Plexus

by Henry Miller

  Suspended three stories above the earth, I had the illusion of floating in space. The lawns and shrubs on which my gaze was riveted would vanish. I saw only what I was dreaming of, a perpetual shifting panorama as evanescent as mist. Sometimes queer figures, garbed in the costumes of the period, floated before my eyes—incredible personages such as Samuel Johnson, Dean Swift, Thomas Carlyle, Izaak Walton. Sometimes it was as if the smoke of battle suddenly rolled away and men in armor, chargers sumptuously caparisoned, stood lost and bewildered amidst the slain of the battlefield. Birds and animals also played their part in these still visions, particularly the mythological monsters, with all of whom I seemed to be on familiar terms. There was nothing too outlandish, nothing too unexpected, about these apparitions to rout me out of my nothingness. I wandered with motionless feet through the vast halls of memory, a sort of living cinematograph. Now and then I relived an experience which I had had as a child: a moment, for instance, when one sees or hears something for the first time. In such instances I was both the child experiencing this wonder and the nameless individual observing the child. Sometimes I enjoyed that rare experience of synchronizing my thought and being with the tenuous fragment of a dream long, long forgotten, and, rather than pursue it, rather than fix it objectively in image and sensation, I would toy with the fringes of it, bathe in its aura, so to say, grateful merely that I had caught up with it, that I had scented its immortal presence.

  To this period belongs a night dream which I recorded with scrupulous accuracy. I feel it is worth transcribing.…

  “It opened with a nightmarish vertigo which sent me hurtling from a dizzy precipice into the warm waters of the Caribbean. Down, down I swirled, in great spiral curves which had no beginning and promised to end in eternity. During this ceaseless descent a bewildering and enchanting panorama of marine life unrolled before my eyes. Enormous sea dragons wriggled and shimmered in the powdered sunlight, which filtered through the green waters; huge cactus plants with hideous roots floated by, followed by spongelike coral growths of curious hues, some sullen as oxblood, some a brilliant vermilion or soft lavender. Out of this teeming aquatic life poured myriads of animalcules, resembling gnomes and pixies; they bubbled up like gorgeous flux of stardust in the tail-sweep of a comet.

  “The roaring in my ears gave way to plangent, verdant melodies; I became aware of the tremors of the earth, of poplars and birches shrouded in ghostlike vapors, bending gracefully to the caress of fragrant breezes. Stealthily the vapors roll away. I am trudging through a mysterious forest alive with screaming monkeys and birds of tropical plumage. There is a quiver of arrows in my girdle and over my shoulder a golden bow.

  “Penetrating deeper and deeper into the wood the music becomes more celestial, the light more golden; the earth is carpeted with soft, blood-red leaves. The beauty of it is such that I swoon away. On awakening the forest has vanished. To my befuddled senses it seems that I am standing before a pale, towering canvas on which a pastoral scene of great dignity is depicted: it resembles one of those murals by Puvis de Chavannes in which the grave, seraphic void of dream is materialized. Sedate, somber wraiths move to and fro with a measured, haunting elegance which made our earthly movement appear grotesque. Stepping in the canvas I follow a quiet path which leads towards the retreating line of the horizon. A full-hipped figure in a Grecian robe, balancing an urn, is directing her footsteps toward the turret of a castle dimly visible above the crest of a gentle knoll. I pursue the undulating hips until lost in a dip beyond the crest of the knoll.

  “The figure with the urn has disappeared. But now my eyes are rewarded by a more mystifying sight. It is as if I had arrived at the very end of this habitable earth, at that magic fringe of the ancient world where all the mysteries and gloom and terror of the universe are concealed. I am hemmed in by a vast enclosure whose limits are only faintly discernible. Ahead of me loom the walls of a hoary castle bristling with spears. Pennants blazoned with incredible emblems flutter ominously above the crenellated battlements. A sickly fungus growth chokes the broad sweeps leading out from the terrifying portals; the gloomy casements are bespattered with the remains of great carrion birds whose foul stench is unbearable.

