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reached out, took his hat from my knee. A gentle motion. Almost paternal. Like a gift he was receiving and he wanted to show he’d cherish it.
“Here we go,” he whispered.
Father-figure, uncle, mentor, coach, call it what you will, but I owed Clod-Ball my job, my curriculum, my desire, my students. Before him, I’d never taught, never even studied, not with true thirst, not way outside my comfort zone—Genet, Ikkyū, Barnes, Bataille, Sappho, Isaak Babel—
“...I swayed from side to side, singing in a language I had just invented. Through the tunnels of the streets bounded by lines of street lights the steamy fog billowed. Monsters roared behind the boiling walls. The roads amputated the legs of those walking on them.”
We’re talking goose bumps every time from that Babel. My eyes tearing in front of my students, but, hey, I let it happen. Rejoice in it, all my multifarious manliness. Monsters and boiling walls? What did the roads do? They amputated the goddamned legs of those walking on them!
Jesus H. Fucking Christ, I mean, what does that even mean?
Doesn’t matter though, see. No, it can’t mean—it is meaning. Felt. And that’s prose. Showing and Telling drop their distinction and the writing knows for itself, of itself, and its self is universal ... but, see, all this rabid chatter, it’s not mine. These platitudes and doozy terms, I spew them, I feel them, but they came from Claude and, frankly, I was terrified they were about to die with him.
I said, “Here we go?”
“Want my confession or not, Boy?”
He stroked the cap on his knee like it was some sick pet. I sighed, thinking, Confession, wow, there’s a word. Then, and I don’t know why, I blurted, “Monsters roared behind the boiling walls and the roads amputated the legs of—”
“Stop.” Claude lifted his sour eyes, cheekbones jutting, said, “That’s why you’re here, huh? Retarded? Well the answer is yes. And your dear Babel was too. Just like O’Hara. Flat retarded. What I’ve been telling my students. Retarded. I
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