The Recognitions

by William Gaddis

  The juke-box played Return to Sorrento; and nearby someone said that Saint Francis Xavier was only four and a half feet tall.

  —“Does Drunkenness Threaten Your Happiness or Your Loved Ones? Our Remarkable New Discovery Quickly and Easily Helps Bring Relief from All Desire for Liquor! . . . No Will Power Is Necessary To Stop Drinking. This Is Strictly a Home Method! . . .” Anselm read, returned to his magazine and his dull tone.

  —I’d just like some coffee, Stanley said.

  —Have you got some money? Anselm asked. —If you do I’d rather eat. And he called a waiter.

  —Yes, as a matter of fact I, yes I just sold my play, Otto said to them. He looked quickly from Anselm’s shrug to the first sign of Stanley’s approving pleasure but could not stop his eyes, and turned to Max for confirmation.

  —Eggplant Parmigiana, Anselm ordered beside him, and Otto caught the waiter’s arm as he departed, to order another whisky, and coffee for Stanley who looked up at that moment to ask, —Didn’t you go to see Esme earlier?

  —Well yes, earlier, I saw her earlier . . . The confusion in Otto’s voice was reflected in his eyes. Escaping Stanley’s simple question, he looked round at hazard for a new topic and unfortunately found it immediately. —There’s Hannah, he said. —I just saw Hannah, she . . . I . . . The waiter appeared with their orders.

  Anselm was laughing. —But I don’t see why someone said what they said about me, about Hannah and me, Stanley brought out. And Otto, fleeing the appeal on this side, and the laughter on the other, looked to Max, whose smile was the conspiracy of an instant, an embrace confirmed in Stanley’s discerning, and quickly lowered eyes.

  —Stanley, you don’t think . . . I didn’t mean . . . Otto commenced, the lines of his face rising toward his brow in anxious entreaty, when Anselm interrupted, growling, with his mouth full, and Otto turned to him for deliverance.

  Anselm ate rapidly, jamming pieces of bread into his mouth between forkfuls of the eggplant, as though he expected it all to be taken away at any moment. Still he managed to growl at Stanley, and crumbs flew from his mouth across the table. —The beast, Anselm gurgled, chewing, —the beast in the jungle. The beast with two backs, he growled and snarled and laughed at once. —Stalking, crouching, ready to spring, that’s the number of the beast that’s stalking you, the beast that’s waiting to devour you, the beast with two backs, waiting to sspring! . . . and he lunged, blowing bread crumbs.

  —Look, Anselm . . . Otto’s voice quavered toward firmness.

  But Anselm already appeared to have relented. He sat chuckling over his almost empty plate, looking down as though some imminent satisfaction filled his mind; while under the table out of their sight, his hands opened a small flat tin, took out an envelope, and unrolled its contents.

  Meanwhile the waiter stood there with the bill, and Otto seized the interruption, taking a roll of money from his pocket. —Here, I’ll get this, he said, as though it were necessary to forestall them, though neither moved until Anselm shot an arm forth unseen and dropped something into Stanley’s coffee. And as Otto sat back, folding his money, Anselm asked him agreeably, —Could you lend me something?

  —Why, why yes, sure, Otto said. —How much?

  —Whatever you can.

  —Yes, Otto repeated, hesitated, and turned to Stanley. —Do you need any right now, Stanley? Any money? because I’d be glad to, to lend you some?

  —Maybe, five dollars? Stanley said. —I might need it, if I go to the dentist, I have a tooth . . .

  —Here, take this, Otto said unfolding the bills again, and he held out a twenty. —Go ahead, you might need it.

  —No, just five, that’s all I’d need, just five.

  —Give him five, I’ll take the twenty, Anselm said quickly, putting a hand out. —You know the kind of a lousy life I have, I need it . . . But he watched Otto hand the clean twenty-dollar bill to Stanley, over another faint gasp of protest, and accepted himself a worn five, murmuring, —Thanks, I . . . thanks. And, have you got a cigarette? having trouble even then getting one from the pack with his blunt bitten finger-ends.

  —I didn’t know you smoked, Otto said to him.

