The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  —Too much Dostoevski, Max said.

  —The stupid bastard with his half-ass conversion, Anselm muttered, looking from the child who held his hand, glazedly at the sidewalk. —Christ, he said, rubbing his chin, —that’s what kills me, a guy like that . . . as a colored girl, in a plaid skirt which Max identified from behind as the Stuart tartan, passed saying —Reading Proust isn’t just reading a book, it’s an experience and you can’t reject an experience . . . to the boy she was with.

  —It’s the Black Watch, said Anselm, and turning to Stanley, —Why don’t you change your luck, Stanley. You . . . God damn it what are you looking at me that way for? . . .

  —I . . . I’m cold, Stanley said lowering his eyes. His jaw was shaking.

  —Cold! You . . . you . . . What did you do to your face, anyway? What’s the matter with your chin, anyway? Anselm burst out suddenly.

  —I got mixed up this morning, Stanley said handling his chin, —and I shaved with the toothpaste instead of . . .

  —With the toothpaste! Anselm said, withdrawing with a quick shock of a laugh. —You ought to try a cored apple filled with cold cream, you . . .

  —And last night I had a terrible experience, Stanley went on, agitated, looking up at both of them. —I went into a delicatessen to get a can of soup and some bread, and the man behind the money . . . I mean behind the cash register was counting up the money and there was some in a paper bag on the counter, and I picked up the wrong bag and almost went out with the money, and when I went back with it and said I was sorry they . . . they weren’t nice about it at all.

  A blond boy in tight-fitted dungarees passed saying, —Zheeed . . .

  —Well what the hell would you go back with it for?

  —They almost called the police.

  —Stanley’s Christian spirit will undo us all, said Max, who had been standing back.

  —Yeah, we’d make him a saint if it wasn’t so God damn expensive, Anselm retorted, looking at Stanley. —Three million lire for a lousy canonization, he muttered.

  —No, he won’t do. Max stepped back and looked Stanley up and down. —He eats meat. His body would putrefy before they could get the halo on. Poor peasant girls from southern Europe make the best ones, brought up on beans.

  —That’s true, said Anselm, musing, looking down. Then he looked up querulously at Max.

  From the drugstore behind them came a fat youth who looked, at this distance, to have his beard painted on. It dripped to a point at his chin. —If she won’t pray for me, I don’t know who will, he was saying animatedly, tossing the words about before him with plump fluttering hands. The boy with him took his arm as they crossed the street.

  Max had nodded. —He gave my show a good write-up, Max explained.

  —Do you know him? Stanley asked.

  —You can’t go to a single vernissage without seeing him. He says stupid things with a manner, you know, he has a certain style, so that people remember him as clever.

  —People like that make me nervous, Stanley said.

  —People like what.

  —When they’re so . . . queer.

  —Queer! Anselm burst out, and continued to watch them cross the street. —That one, queer? He’s not a homosexual, he’s a Lesbian. Max laughed; and Anselm went on, —And that boy poet with him, for Christ sake. Poet! . . . these limp flabby-assed little . . . boy poets who sit around waiting for somebody to give them the business in their . . . Jesus Christ, these boy poets and their common asphodel. Anselm laughed again, a tight constrained laugh looking across the street at the receding couple. —Their common asphodel, he laughed, taking the magazine from under Max’s arm, and recovering the fit of abstraction he’d sunk into a moment before as he turned the pages.

  —I liked your poem, Stanley said to Max. —The one they just published? That line about Beauty, serenely disdains to destroy us?

  —Yes, you . . . almost dropped this, Max interrupted quickly, righting the practice keyboard which was gripped in Stanley’s hands, with a quick glance at Anselm. But Anselm had apparently not heard. He looked up from the magazine to nod over his shoulder at the approaching figure, and said,

  —Otto? He’s the guy who’s been laying Esme?

  —She’s been laying him, said Max.

  Otto approached with his head down, as though it were weighed so by the rampage going on inside, and his features declined to the edges of his face, the look of one seeking something, or perhaps someone, a person he could talk this over with, someone who had suffered good intentions put to bad use by others, and would understand (by which Otto, talking to himself, meant sympathize); someone sensitive (he meant weak) enough to appreciate, and experienced (he meant bitter) enough to justify his dilemma. Stanley appeared in the interior rampage, bowed, understanding, sensitive, experienced: he raised his eyes and Stanley appeared, talking with (untrustworthy) Max and (odious) Anselm.