  “But what awes and fascinates me most is the color of the castle. It is a red such as my eyes have never beheld. The walls are of a warm bloodlike hue, the tint of rich corpuscles laid bare by the knife. Beyond the frontier walls loom more spectacular parapets and battlements, turrets and spires, each receding rank steeped in a more awesome red. To my terrified eyes the whole spectacle takes on the proportions of a monstrous butchers’ orgy dripping with gore and excrement.

  “In fear and horror I avert my gaze an instant. In that fleeting moment the scene changes. Instead of poisonous fungus and the scabby carcasses of vultures there is spread before me a rich mosaic of ebony and cinnamon, shadowed by deep purple panoplies from which cascades of cherry blossoms slither away in billowy heaps on a checkered court. Within reach, almost, stands a splendid couch festooned with royal drapes and smothered in pillows of gossamer loveliness. On this sumptuous divan, as if languidly anticipating my arrival, reclines my wife Maude. It is not a wholly familiar Maude, though I recognize at once her tiny, birdlike mouth. I wait expectantly for her usual inanities. Instead there issues from her throat a flood of dark music which sends the blood hammering to my temples. It is only at this moment that I realize she is nude, feel the vague, splendid pain of her loins. I bend over to lift her in my arms but recoil immediately in full horror as I perceive a spider slowly crawling over her milky breast. As if possessed, I flee in panic towards the castle walls.

  “And now a strange thing happens. To the groaning and creaking of rusty hinges the towering gates swing slowly open. Swiftly I race up the narrow path which leads to the foot of the spiral staircase. Frantically I climb the iron steps—higher and higher, without ever seeming to reach the top. Finally, when it seems as if my heart will break from exertion, I find myself at the summit. The ramparts and battlements, the casements and turrets of the mysterious castle, are no longer there beneath me. Before my eyes there unfolds a black, volcanic waste furrowed with innumerable chasms of bottomless depth. Nothing of plant or vegetable life is visible. Petrified limbs of gigantic proportions, carbuncled with glistening mineral crustations, lie sprawled about over the void. Gazing more intently I perceive with horror that there is a life down below there—a slimy, crawling life which reveals itself in huge coils that wind and unwind about the crazy, dead limbs.

  “Suddenly I have a presentiment that the towering steeple up which I had climbed in panic is crumbling at the base, that this immense spire is teetering at the edge of the loathsome abyss, threatening at any moment to hurl me into a shattering annihilation. For just a fraction of a moment there is an eerie stillness, then faintly, so faintly as to be almost inaudible, there comes the sound of a voice—a human voice. Now it rings out boldly, with a weird, moaning accent, only to die out immediately, as if it had been strangled down in the sulphurous depths below. Instantly the tower lurches violently; as it swoops out over the void, like a drunken ship, a babble of voices breaks forth. Human voices, in which there are mingled the laughter of hyenas, the shrill screams of lunatics, the bloodcurdling oaths of the damned, the piercing, horror-laden cackles of the possessed.

  “As the rail gives way I am catapulted into space with meteoric speed. Down, down, down, my frail body stripped of its tender flesh, the entrails clawed by leprous talons, by beaks crusted with verdigris. Down, down, down, stripped and mangled by fang and tusk.

  “And then it ceases, this hurtling through the void; it gives way to a sliding sensation. I am shooting down a paraffin incline supported by colossal columns of human flesh that bleed from every pore. Awaiting me is the wide, cavernous maw of an ogre champing its teeth with fierce expectancy. In an instant I shall be swallowed alive, shall perish to the hideous accompaniment of bones, my own precious bones, being crunched and splintered.… But just as I am about t
o slide into the gaping red maw the monster sneezes. The explosion is so vast that the whole universe is snuffed out. I awake coughing like a smoking bellows.”

  Was it a coincidence that the very next day I should run into my friend Ulric, that he should inform me stutteringly that Maude had been to see him the day before and had begged him to speak to me, urged me to return to her? She had been pitifully abject, he told me ruefully. She had wept unceasingly from the time she entered his studio until she left. She had even got down on her knees and begged him to promise that he would leave no stone unturned to accomplish his mission.