  —I do sometimes, Anselm said holding the cigarette unfamiliarly, and then he folded the five-dollar bill smaller and smaller, until it was a wad scarcely the width of his tortured thumbnail. He puffed the cigarette once or twice, then dropped it on the floor and stepped on it; and in that minute all of the sullenness of a little while before had returned, and he stared at the table as though he were sitting there alone.

  Max had turned away to talk with a small elderly man dressed in black, with black rubbers and a black hat, carrying a black umbrella. He appeared to say nothing, nodded his head occasionally, and accepted the drink Max brought him, while Max talked. Max returned to identify the black figure as the art critic for Old Masses, said he had a very incisive wit, and had given his pictures very good notices, —which is what makes all the difference, Max added smiling.

  —It’s strange having the use of this left arm again, Otto said finally.

  —Oh yes, you were wearing a sling, weren’t you, Stanley said, looking up quickly at the hand motionless on the table. —It looks very white, he commented. —Did it leave a bad scar?

  —Why don’t you ask him to show you the scar? Anselm demanded. —I’ll bet it was a nice hole. You envy him, for Christ sake.

  —It isn’t the wound that matters so much, getting it, Stanley said as Otto sat back and lowered the pale hand to his lap. —But the scar, the scar is a witness for all the wounds we get . . . all the wounds, all kinds of wounds. I heard about somebody once who had a scar and he bandaged it, every once in a while, to renew the wound.

  —Scars, all Stanley wants is scars, to show people. Scars! Hey Stanley, did you hear about the reliquary they opened that was supposed to have Ignatius Loyola’s left arm in it? They brought it over on a boat, when they opened it they found an arm with a heart tattooed on it, with a bleeding dagger and the word Mother, ha, haha . . .

  —That’s not true, Stanley said promptly. —And it’s not wanting to suffer, just for that, just to suffer, it’s more . . . proving the right to it, to suffering.

  —Come off it, man, said a haggard face rising over the back of a booth. —You’re dragging us.

  —He’s right, for Christ sake, everybody suffers, the crime is in this world you suffer and it doesn’t mean a God-damned thing, it doesn’t fit anywhere. You can stand any suffering if it means something, Anselm went on rapidly, but still as though suppressing some specific thing which filled his mind. —The only time suffering’s unbearable is when it’s meaningless, he finished, muttering.

  At that Otto raised an eyebrow and licked his lip, preparing to quote the lines with which Gordon reduced Priscilla toward the close of Act II, the scene in the doorway of the summer cottage which glittered before him even now, as though in production. GORDON: Suffering, my dear Priscilla, is a petty luxury of mediocre people. You will find happiness a far more noble, and infinitely more refined . . .

  —You remember what Montherlant has to say, Max interrupted them. —Le bonheur est un état bien plus noble et bien plus raffiné que la souffrance . . . His French was unprofessional and surprisingly clear. Otto muttered impatiently at being interrupted the moment he had started to speak, and turned to ask Stanley if he had ever read any of Vainiger, as Max finished, —le petit luxe des personnes de médiocre qualité.

  —That’s a lot of crap, Anselm said without looking up.

  —When he says that life must be led in the dark, Otto pursued, —and that we must assume postulates to be true which, if they were true, would justify . . .

  —Hey Stanley, I’ve got a song for you.

  —Leave him alone.

  —Hannah, sit down, sit down in Otto’s place, he’s delivering a lecture on Die Philosophie des Als Ob, Anselm advised her.

  —On what? Otto demanded curtly.

  —The buttons say U.S., So they just m
ean us I guess, Anselm sang, tearing something from his magazine which he handed to Hannah. —So they must just stand for me . . . and Mo-therrr . . .

  “Get Male HORMONES Science has discovered that domestic and business worries often disappear when male hormone deficiency is overcome . . . If you do not feel the return of that old-time activity, that keen love and zestful desire for life . . .” —Shut up and leave him alone, Hannah repeated, crumpling the paper but she did not drop it.

  —Leave who alone? Otto and I are discussing Vaihinger, aren’t we Otto? He’s an expert on als ob, ich gebe Ihnen mein Wort, Hannah, an expert, ich bin ihm nicht gewachsen, Hannah . . .

  —Shut up, she said to him, looking him straight in the face as he became more agitated. The spots on his complexion stood out vividly, and his hair was up as though a wind were blowing. He reached up and felt it, took out a dirty pocket comb and made cracking sounds combing his hair.