  —What does he wear that stupid sling around for? Anselm asked; but Otto did not look affronted, for as he crossed into hearing they were talking of Charles. —I saw him this morning, Anselm was saying. —Who was the old bag with him?

  —That was his mother, Max said. —She came from Grand Rapids to get him out of Bellevue.

  Stanley had stepped back looking pained, and as always, about to depart but unable to do so. Otto and Max exchanged sounds, and Max reached for the magazine sconced under Otto’s slung arm, leaving a newspaper rolled there. —I just picked that up, Otto said for no apparent reason, as Max opened Collectors Quarterly.

  —You had it this morning when I saw you, Max said, looking up to smile.

  —Oh yes I . . . I saw you earlier, didn’t I, Otto said discountenanced immediately, and sought a cigarette as though reaching for a shoulder holster.

  —Christ! Look at this, will you look at this? Anselm brought out, holding up the magazine he’d taken from Max. It was large, on heavy coated paper, full of pictures, the most popular weekly in the country. The page Anselm exhibited was a fashion photograph. —Will you look at her? Can you imagine putting the boots to that? What man would want to lay her? He rolled the magazine and thrust it under Otto’s arm, exchanging it for the newspaper. —Skinny, flat-chested, no hair on her head and no more in her pants than a ten-year-old boy, that’s what they’re trying to make women look like, these queer . . . what’s that smell? He stopped and sniffed. He looked at his own shoes, then at Stanley’s. —Did you step in it, Stanley?

  —In what? Stanley asked helplessly.

  —In what! Christ! . . . you wouldn’t say shit if you had a mouthful. Then he glanced up to see that Otto had detached himself from them, and stood scraping his shoe on the curb. He started to say something more, but his eye caught the reproduction in Collectors Quarterly which Max held open. It was Velasquez, Venus and Cupid. A sound of admiration escaped Anselm. —Jesus, how’d you like to hang that on the wall and play hide-the-baloney every night? The little girl pulled his hand. He yanked her back, almost dropping the book folded in the magazine under his arm, and opened the newspaper to the front-page story. It was a vice probe, and he broke out again, —Look at this. In a city of eight million they find a half-dozen girls peddling their ass and it’s the greatest clean-up in history. That kills me. Here, I don’t want to look at the God damn thing, he finished, pushing it back under the slung arm as Otto returned, muttering to himself.

  —I have to go, Stanley said.

  —They did a great thing when they cleaned up the whorehouses out of New York City, a great thing for the high-school girls, Anselm said as the newspaper fell to the sidewalk. —If a nice girl isn’t clapped up now before she’s sixteen it’s her own lousy fault. Then he turned on Otto, who attempted to raise his eyebrows as he straightened up, knocking the dirt from his newspaper. —How’d you like to go in business with me and Stanley? Anselm demanded abruptly.

  —It hardly sounds . . .

  —Artificial insemination, Anselm went on more loudly. —We bootleg the stuff. We’re going t
o advertise in the movie magazines. Girls! Have a baby by your favorite movie star. I fill the barrels and Stanley peddles it . . .

  Stanley had stepped back, looking down at the little girl whom Anselm pulled forward as he waved the nude with the umbrella in the air. —Which end of the business do you want to go in?

  Otto muttered something, looking at his newspaper.

  —Come on. I’ve got some nice pictures, Anselm went on more excitedly, —nice bodies with movie stars’ heads montaged . . .

  —Come off it, Max interrupted him.

  Anselm turned to Max. —What’s the matter, he said. The spots on his face had become inflamed by the wind blowing down from the north, and his hair was standing up. —You’ve never had it look up and spit at you?

  —Come off it, for Christ sake. You’re crazy.

  —Who wouldn’t be, in all . . . this, Anselm said breathlessly, waving the magazine so that the book folded inside it flew out. It slid along the sidewalk and went into the gutter. —Isn’t any madness preferable to . . . all this?

  Anselm stood there shaking. Then he saw Stanley going to pick his book from the gutter. —Leave it alone! he cried. —Leave it alone! Leave it alone! Leave it alone!

