #34 about New York, after Merry fails to show up at the Umanoffs
for the night. “Okay, that’s it. You made an agreement and you broke it. You’re
not leaving this house on a Saturday again.” “I’m under house arrest.”
“Indefinitely.” “What is it that you’re so afraid of? What is it that you think
I’m going to do? I’m hanging out with f-friends. We discuss the war and other
important things. I don’t know why you want to know so much. You don’t ask me a
z-z-z-z-zillion fucking questions every time I go down to Hamlin’s s-s-store.
What are you so afraid of? You’re just a b-b-b-b-bundle of fear. You just can’t
keep hiding out here in the woods. Don’t go spewing your fear all over me and
making me as fearful as you and Mom are. All you can deal with is c-cows. C-cows
and trees. Well, there’s something besides c-c-c-c-cows and trees. There are
people. People with real pain. Why don’t you say it? Are you afraid I’m going to
get laid? Is that what you’re afraid of? I’m not that moronic to get knocked up.
What have I ever done in my life that’s irresponsible?” “You broke the
agreement. That’s the end of it.” “This is not a corporation. This isn’t b-b-b-
b-b-b-b-business, Daddy. House arrest. Every day in this house is like being
* * *
under house arrest.” “I don’t like you very much when you act like this.”
“Daddy, shut up. I don’t like you either. I never d-d-did.”
Conversation #44 about New York. The next Saturday. “I’m not
driving you to the train. You’re not leaving the house.” “What are
you going to do? B-barricade me in? How you going to stop me?
You going to tie me to my high chair? Is that how you treat your
daughter? I can’t b-b-believe my own father would threaten me
I with physical force.” “I’m not threatening you with physical force.”
>’ “Then how are you going to keep me in the house? I’m not just one
, of Mom’s dumb c-c-c-c-cows! I’m not going to live here forever
· and ever and ever. Mr. C-cool, Calm, and Collected. What is it that
‘ you’re so afraid of? What is it you’re so afraid of people for? Haven’t
you ever heard that New York is one of the world’s great cultural
centers? People come from the whole world to experience New
· 109 ·
York. You always wanted me to experience everything else. Why can’t I experience
New York? Better than this d-dump here. What are you so angry about? That I
might have a real idea of my own? Something that you didn’t come up with first?
Something that isn’t one of your well-thought-out plans for the family and how
things should go? All I’m doing is taking a fucking train into the city.
Millions of men and women do it every day to go to work. Fall in with the wrong
people. God forbid I should ever get another point of view. You married an Irish
Catholic. What did your family think about your falling in with the wrong
people? She married a J-j-j-j-jew. What did her family think about her falling
in with the wrong people? How much worse can I do? Maybe hang out with a guy
with an Afro—is that what you’re afraid of? I don’t think so, Daddy. Why don’t
you worry about something that matters, like the war, instead of whether or not
your overprivileged little girl takes a train into the b-big city b-by herself?”
Conversation #53 about New York. “You still won’t tell me what kind of horrible
fucking fate is going to b-b-befall me if I take a fucking train to the city.
They have apartments and roofs in New York too. They have locks and doors too. A
lock isn’t something that is unique to Old Rimrock, New Jersey. Ever think of
that, Seymour-Levov-it-rhymes-with-the-love? You think everything that is f-
foreign to you is b-bad. Did you ever think that there are some things that are
f-foreign to you that are good? And that as your daughter I would have some
instinct to go with the right people at the right time? You’re always so sure
I’m going to fuck up in some way. If you had any confidence in me, you’d think
that I might hang out with the right people. You don’t give me any credit.”
“Merry, you know what I’m talking about. You’re involving yourself with
political radicals.” “Radicals. B-b-because they don’t agree with y-y-y-you
they’re radical.” “These are people who have very extreme political ideas—”
“That’s the only thing that gets anything done is to have strong ideas, Daddy.”
“But you are only sixteen years old, and they are much older and more
sophisticated than you.” “Good. So maybe I’ll learn something. Extreme is b-b-b-
110
* * *
/>
blowing up a little country for some misunderstood notions about freedom. That
is extreme. B-b-b-blowing off b-b-boys’ legs and b-balls, that is extreme,
Daddy. Taking a b-bus or a train into New York and spending a night in a locked,
secure apartment—I don’t see what’s so extreme about that. I think people sleep
somewhere every night if they can. T-t-tell me what’s so extreme about that. Do
you think war is b-bad? Eww—extreme idea, Daddy. It’s not the idea that’s
extreme—it’s the fact that someone might care enough about something to try to
make it different. You think that’s extreme? That’s your problem. It might mean
more to someone to try to save other people’s lives than to finish a d-d-d-d-d-
d-degree at Columbia—that’s extreme? No, the other is extreme.” “You talking
about Bill and Melissa?” “Yeah. She dropped out because there are things that
are more important to her than a d-d-d-degree. To stop the killing is more
important to her than the letters B-b-b.A. on a piece of paper. You call that
extreme? No, I think extreme is to continue on with life as usual when this kind
of craziness is going on, when people are b-being exploited left, right, and
center, and you can just go on and get into your suit and tie every day and go
to work. As if nothing is happening. That is extreme. That is extreme s-s-s-
stupidity, that is what that is.”
Conversation #59 about New York. “Who are they?” “They went to Columbia. They
dropped out. I told you all this. They live on Morningside Heights.” “That
doesn’t tell me enough, Merry. There are drugs, there are violent people, it is
a dangerous city. Merry, you can wind up in a lot of trouble. You can wind up