  —Scabs, he said. —I’m sycotic. Do you know who I envy? I envy Tourette. He had a disease named after him, a very God-damned rare one.

  —Are you drunk? If you’re not why don’t you shut up.

  —When you have Tourette’s disease you go around repeating dirty words all the time. Coprolalia. Everybody below Fourteenth Street has coprolalia. Then he opened his magazine and turned suddenly to Otto. —“Women are funny,” he read. —“You never know whether you’re making the right move or not. Avoid disappointment, heartbreak! Save yourself lots of tragedy. Don’t be a Faux pas!”

  —Anselm, Otto began quietly, —why don’t you relax and . . .

  —You’re drunk. Why don’t you try God? Four three-letter words, Why Not Try God? That’s a book by Mary Pickford. Real coprolalia. You’d like that. Then he got breath and said, —You know who I envy? Never mind. The buttons say U.S. . . .

  —What’s the matter with you tonight, is it on account of Charles? Hannah cut in, and Anselm stopped singing abruptly, and stared at her.

  —I’m not . . . singing to you, he said after a moment, faltering, and he looked down at the dirty floor muttering something.

  —Well why don’t you . . .

  —Well why don’t you leave us alone! . . . you, God damn you, you . . .

  —I meant to tell you how glad I am about your play, Stanley said to Otto. —I am, honestly.

  —Thank you, I . . . I know you are, Otto said, and put a hand to his shoulder. —You’re really good, aren’t you Stanley.

  —I wish I were. I wish everyone was.

  —There’d be a lot of crazy priests out of work. Work! Hahaha . . .

  —Anselm, you . . .

  —Damn you Hannah, God damn you, is it any business of yours if I feel this way about Charles? And his mother coming here to get him and take him home to Grand Rapids and when he wouldn’t go she left him here, with nothing? with his wrists . . . just like she found them, she . . . You remind me of her, maybe it’s your Goddamned smile. Maybe it’s the way you try to get your hooks into Stanley, for his own good, for his own good!

  —But what . . .

  —It’s the complacency I can’t stand, Anselm burst out. —I can’t stand it anywhere, but most of all I can’t stand it in religion. Did you see Charles’s mother? did you see her smile? that holier-than-thou Christian Science smile, she turns it on like . . . They’re so complacent about this error of matter they’ve picked up, “It’s nice because it’s mine,” that’s the kind of a look they have, as if the old bag who started them off was the first one to think of the error of matter, didn’t they ever hear of Catharism? or the Albigensians? or the Manichaeans? or even Bishop Berkeley? No, they stop thinking the minute they get hold of that thing Science and Health, they never read another book after that, they’ve got a corner on the Truth, everybody else is a Goy . . .

  —So what have you got your balls in an uproar for? Hannah pressed him.

  —Because Charles and I . . . I don’t blame Charles a God damn bit for flipping. God is Love! We’d all flip, taking that from your own mother and you’re lying there with your wrists slashed open. But love on this earth? Christ! . . . pity? compassion? That’s why I’ve got my balls in an uproar if you want to know, talking about some kind of love floating around Christ knows where, but what did she give him? When he wouldn’t go back to Grand fucking Rapids and be treated by Christian Science? She gave him one of those eternally damned holier-than-thou smiles and left him here. She left him here without a cent, to let Bellevue kill him, or let him try it again himself. God is Love, for Christ sake! If Peter had smiled like a Christian Scientist Christ would have kicked his teeth down his throat. He sat there whispering to himself, and then said, —At least the Catholics have some idea of humility, I have to admit.

  —All right, Anselm, nobody . . .

  —All right, all right, I’ll shut up. But don’t you understand me? He half rose from the table, looking at her with an insane intensity; and then shuddering through his frame, sank back in his chair, and she turned to Stanley.

  —How is your mother? she asked him.

  —You always ask me that, Hannah. Thank you for asking.

  —But how is she?

  —She’s . . . waiting. She’s still waiting very patiently. They’re going to move her to another hospital.

  —Catch my mother waiting patiently, Anselm muttered.

  —Please don’t talk disrespectfully of your mother, Anselm.

