by Gordon Lish
Okay, you want to hear something else?
There’s something else I am prepared to tell you if you are prepared to hear me do it.
Which is how it was in the olden times when people got together and the cuticle was king.
À la this:
“Might I comment on your cuticles?”
“Oh, yes, please do.”
“Well, they’re lovely, I do think.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
“I mean, they really truly are.”
“You are ever so thoughtful to say so.”
“May I ask if you use Cuticura on them?”
“You knew, you knew.”
“It’s outrageously obvious, wouldn’t you say?”
“Just rub it on. But gently, ever so gently.”
“Too true, oh so true.”
“Cuticura, it’s a regular godsend.”
Speaking as Gordon (Gordon!), I bet it was.
Listen—to be honest with you, to be absolutely perfectly honest with you, I can see how schmuck might actually be spelt schmuk. Fuck it. Neither one of them looks to me right to me, Gordon (Gordon!), anymore. As a matter of fact, nothing, when you come right down to it, does anymore. Believe it or not, there was a time when it was “any more,” not “anymore.” But no one cares. Nowadays what? Nowadays you pick up something like a newspaper maybe or like a magazine possibly and what, what—what? Because I, Gordon (Gordon!), am here to tell you what! No commas. Where there are supposed to be commas, there’s what? Didn’t I just tell you? Didn’t I? Because there’s no commas! My land, you’re lucky if they take the trouble to address you in a modicumly civilized manner. But forget about sense or, you know, or about commonsense, or even, hey, about what once upon a time the rank and file called essence, okay? Right, right, it’s a free country and so forth and so on—I promise you, I, Gordon (Gordon!), get it, I get it. This notwithstanding, however, I as a citizen, I as an American, can, in all humility, do nought but remind you, there was a time when the populace (the “populace”) endorsed the benefits, to be sure, the health-producing benefits, not to mention the health-productive benefits, of cuticura. Or is it, was it, Cuticura? With a capital C, ness poo? Hey, schmekeleh, please be so good as to turn on your machine and reference it, fair enough? But who can talk sense into you anymore? Never mind. Or, excuse me, Gordon (Gordon!). Because never mind makes no sense to you anymore, whereas, sure, sure, nevermind does. Look, is the joke on me or is the joke on me? That’s okay. Forget about it. I mean, I utterly understand. Jeepers, is it not the anguish which we the intelligentsia always bring on ourselves when we go ahead and make the mistake of taking pity on people like you? All I, Gordon (Gordon!), have been trying to do is to, in keeping with my CORE VALUES, stimulate a discussion of a higher nature. But you know what? Because I’ll tell you what, which is that I should have gone ahead and saved my breath. Oh, just forget it—am not I, Gordon (Gordon!), too good for this type of idleness like this? Or say I said sloth.
FOR MY MOTHER, REG, DEAD IN AMERICA
NEVER EAT A rutabaga. Or is it spelt “rutebaga”? Never eat one of those sons-of-bitches no matter how they spell it. Nor the heart of your Romaine. Or at least don’t capitalize the spelling of this or that species of lettuce if it’s (don’t make me repeat myself, do you hear me, because you better hear me!) not supposed to be capitalized. I don’t know. I don’t look anything up in any fucking dictionary. Who’s writing this? I’m writing this. The dictionary is not in any goddamn charge of this act of expression, or of this, if you please, scription. Even me, even I, even the author of this is barely in charge of it. Or of anything else. And you know why? Would you like to know fucking why? Because he does not fucking want to be—is that answership enough for you? Make sure you have mastered the spelling of your father’s name and of your mother’s name. Never refer to your mother as “Mom.” Never use the word “reference” as a verb. The same goes for “experience,” the word. Never start a sentence with the word “however.” The same goes for however. When making use of the word “however” in order to produce the effect of the word “but,” embed (shit, that looks funny, doesn’t it—unless it’s “imbed”) “however” within the body of the sentence. Thus: “I went to the store. I did not, however, buy a rutabaga.” Unless it’s spelt rutebaga, in which case you would say, “I did not, however, buy a rutebaga.” Never, at any rate, say (or write): “I went to the store. However, I did not buy, or acquire, a rutabaga.” Unless it’s really spelt “rutebaga.” If your mother’s name is Regina, spell it R-e-g-i-n-a. You will notice that the hyphens distributed among the letters were accordingly deployed to convey