Donald Barthelme

by Donald Barthelme

  After the separation, which came about after what is known as the breaking point was reached, Wanda visited me in my bachelor setup. We were drinking healths. “Health to the child!” I proposed. Wanda lifted her glass. “Health to your projects!” she proposed, and I was pleased. That seemed very decent of her. I lifted my glass. The only thing I enjoy more than lifting my glass is lifting the cork, on a new bottle. I lifted the cork on a new bottle. “Health to the republic!” I proposed. We drank to that. Then Wanda proposed a health. “Health to abandoned wives!” she said. “Well now,” I said. “‘Abandoned,’ that’s a little strong.” “Pushed out, jettisoned, abjured, thrown away,” she said. “I remember,” I said, “a degree of mutuality, in our parting.” “And when guests came,” she said, “you always made me sit in the kitchen.” “I thought you liked it in the kitchen,” I said. “You were forever telling me to get out of the bloody kitchen.” “And when my overbite required correction,” she said, “you would not pay for the apparatus.” “Seven years of sitting by the window with your thumb in your mouth,” I said. “What did you expect?” “And when I needed a new frock,” she said, “you hid the Uni-Card.” “There was nothing wrong with the old one,” I said, “that a few well-placed patches couldn’t have fixed.” “And when we were invited to the Argentine Embassy,” she said, “you made me drive the car in a chauffeur’s cap, and park the car, and stand about with the other drivers outside while you chatted up the Ambassador.” “You know no Spanish,” I pointed out. “It was not the happiest of marriages,” she said, “all in all.” “There has been a sixty percent increase in single-person households in the last ten years, according to the Bureau of the Census,” I told her. “Perhaps we are part of a trend.” That thought did not seem to console her much. “Health to the child!” I proposed, and she said, “We’ve already done that.” “Health to the mother of the child!” I said, and she said, “I’ll drink to that.” To tell the truth we were getting a little wobbly on our pins, at this point. “It is probably not necessary to rise each time,” I said, and she said, “Thank God,” and sat. I looked at her then to see if I could discern traces of what I had seen in the beginning. There were traces but only traces. Vestiges. Hints of a formerly intact mystery never to be returned to its original wholeness. “I know what you’re doing,” she said, “you are touring the ruins.” “Not at all,” I said. “You look very well, considering.” “‘Considering’!” she cried, and withdrew from her bosom an extremely large horse pistol. “Health to the dead!” she proposed, meanwhile waving the horse pistol in the air in an agitated manner. I drank that health, but with misgivings, because who was she talking about? “The sacred dead,” she said with relish. “The well-beloved, the well-esteemed, the well-remembered, the well-ventilated.” She attempted to ventilate me then, with the horse pistol. The barrel wavered to the right of my head, and to the left of my head, and I remembered that although its guidance system was primitive its caliber was large. The weapon discharged with a blurt of sound and the ball smashed a bottle of J & B on the mantel. She wept. The place stank of Scotch. I called her a cab.

  Wanda is happier now, I think. She has taken herself off to Nanterre, where she is studying Marxist sociology with Le­febvre (not impertinently, the author of the Critique de la Vie Quotidienne). The child is being cared for in an experimental nursery school for the children of graduate students run, I understand, in accord with the best Piagetian principles. And I, I have my J & B. The J & B company keeps manufacturing it, case after case, year in and year out, and there is, I am told, no immediate danger of a dearth.