  “I told her truthfully,” said Ulric, “that I didn’t know where to find you. She said there must be a way to track you down. She begged you to forgive her as she forgave you. She said the child was asking for you constantly. She said she didn’t care what you did if only you would come back.… I tell you, Henry, it was an ordeal. I promised her I would do all I could, knowing though that it was futile. I know it must pain you to listen to all this.” He hesitated a moment, then added: “There’s one thing I’d like to ask of you, if it’s not too much—would you mind getting in touch with her yourself? I don’t think I could face another session like that. It unnerves one.”

  I assured him I would handle the situation myself. I told him not to worry about either of us. “Listen, Ulric, let’s forget about this for a while. Come along with me and have a spot of lunch with us. Mona will be delighted to see you again. And I think you’ll like Marjorie.” His eyes lit up at once. He rubbed his juicy lips with the tip of his tongue.

  “All right,” he said, slapping his thigh, “I’ll take you up on it. By golly, it’s time we had a little powwow. Do you know, I began to wonder if I’d ever see you again. You must have lots to tell me.”

  As I had surmised, Marjorie and Ulric hit it off perfectly. We had a staggering lunch, supplemented by a couple of bottles of Rhine wine. After lunch Ulric stretched himself out on the divan and took a little snooze. He explained that he had been working hard on a pineapple campaign. When he had had a little rest he might try a sketch or two. Perhaps Marjorie would be good enough to pose for him, yes? One eye was already closed. The other, frighteningly alive, rolled and lurched under his beetling brow. “You sure eat well around here,” he said, crossing his hands over his paunch. He raised himself on one elbow and shaded his eyes with his hand. “I say, do you mind if we were to lower that shade just a little? That’s it, that’s fine.” He gave a gentle sigh and sank quietly into sleep.

  “If you don’t mind,” I said to Marjorie, “we’ll take a little snooze ourselves. Call us when he wakes up, won’t you?”

  Towards evening we found Ulric sitting on the divan sipping a cool drink. He was thoroughly refreshed and in a mellow mood.

  “Golly, but it’s good to be with you folks again,” he said, twisting his lips and moving that one infernal eyebrow up and down. “I’ve just been giving Marjorie an earful about our life in the old days.” He beamed at us affectionately, set his drink carefully down on the taboret beside him, and took a deep breath. “You know, when I don’t see you for a long time there are so many things I want to ask you about. I make hundreds of notes—about the damnedest things—and then when I see you I forget everything.… I say, wasn’t it somewhere around here that you once had a flat with O’Mara and—what was his name again, that crazy Hindu… you know, the one with the long hair and the hysterical laugh?”

  “You mean Govindar,” I said.

  “That’s it. He sure was a weird one, that fella. You thought quite highly of him, I remember. Wasn’t he writing a book then?”

  “Several,” I said. “One of them, a long metaphysical treatise, was really extraordinary. I only realized how good it was years later, when I began comparing his work with the soporific tomes of our distinguished numskulls. Govindar was a metaphysical Dadaist, I should say. But in those days he was just a joke to us. I was a pretty insensitive brute, as you know. I didn’t give a shit about Hindu philosophy then; he might just as well have written his books in Sanskrit. He’s back in India now—one of Gandhi’s chief disciples, I’m told. Probably the most unusual Hindu I ever met.”

  “You ought to know,” said Ulric, “you sure had a flock of them on your hands. And then there were those Egyptians—especialy that cockeyed fellow.…”

  “Shukrullah, you mean!”

  “What a memory! Yes, I do remember the name now. And the other one, who wrote you those flowery epistles that never ended?”

  “Mohamed Eli Sarwat.”

  “Christ, what names! He was a Lulu, Henry. I hope you saved those letters.”