  Stanley stopped and stood back, not before he had seen the title of the book. Anselm stooped before him to pick it up, hawking and spitting into the street as he straightened before Stanley. He wiped the book on his trousers, covering it with his hand as he did so. —For Christ sake, he muttered, getting his breath.

  Stanley put his hand out with the palm up, and took a step toward him.

  —And stop . . . stop being so . . . Anselm took a step back. —Stop being so God damn humble, he said, as the little girl got his hand and drew him back another step. Max had taken Stanley’s arm.

  —You know God damn well that . . . that humility is defiance, Anselm went on disjointedly. —And you . . . that simplicity . . . simplicity today is sophisticated . . . that simplicity is the ultimate sophistication today . . .

  They had turned their backs and stepped into the street. Max was guiding Stanley by the arm.

  —Hey, what did the chicken say when she laid the square egg? Hey Stanley, I’ll dream about you again tonight. Hey Stanley, I’ll dream about you again tonight. What did the chicken say when she laid the square egg? . . . Anselm cried after them.

  None of them spoke as they walked together, until Otto, after an apprehensive look over his shoulder, said —God, he is crazy, isn’t he. He reached up to stroke his mustache, which was quivering, and asked, —Who’s that little girl?

  —Don Bildow’s daughter, Anselm takes care of her sometimes.

  —I wouldn’t let a daughter near him if she was five. I wouldn’t even if she was one, I wouldn’t even trust him as a baby-sitter, you know? I’m not kidding, I wouldn’t.

  Max glanced up from Collectors Quarterly smiling. —That story he told about that fellow, dressing that girl up in child’s clothes, that was him.

  —Who? Stanley asked quickly, and stopped short.

  —Anselm. He’s the one who did it, himself.

  Stanley came on with his head lowered, staring at the pavement, walking carefully. —Do you think it’s true, that he lives on dog food? he asked finally.

  Otto laughed unpleasantly. —Where’d you hear that?

  —From him, he told me himself. Canned dog food, he said it isn’t bad if you have enough catsup.

  —Somebody ought to shoot him, Anselm, said Otto, —his crazy yammering about God.

  —But have you ever read any of his poems? Stanley asked across Max, who walked between them with the magazine open. —There was one that was a beautiful poem, it was about Averroes, the Arab thinker in the Middle Ages, and should we understand in order to believe, or if we should believe in order to understand . . .

  —Look at this, Max said holding up Collectors Quarterly open to a picture of a piece of sculpture by Lipchitz, titled Mother and Child II. —Who do you think writes these program notes? Listen, “It was some time after the sculptor began a series of studies of a woman’s torso that he suddenly recognized in them a resemblance to the head of a bull. He developed the bull’s head further until he achieved . . .”

  —But there’s more, Stanley broke in, —when he says . . . when Anselm says that God has become a sentimental theatrical figure in our literature, that God is a melodramatic device used to throw people in novels into a turmoil . . .

  —Fairly obvious guilt feelings, Max murmured, lowering the magazine to look up as they approached the curb. On either side of him, they walked watching their way carefully; though Max, who scarcely glanced up from the pages, was the only one of them who knew where they were going.

  —But it isn’t that simple. Don’t you wonder why . . . why everything is negative? Stanley craned round to look up at both of them. —Why just exactly the things that used to be the aspirations of life, those are just the things that have become the tolls? I mean, like . . . well like girls having babies? They used to be the fruit of love, the thing people prayed for above everything, and now, now they’re the price of . . . Everything’s sort of contraceptive, everything wherever you look is against conceiving, until finally you can’t conceive any more. Then the time comes when you want something to work for you, the thing you’ve been denying all your life, and then it won’t work . . .

  And Stanley’s voice fell behind them, as they crossed the street and he waited for a cab which turned in front of him. He caught up again saying, —Everything is so transient, everything in America is so temporary . . . But Max was talking to Otto, who stopped at that moment wide-eyed on the opposite curb to demand,

  —Her? I didn’t even know you knew her. She needs a doctor? You mean, some man . . . ?

  —What do you think I mean, a duck? Max laughed. —That’s what I’ve heard, anyhow, he added, walking on with the magazine open again. —I guess we were just lucky.