the sense of the name being spelt. Or under, if you prefer, “under examination.” Let us turn our attention to the word “acquire.” You will find it not far from here. It should be plain to you to refer to the first appearance of the word (acquire) in this act of scription. Perhaps I ought to, or should have, said, just now, referring to the original application of said word (acquire) as the “initial” one. Bear with me. I am giving the matter fitting consideration. All right—enough of that. But at all events—or “at all events, however”—in referencing the word “acquire,” I had wanted to ask you (note the first, or original, or initial “use” of the pluperfect tense. I love the tenses. What would I do without the tenses? Maybe I should have left out the definite article and just said, “I love tenses.” Plus: “What would I do without tenses?” You, however, could probably get along without them like perfectly well. Not so Gordon. G-o-r-d-o-n. But call me Gordo). Here we go, then—focus your attention on that originary use of “use.” Of “acquire.” All right, then—the question is this: ought, or should, the word “immediately” before it, or prior to it, or prefatory, prefatory, be not “or” but instead “nor”? I don’t know the answer. Does the dictionary know the answer? Did Philip? Philip is the name of my father. Was it, correctly, or more correctly, spelt Phillip—i.e., P-h-i-l-l-i-p. Was it or is it?—keeping in mind this personage is dead, or deceased. So is Kierkegaard. That’s who wised me up as to the various lettuces. Wait a sec. Perhaps I should have, ought to have, would have done better to have said “He’s” instead of “That’s” when referencing Kierkegaard. Man oh man, was he full of shit. He, however, did indeed say, however, when referencing a certain, or any, lettuce, the word “frizz” when referring to the character, or quality, of its (or “the”) heart. I like that. Thus: “frizzy.” We might, may, could apply it thus: “The heart of the iceberg lettuce is frizzy.” But don’t, do not, eat it. Or of it. Do not eat of the heart of a lettuce. Here’s two more types of lettuce: Green Leaf and Boston. Don’t eat either of their hearts. Or might it prove smarter for me to have said “Here’re” instead of “Here’s”? Kierkegaard himself (the man was, you know, Danish—a Dane, namely) probably knew not—not that there was not plenty of other stuff he didn’t know squat about. That’s nice. That’s actually sort of very nice. I mean, “squat about.” Are you paying attention? Without looking, without peeking, could you pronounce the diminutive of, or the affectionate form of, my mother’s name? Fine, fine—Reggie. Or R-e-g-g-i-e. All right. So far, so good. But I said not spell but pronounce. So go ahead and try it. Because the crux of the matter is this—to wit: the G (gee): hard or soft? Do you see what I mean? It’s pointless (bootless, inutile?) or beside the point for you to seek to maintain this c-h-a-r-a-d-e if you could not, or would not, handle the essence of the question, let alone answer it one way or the other. That’s interesting—“let alone.” That’s really pretty fucking interesting—all these years, sitting here fiddling with the last scription, and what do I, G-o-r-d-o, all of a sudden notice? The answer is “let alone.” Let me tell you something. Are you in a mood for me to tell you something? The title of this, why not, is there one good reason why it should not, or ought not, or could not more figuratively, be titled, or entitled, Let Alone? I thought not. That’s right, that’s right—I, Gordo, thought not! I am telling you Kierkegaard was full of it. Totally. Or
“is,”—temporally speaking, that is. Full of shit. You know who referenced Kierkegaard a lot? He also fucked Grace Paley. Oh, come on—it’s easy. And listen to me, don’t go running around saying Gordo is acting, or is speaking, scandalously. I mean, it is no big deal. Unless you prefer, “It’s no big deal.” Well, it’s not. Half the people who patronize modern lit know the answer. Okay, let’s say you don’t. So if you don’t, you know what? You’re a moron. It’s literary stuff. Lit stuff. You should know your lit stuff if you want to get your beak wet in the looking-like-a-literus stakes. Besides, they’re both kaput, fucker and fucked. You know what Kierkegaard said? Kierkegaard said, “The frizz is frizzy.” Except in Danish. The man was a Dane, right? So if he really actually said it, he said it in Danish. Unless the prissy son-of-a-bitch could handle himself in English. I’ll tell you something—the man would probably have a fit if he were alive to have one and somebody came along and went up to him and said to him, “Søren, sweetie, you’ll never guess who was always putting it about that he