  “I’ll tell you the chap I can never forget, Ulric. That was the little Jewish boy, Sid Harris. Do you remember—‘Merry Xmas, President Carmichael, and be sure to ask Santa Claus to give all the messenger boys a raise!’ What a guy! I can see him all over again, as he sat beside me filling out the application blank. Sid Harris, born in his mother’s womb, address the East Side, religion unknown, previous occupation—errand boy, shoeshine boy, fire insurance, skeleton keys, soda water jerker, lifesaver, coughdrops, and Merry Xmas from the American flag waving high over the Statue of Liberty.”

  “You didn’t give him a job, I suppose?”

  “No, but he used to call regularly every week and fill out an application blank. Always smiling, whistling, shouting Merry Xmas to everyone. I used to throw him a quarter to go to the movies. Next day I’d get a letter telling me what he had seen, whether he had sat in the third or fourth row, how many peanuts he ate, what the next program would be, and whether there were fire extinguishers or not. At the end he would sign his name in full: Sidney Roosevelt Harris, or Sidney R. Harris, or S. Roosevelt Harris, or S. R. Harris, or just plain Sidney—one after the other, one under the other, followed of course by the perennial Xmas greeting. Sometimes he would add a postscript saying that he preferred to be a night messenger, or a telegraph operator, or just a manager. He was a nuisance, of course, but I enjoyed his visits—they gave me a lift for the day. Once I gave him an old trumpet which I had found in a rubbish bag. It was a battered-looking thing and all the stops were eaten away. He polished it up, tied it around his shoulder with a piece of string, and came trooping into my office one morning, looking like the Angel Gabriel. Nobody had noticed him coming up the stairs. There were about fifty boys waiting to be hired, the telephones were ringing like mad—one of those days when I thought I would burst a blood vessel. Suddenly there came a tremendous blast. I nearly fell off my perch. There he stood, little Sidney, trying to blow taps. Immediately there was pandemonium. Before we could collar him, Sidney began to sing The Star-Spangled Banner; the other boys joined in of course, jeering, laughing, cursing, upsetting the inkwells, throwing the pens around like darts, marking the walls with chalk, and in general raising ructions. We had to clear the office out and lock the door downstairs. Outside, that damned trumpet was blasting away.… He was completely cuckoo, Sidney, but in a delightful way. I could never get angry with him. I tried to find out where he lived, but it was impossible. He probably didn’t have a home, he probably slept in the streets. In winter he wore a man’s coat that reached right to the ground—and woollen mittens, b’Jesus! He never wore a hat or a cap, unless as a joke. Once, in midwinter, he made his appearance in that grotesque overcoat and mittens—and on his head was a huge straw hat, a sort of Mexican sombrero with a gigantic conelike crown. He came up to my desk, made a low bow, and doffed his huge straw hat. It was filled with snow. He shook the snow out on my desk and then scurried away like a rat. At the door he stood a moment and shouted ‘Merry Xmas and don’t forget to bless President Carmichael!’”

  “I certainly remember those days,” said Ulric, swallowing the remnants of his drink. “I never did understand how you managed to hold your job. I’m sure there wasn’t another employment manager like you in all New York.”

  “In all America, you mean,” said Mona.

  Ulric looked around appraisingly. “Quite
another life, this. I certainly do envy you.… The thing I’ll always remember about this fellow”—he looked from one to the other with a melting glow—“is his inextinguishable gaiety. I don’t think I’ve seen him depressed more than once or twice in all the time I’ve known him. As long as there’s food and a place to flop… isn’t that it?” He turned his gaze on me with unmingled affection. “Some of my friends—you know the ones I mean—ask me occasionally if you aren’t just a bit touched. I always say, ‘Certainly he is … too bad we’re not all touched in the same way.’ And then they ask me how you support yourself—and your family. There I have to give up.…”

  We all began to laugh rather hysterically. Ulric laughed even more heartily than the rest of us. He laughed at himself—for raising such silly issues. Mona, of course, had a different reason for laughing.

  “Sometimes I think I’m living with a madman,” she blurted out, tears in her eyes.

  “Yes?” said Ulric, drawling the word out.