  Träumerei

  SO THERE you are, Daniel, reclining, reclining on the chaise, a lovely picture, white trousers, white shirt, red cummerbund, scarlet rather, white suède jacket, sunflower in buttonhole, beard neatly combed, let’s have a look at the fingernails. Daniel, your fingernails are a disgrace. Have a herring. We are hungry, Daniel, we could eat the hind leg off a donkey. Quickly, Daniel, quickly to the bath, it’s time to bathe, the bath is drawn, the towels laid out, the soap in the soap dish, the new bath mat laid down, the bust of Puccini over the tub polished, the choir is ready, it will sing the Nelson Mass of Haydn, soaping to begin with the Kyrie, luxuriating from the Kyrie to the Credo, serious scrubbing from the Credo to the Sanctus, toweling to commence with the Agnus Dei. Daniel, walk the dog and frighten the birds, we can’t abide birdsong. Spontini is eternal, Daniel, we knew him well, he sat often in that very chair, the chair you sit in, Spontini sat there, hawking and spitting, coughing blood into a plaid handkerchief, he was not in the best of health after he left Berlin, we were very close, Daniel, Spontini and we, Agnes von Hohenstaufen was his favorite among his works, “not lacking in historical significance,” he used to say of it, in his modest way, and of course he was right, Agnes von Hohenstaufen is eternal. Daniel, do you know a Putzi, no Putzi appears in the register, what is this, Daniel, a new Putzi and not recorded in the register, what marches, are you conducting a little fiddle here, Daniel, Putzi is on the telephone, hurry to the telephone, Daniel. Daniel, you may begin bringing in the sheaves. Do you want all the herring, Daniel? For a day, Daniel, we sat before a Constable sketch in a dream, an entire day, twenty-four hours, the light failed and we had candles brought, we cried “Ho! Candles, this way, lights, lights, lights!” and candles were brought, and we gazed additionally, some additional gazes, at the Constable sketch, in a dream. Have a shot of aquavit, Daniel. And there’s an old croquet ball! It’s been so long since we’ve played, almost forgotten how, perhaps some evening in the cool, while the light lasts, we’ll have a game, we were very apt once, probably you are not, but we’ll teach you, pure pleasure, Daniel, pure and unrestricted pleasure, while the light lasts, indulgence at its fiery height, you will lust after the last wicket, you will rush for the stake, and miss it, very likely, the untutored amateur in his eagerness, you’ll be hit off into the shrubbery, we will place our ball next to your ball, and place a foot on your ball, and give it a good whack, your ball will go flying off into the shrubbery, what a pleasure, it frightens the birds. That is our croquet elegy, Daniel. Repair the dog cart, Daniel. Or have another herring, we were ripping up a herring with Mascagni once, some decades ago, the eternal Mascagni, a wonderful man, Pietro, a great laugher, he would laugh and laugh, and then stop laughing, and grow gray, a disappointed man, Pietro, brought a certain amount of grayness into one’s drawing room, relieved of course by the laughing, from time to time, he was a rocket, Mascagni, worldwide plaudits and then pop! nothing, not a plaudit in a carload, he grew a bit morose, in his last years, and gray, perhaps that’s usual when one’s plaudits have been taken away, a darling man, and wonderful with the stick, always on the road in his last years, opera orchestras, he was the devil with your work-shy element, was Pietro, your work-shy element might as well bend to it when Pietro was in the pit. You may go to your room now, Daniel. She loves you still, we can’t understand it, they all profess an unexhausted passion, the whole string, that’s remarkable, Putzi too, you’re to be congratulated and we are never the last to offer our congratulations, the persistence of memory as the poet puts it, would that be the case do you think, would that be the explanation, hurry to the cellar and bring up a cask of herring and four bottles of aquavit, we’re going to let you work on the wall. We had a man working on the wall, Daniel, a good man, Buller by name, knew his trade, did Buller, but he went away, to the West, an offer from the Corps of Engineers, they were straightening a river, somewhere in the West, Buller had straightened streams in his youth but never a river, he couldn’t resist, gave us a turkey by way of farewell, it was that season, we gave him a watch, inscribed TO BULLER, FAITHFUL POURER OF FOOTINGS, and then he hove out of view, hove over the horizon, run to the wall, Daniel, you’ll find the concrete block stacked on the site, and mind your grout, Daniel, mind your grout. Daniel, you’re looking itchy, we know that itch, we are not insensible of your problem, in our youth we whored after youth, on the one hand, and