was hip to your shit inside-out. Then he fucked Grace Paley. Or Grace Paley fucked him.” (But which he? Which him?) I once went to fuck her myself. Or, fine, fine, be fucked by her, dispositively speaking. But her place was too messy for me. Man oh man, was it a mess! You never saw such disorder. I can’t fuck anybody who’s dwelling in disorder like that. I can’t think straight in disorder like that. I need to think straight when I fuck. It’s all about the thinking with me. You know who felt the same way? Kierkegaard. That’s right—to a T. Or tee. I’m serious. It’s why I have this sense very deep down inside of myself that there is this terrifyingly deep kinship between us, Kierkegaard and me. Unless it’s Kierkegaard and I. It could be Kierkegaard and I. Anyway, the man knew his lettuces—this much you’ve got to grant him. You know what? This very instant I can sit here and hear the man intone—intone!—“The heart of the lettuce is its frizz.” There’s something really pretty goddamn beautiful about that. Well, one thing, there’s no fucking anacoluthon in it. You hear me? That’s just one—one, for chrissakes!—aspect of the man’s brilliance even though he was totally but utterly full of low-grade shit about everything else. In Danish. Just to begin with, let alone in just your, you know, your Danish pathetic language. Okay to quit this now? I in all honesty feel (sense, intuit, etc.) it’s time for me to quit this. But not without one more insult. The Swedes. The Swedish. Oh my god, it’s unbelievable. It’s like one of those bitter lettuces show-offs are always eating, if you get what I’m getting at. Anyway, Reg, Reggie, Regina, you went ahead and called out any one of those designations and guess what. The woman came to you. No hesitation. No will I or won’t I about it. No, sir—no fucking checking with the dictionary first. That’s a mother for you. Or, anyhow, my mother for, you know, me.
WOMEN PASSING: O MYSTERIUM!
SO I SAYS to my friend James, that I call Jims from time to time, unless it’s “who” I and so on and so forth, I says to Jims, so I says to him, I says, “The world is a woman. I mean,” I says to him, “not a woman as such, not a woman as a world, but woman as a world which pertains womanishly to me,” I says to Jims, “or as just a particular pertaining of dynamic essences as they, these essences, apply to me, if you are prepared to submit yourself to seeing worldness, or worlding, in the manner which I, as Gordon, see it.” “Oh,” the man James says to me, “I get you, all right. No need for you to qualify. It’s for you first and foremost tits and ass, by god, and vice versally, am I right?” “Right, you’re incontrovertibly right,” I says to him, which is, as you are aware, to Jims, “barring, to be sure, the occasional exceptions where for me, Gordon, there have occurred certain past-wise notable exceptions. Indeed,” I says to Jims, “a fucking triad of them, if you’ll be so good as to make room for the recursive review of them. For to speak explicitly,” I says to Jims, “or rather to say explicitly speaking, I myself have endured a grand total of three of them, a mere yet fulsome enough number, but no more, this, or theses, related as to, of course, the phenomenon, erupting in an eruption of exceptions.” “Sure, sure,” this James says to me, “please, Gordie, don’t for a minute think that I, James, will depart from this co-consideration of the occasion my forebrain taken with the thinking that you have not succeeded in illuminating for me the apprehension, as it were, of your telos, ness paw?”
Well, just between you (you!—reader, reader—my true friend) and me, I, Gordon, suspect maybe yes, maybe no, as far as what goes for Jims, eh?—I mean, maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t, get it when it comes to this and that. Is he, or was he, as yet, as yet, wised up to the case that communication, nay, your so-called communication arts, is, or “are,” in all its, or their, various and sundry permutations among the desperate uses of men, among, namely, the male of the species, is, to be sure, a joke, is a hoax, is, as I, Gordon, am, for propounding, not unwidely known, nichts gut? Because I, personally, adjudge not! That Jims chap, I mean, is, or was, he thusly apprised in the annals of his heart as to the well-earned power of my personal way of thinking? To answer, to, in a word, answer in a word, the answer is “doubtful.” Listen, what you find yourself immersed with men-wise is a case utterly—nay, hopelessly—otherwise, not that the difference, or, if it is your preference for me to say it thusly, this difference, exists within my flair for definition, as in (forgive this protected expatiation) please compare and contrast.