  —Lucky? Otto repeated, pausing, then hurrying up beside Max. —You mean you . . . you’ve slept with her?

  —Not for years, Max answered; and with a sidelong glance at Otto, went on in the same casual tone, holding up a two-page reproduction in Collectors Quarterly, —Look at this, they describe it as the “algebra of suffering,” this Flemish painting. Hugo van der Goes. Otto muttered something, and looked at the picture if only because it was something to take his attention. But the confusion did not leave his face, and the lines round his eyes, gathered in a wince, became fixed so staring at the Descent from the Cross until Max turned the page.

  —But . . . he murmured, commencing to raise a hand, commencing to speak (for though he had been seen carrying this magazine, which had cost a dollar, he’d only had it open once, and then, with chance venery, upon the Velasquez).

  —This Dierick Bouts is remarkable, isn’t it, Max went on of the reproduction on the next page, paraphrasing the caption, —the canniness, the control. Even in black and white, the rigid lines and the constrained attitudes, there is a sort of “algebra of suffering,” isn’t there.

  —That van . . . the one on the page before, Otto commenced again.

  —Van der Goes, there was an overwhelming uncertain passion about it, wasn’t there, Max commented, turning a page, not back, but over to a portrait, —Van der Weyden, it’s rather saccharine . . .

  —Saccharine . . . ? Stanley stayed his hand, with the first evidence that he was looking at the pictures over the other shoulder.

  Max shrugged. —Ingratiating then, he said, lowering the magazine from Stanley’s hand, to turn another page, —there’s nothing like the perfect control . . . Max added and, having turned the page whose caption he was paraphrasing, went on, —There is a great sense of lucency and multiple perspective about these early Flemish . . .

  —The separate multiple consciousnesses of the . . . things in these Flemish primitives, that is really the force and the flaw in these paintings, Otto said, —you might say, he added.

  —What do you mean?

/>   —Well, you might say that the thoroughness with which they feel obliged to recreate the atmosphere, and the . . . these painters who aren’t long on suggestion, but pile up perfection layer on layer, and the detail, it’s . . . it becomes both the force and the flaw . . .

  —Where’d you get that? Max asked him; and when he got no immediate answer, looked up. Otto looked down immediately, but his expression did not change: it was fixed, like the dull compulsive tone in his voice which had come to it when he interrupted. —Like a writer who can’t help devoting as much care to a moment as to an hour . . . he went on, now slightly more hurriedly, his voice, like the anxiety mounting with slight stabs in his face, straining an automatic effort of memory whose fullness he could not grasp, but only repeat its thrusts. —The perfection . . . Then he silenced, staring down ahead of him.

  —There is an illusion of increased powers of eyesight, looking at these, even in reproduction. They’re almost perfect, Max commented, flicking over pages. He glanced at Otto’s averted profile, and turned to Stanley. —Isn’t there, Stanley?

  —Yes, but, Stanley began, faltering, —these men, these painters who were creating right out of themselves, and all of this, all this harmony with everything around them, with all the things, all the spiritual things around them that supported them, that they knew would be there tomorrow, and, in the Guild, why in the Guild it was the opinion of your fellow artists that mattered, not competition before a lot of people who didn’t know anything but the price. The Guild even took care of your burial, he added plaintively.

  Max laughed, his brief cordial mockery. —I’ll bury you myself, Stanley. You can go home and make up all the music you want to now.

  —But it isn’t making it up, inventing music, it’s like . . . remembering, and like, well van Gogh says about painting, when he would take a drawing of Delacroix as a subject and improvise with colors, not as himself, he says, but searching for memories of their pictures, the “vague consonance of colors,” the memory that was himself, his own interpretation.

  They stopped together at another curb. A store loudspeaker poured out upon them a vacuous tenor straining, —I’m dreaming of a white Christmas . . . with insipid mourning hope. And Stanley, escaping, abandoning his companions to that lugubrious assault, moved from the curb as though called forth by Cherubini: trumpets and the clash of brass: the horn sounded, and he leaped away from the immense and silent automobile guided by a brittle dame hung like some florid gothic tracery behind the steering wheel, her chin jutting just above it, sweeping round from Washington Square.