whored after beauty, on the other, very often these were combined in the same object, a young girl for example, a simplification, one does not have to whore after youth and whore after beauty consecutively, running first to the left, down dark streets, whoring after youth, and then to the right, through the arcades, whoring after beauty, and generally whoring oneself ragged, please, Daniel, don’t do that, throwing the cat against the wall injures the cat. Your women, Daniel, have arrayed themselves on the garden gate. There’s a racket down at the garden gate, Daniel, see to it, and the damned birds singing, and think for a while about delayed gratification, it’s what distinguishes us from the printed circuits, Daniel, your printed circuit can’t delay a gratification worth a damn. Daniel, run and buy a barrel of herring from the herringvolk. For we deny no man his mead, after a hard day at the wall. Your grout is lovely, Daniel. Daniel, have you noticed this herring, it looks very much like the President, do you think so, we are soliciting your opinion, although we are aware that most people think the President looks not like a herring but like a foot, what is your opinion, Daniel. Glazunov is eternal, of course, eight symphonies, two piano concertos, a violin concerto, a cello concerto, a concerto for saxophone, six overtures, seven quartets, a symphonic poem, serenades, fantasias, incidental music, and the Hymn to Pushkin. Pass the aquavit, Daniel. There was a moment when we thought we were losing our mind. Yes, we, losing our mind, the wall not even started at that period, we were open to the opinions of mankind, vulnerable, anyone could come along, as you did, Daniel, and have an opinion contrary to our opinion, we remember when the Monsignor came to inspect our miracle, a wonderful little miracle that had happened to us, still believers, at that period, we had the exhibits spread out on the rug, neatly tagged, Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and so forth, the Monsignor tickled the exhibits with his toe, toed the exhibits reflectively, or perhaps he was merely trying to give that impression, they’re cunning, you never know, we had prostrated ourselves of course, then he tickled the tops of our heads with his toe and said, “Get up, you fools, get up and pour me a glass of that sherry I spy there, on the sideboard,” we got up and poured him a glass, with trembling hands you may be sure, and the damned birds singing, he sipped, a smile appeared on the monsignorial mug, “Well boys,” he said, “a few cases of this spread around the chancellery won’t do your petition any harm,” we immediately went to the cellar, loaded six cases upon a dray and caused them to be drayed to the chancellery, but to no avail, spurious they said, of our miracle, we were crushed, blasted, we thought we were losing our mind. You, Daniel, can be the new miracle, in your white trousers, white suède jacket, red cummerbund, scarlet rather, yellow sunflower in the buttonhole, a miracle of nullity, pass the aquavit. Have a reindeer steak, Daniel, it’s Dancer, Dancer or Prancer, no no, that’s a joke, Daniel, and while you’re at it bring the accounts, your pocket money must be accounted for, thirty-five cents a week times thirteen weeks, what? Thirty-five cents a week times twenty-six weeks, we did not realize that your option had been picked up, you will be the comfort of our old age, Daniel, if you live. Give the herb garden a weed, Daniel. The telephone is ringing, Daniel, answer it, we’ll be here, sipping hock and listening on the extensions. Your backing and filling, your excuses, their reproaches, the weeping, all very well in a way, stimulating even, but it palls, your palaver, after a time, these ladies, poor girls, the whole string, Martha, Mary, all the rest, Claudia or is it Claudine, we can’t remember, amusing, yes, for a time, for a time, until the wall is completed, a perfect circle or is it a perfect rhomboid, we can’t remember. We remember browsing in the dictionary, page something or other, pumpernickel to puppyish, keeping the mind occupied, until the wall is completed, young whelp, what are you now, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, almost a neonate, have a herring, and count your blessings, and mind your grout, and give the fingernails a buff, spurious they said, of our miracle, that was a downer, and the damned birds singing, we’re spared nothing, and the cat with its head cracked, thanks to you, Daniel, the garden gate sprung, thanks to you, Daniel, Mascagni gone, Glazunov gone, and the damned birds singing, and the croquet balls God knows where, and the damned birds singing.