You see what I’m saying?
James, he didn’t, even though, sure, sure, it’s no better than an unsupported surmise (a guess) for me, Gordon, to say so. But you, you do—get it, that is. No matter. For I, Gordon, am, you know, confident, am ensconced, as it were, in a state of confidence. Beats me why, but when I talk with you like this, I’m in, to what might be dubbed an uncanny extent, a state of unassailable confidence as to the exception I just sat here sweating it out for me to project a reliable allowance for. But that’s just between you and me—as in a one-of-a-kind way, or, if you please, uniquely, okay? Whereas with women, in general, I mean, whereas with me undertaking an act of talking to women, or as to me being with (in the previous company of) women, or with I, Gordon, being with an individual one of them, it’s another thing that’s totally different from the other thing altogether. Which is to say, your art of communication, your hands-on empirical experience of communication, is not, nor cannot be, as such, ruled out. So it can therefore be said, in the context of that, call it, prospect, we are in the vicinity of what we might propose to call communion, my friend, communion, which is where, I do not have to tell you, which is where the potential for the ultimate pay-off is.
Sometimes.
From time to time, you might say.
As for instance, take the fact that I am an old man now and that, as an old man now, I am in a position to see this and that rather more, or rather significantly more, say, comprehensively than I did before—like back as in the old days when I was, regrettably, let us tentatively, for argument’s sake, propose, it simultaneously goes without saying, that is, that you are succeeding in more or less tracking along with me my various levels of suppositive statements along with me.
Hey, I am definitely not sitting here saying, please take special note, I am positively not sitting here saying comprehendingly. Far from it. But comprehensively—comprehensively is another story, as stories are wont to go, altogether.
Anyway, we can be agreed—you and I, Gordon, that is—there’s definitely a difference, I don’t have to tell you.
In other words, it’s not just spelling, nor that spelling, however, does not bear on this topic. Hey, it bears on them all!
Although, as an old man, I can absolutely think of times when spelling, as such, when mere, if you will, spelling, when spelling as such, made all the difference. But let us agree to skip that thorny aspect of it. I don’t want for us to get into anything even remotely close to an aspect of a thing like that.
Or like this.
Besides, now that I sit here trying to think to myself of any pure instance, or example, of it, I can�
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The point is just listen.
I mean, before we get ourselves like mixed-up, for us to put the finest point on it, though, one may wish, not too fine a one, James says to me, “Believe me, I got it, I got it, which runs along the same vein as in the thrust of the adage, nay, even as in the axiom of it, that a penny—right?—that a penny is decisively bigger than a dime but, as yourself, is it, is the penny, for argument’s sake, strictly for the sake of argument, worth, in the marketplace, more?”
Well, we’re not getting anywhere here, are we? That’s sad. I mean, that’s personally to me terribly, terribly sad. For can one not, taking into account this mutual stage of our most earnest exertions, can one not, intellection aforethought, allege that there is not the slightest sign of anything we might call a condition of communication underway here, Jims and me, if I may clarify, the two of us, not the two which is constituted of you, on the one hand, and me on the other. What I am saying here is that Jims and me, we are, as a potentially communicational unit, not making the merest headway at all? We’re, let’s face it, lost. We’re in the woods, as the proverb goes, or, if it’s how you yourself grew up hearing it, in the weeds, enough said? I mean, so far as I personally am concerned, the fuck with James, is my conclusive posture at this juncture. I am, to employ a more vigorous form of utterance, fed up with Jims, had it up to the gills with Jims, am, as far as Jims, or James, dispositively speaking, calling it quits—at that particular juncture, unless, preference-wise, it would suit you better, were junction proffered instead. Because, just superficially speaking, whose inner self is being nurtured sufficiently? Certainly not mine! Not, okay, Gordon’s! Call it a termination, or, if you will, a terminus, in my, in Gordon’s, interest in the man. In words of one syllable, I have come to the point where I feel myself entitled to say to myself the fuck with Jims.