  —She’s a nut, Stanley, said Anselm calmly, looking up at him. —It’s all right, I’m just stating a fact. She’s a nut. An old nut. Right now she’s probably down in the Tombs forcing a Bible on some poor bastard who just wants to be left alone with . . . alone. He was perspiring, staring at the dirty floor. —Do you care if He . . . a saint, kissing the leper’s sores? he whispered to none of them; and then said, —Never mind, never mind, you don’t . . . you can’t . . . do you know who I envy?

  Mr. Feddle’s alarm clock swung like a pendulum as he almost fell, recovered, and tipped in the opposite direction. The swinging clock banged the edge of their table. —That old fool, Otto muttered, —except he’s not funny.

  —But very sad, Stanley said, drawing back as the clock swung in a dangerous arc, above the tabletop, and down. Someone cried, —Owwwww, as it cracked an ankle. —He’s happy now because he’s publishing something at last. People congratulate him, they’re really laughing at him all the time because it’s a vanity house, but he doesn’t know that, that they’re laughing at him. And his wife looks troubled and says, But publishing is expensive, isn’t it, she doesn’t know you’re supposed to make money publishing something, she thinks any author has to pay to publish something of his own. At parties he used to go around autographing books from the bookshelves, he’d write a dedication and sign the author’s name.

  —That’s good, Otto laughed, looking at Mr. Feddle’s back which stood now stolid as a grandfather clock, only the pendulum swinging for he had just bowed and shaken hands. —It could go in a play.

  —You shouldn’t be cruel now, just when you’ve sold your play Otto.

  —But even if I hadn’t, Otto turned on Stanley. —Even if I hadn’t . . .

  —I envy Doctor Hodgkin. Anselm was cleaning his teeth thoughtfully with a folded match cover. —He had a disease named after him.

  —What kind of disease?

  —Hodgkin’s disease, for Christ sake.

  —A kind of cancer, said Max from behind them.

  —Cancer hell. It’s a kind of leukemia. If you want to know what it is, it’s progressive hyperplasia of the lymphatic glands associated with anemia. Lymphadenoma.

  —Where’d you hear that?

  —I studied medicine, Anselm said, mumbling as he did usually when admitting to something favorable about himself; and as immediately embarrassed at so having drawn their attention, tore from his magazine “PILES! Amazingly fast palliative relief . . . No mess or sticky fingers! . . . It’s Better, Faster, Easier to use! . . .” Beneath that: “GOD Wants You . . . Poor health? Money troubles?
. . . A remarkable New Way of Prayer that is helping thousands to glorious New Happiness and Joys . . .” —Here Stanley, take your choice. It’s all one anyhow, he said, rolling the cover closed on Can Freaks Make Love?

  —You know, the trouble with you, you’re all mothers’ sons, Max said to them. Stanley stopped stirring his coffee and looked up, Anselm turned on him, Hannah had turned away. —You and Anselm and Charles, Max smiled agreeably to Stanley. —And Otto? he added, looking at Otto who said,

  —As a matter of fact, I just finished dinner with my father a little while ago.

  —Otto’s part of a series of an original that never existed, Max said as though he had not heard.

  —What do you mean, you . . .

  —That’s what you told me yourself yesterday, didn’t you? Max drew him on.

  —But no, Otto rubbed his hand over his eyes. —The series didn’t exist but the original existed. The original did. It had to. He sat there looking glazed-eyed for a moment, then turned to Stanley. —I just had dinner with my father, he said, as though remembering back over a great distance, or attempting to separate a distant image from one which had recently supplanted it. —For the first time, he added.

  —Did you like him? Stanley asked uncertainly.

  —It’s a funny feeling. It was strange, sort of . . . I feel like I’d lost something, like . . . I feel like nobody sort of . . . Staring straight ahead of him, he rubbed his forehead, and his wrist, descending, paused to press against his ribs, where no identity interrupted his contagion with himself. —I don’t know, he mumbled, licking his naked lip, and went on in a low tone to Stanley, —Look, if you had a friend, somebody you haven’t seen for a long time and he . . . someone else takes his place, but he still . . . I don’t know. Never mind.

  —You’re drunk, Anselm offered.

  —That’s funny, Otto persisted without looking up at Max. —To say the original never existed! Look, he went on to Stanley, —Suppose you knew somebody who used to be a friend and who . . . and you found out he was, well like Mister Feddle, putting names on things that weren’t his, I mean . . .