  The Genius

  HIS ASSISTANTS cluster about him. He is severe with them, demanding, punctilious, but this is for their own ultimate benefit. He devises hideously difficult problems, or complicates their work with sudden oblique comments that open whole new areas of investigation—yawning chasms under their feet. It is as if he wishes to place them in situations where only failure is possible. But failure, too, is a part of mental life. “I will make you failure-proof,” he says jokingly. His assistants pale.

  •

  Is it true, as Valéry said, that every man of genius contains within himself a false man of genius?

  •

  “This is an age of personal ignorance. No one knows what others know. No one knows enough.”

  •

  The genius is afraid to fly. The giant aircraft seem to him . . . flimsy. He hates the takeoff and he hates the landing and he detests being in the air. He hates the food, the stewardesses, the voice of the captain, and his fellow-passengers, especially those who are conspicuously at ease, who remove their coats, loosen their ties, and move up and down the aisles with drinks in their hands. In consequence, he rarely travels. The world comes to him.

  •

  Q: What do you consider the most important tool of the genius of today?

  A: Rubber cement.

  •

  He has urged that America be divided into four smaller countries. America, he says, is too big. “America does not look where it puts its foot,” he says. This comment, which, coming from anyone else, would have engendered widespread indignation, is greeted with amused chuckles. The Chamber of Commerce sends him four cases of Teacher’s Highland Cream.

  •

  The genius defines “inappropriate response”:

  “Suppose my friend telephones and asks, ‘Is my wife there?’ ‘No,’ I reply, ‘they went out, your wife and my wife, wearing new hats, they are giving themselves to sailors.’ My friend is astounded at this news. ‘But it’s Election Day!’ he cries. ‘And it’s beginning to rain!’ I say.”

  •

  The genius pays close attention to work being done in fields other than his own. He is well read in all of the sciences (with the exception of the social sciences); he follows the arts with a connoisseur’s acuteness; he is an accomplished amateur musician. He jogs. He dislikes chess. He was once photographed playing tennis with the Marx Brothers.

  He has devoted considerable thought to an attempt to define the sources of his genius. However, this attempt has led approximately nowhere. The mystery remains a mystery. He has therefore settled upon the following formula, which he repeats each time he is interviewed: “Historical forces.”

  •

  The government has decided to award the genius a few new medals—medals he has not been previously awarded. One medal is awarded for his work prior to 1936, one for his work from 1936 to the present, and one for his future work.

  •

  “I think that this thing, my work, has made me, in a sense, what I am. The work possesses a consciousness which shapes that of the worker. The work flatters the worker. Only the strongest worker can do this work, the work says. You must be a fine fellow, that you can do this work. But disaffection is also possible. The worker grows careless. The worker pays slight regard to the work, he ignores the work, he flirts with other work, he is unfaithful to the work. The work is insulted. And perhaps it finds little ways of telling the worker . . . The work slips in the hands of the worker—a little cut on the finger. You understand? The work becomes slow, sulky, consumes more time, becomes more tiring. The gaiety that once existed between the worker and the work has evaporated. A fine situation! Don’t you think?”

  •

  The genius has noticed that he does not interact with children success
fully. (Anecdote)

  •

  Richness of the inner life of the genius:

  (1) Manic-oceanic states

  (2) Hatred of children

  (3) Piano playing

  (4) Subincised genitals

  (5) Subscription to Harper’s Bazaar

  (6) Stamp collection

  •

  The genius receives a very flattering letter from the University of Minnesota. The university wishes to become the depository of his papers, after he is dead. A new wing of the Library will be built to house them.

  The letter makes the genius angry. He takes a pair of scissors, cuts the letter into long thin strips, and mails it back to the Director of Libraries.

  •

  He takes long walks through the city streets, noting architectural details—particularly old ironwork. His mind is filled with ideas for a new— But at this moment a policeman approaches him. “Beg pardon, sir. Aren’t you—” “Yes,” the genius says, smiling. “My little boy is an admirer of yours,” the policeman says. He pulls out a pocket notebook. “If it’s not too much trouble . . .” Smiling, the genius signs his name.

  The genius carries his most important papers about with him in a green Sears, Roebuck toolbox.

  •

  He did not win the Nobel Prize again this year.

  It was neither the year of his country nor the year of his discipline. To console him, the National Foundation gives him a new house.

  •

  The genius meets with a group of students. The students tell the genius that the concept “genius” is not, currently, a popular one. Group effort, they say, is more socially productive than the isolated efforts of any one man, however gifted. Genius by its very nature sets itself over against the needs of the many. In answering its own imperatives, genius tends toward, even embraces, totalitarian forms of social organization. Tyranny of the gifted over the group, while bringing some advances in the short run, inevitably produces a set of conditions which—