How to Travel With a Salmon & Other Essays

  The problem is to identify that Influent Metaphysic of which, because of its popularity at a given time, everybody has heard. To be sure, you can join Berkeley is asserting that esse est percipi and say that Prosciuttini's works are because they are perceived: but as the metaphysic in question is not particularly influent, both Prosciuttini and the readers of the catalogue would perceive the excessive obviousness of the statement.

  Therefore, if Prosciuttini's triangles had had to be described in the late fifties, exploiting the Sartre-Merleau-Ponty influence (and, above all, the teachings of Husserl), it would have been suitable to define the triangles in question as "the representation of the very act of intending, which, setting up eidetic regions, turns those same pure forms of geometry into a modality of the Lebenswelt." In that period, too (as variations were permissible also in terms of the psychology of form), to say that Prosciuttini's triangles have a "gestaltic" pregnancy would have been unassailable—every triangle, if it is recognizable as a triangle, has a gestaltic pregnancy. In the sixties, Prosciuttini would have seemed more à la page if in his triangles a structure homologous to Lévi-Strauss's parental patterns could be discerned. Desiring to play with structuralism in '68, the WIAC could have said that, according to Mao's theory of contradiction, which subsumes the Hegelian triad in the binary principles of yin and yang, the two triangles of Prosciuttini evidenced the rapport between primary contradiction and secondary contradiction. It must not be thought that the structuralist module could not also be applied to Morandi: deep bottle as opposed to surface bottle.

  After the sixties the critic's options became freer. Naturally, the blue triangle intersected by the red triangle is the epiphany of a Desire in pursuit of an Other with which it can never identify itself. Prosciuttini is the painter of Difference, or rather of Difference within Identity. Difference within identity is also found in the "heads/tails" relationship of a hundred-lira coin, but Prosciuttini's triangles would lend themselves also to pinpointing a case of Implosion as, for that matter, would the paintings of Pollock or the introduction of suppositories into the anal tract (black holes). In Prosciuttini's triangles, however, there is also the reciprocal cancellation of use value and exchange value.

  With an astute reference to Difference in the smile of the Mona Lisa, which, seen obliquely, can be recognized as a vulva, and is in any case béance, Prosciuttini's triangles, with their reciprocal cancellation and "catastrophic" rotation, could appear as an im-plosiveness of the phallus that becomes cogged vagina. The phallus of Fallacy. In other words, to conclude, the golden rule for the WIAC is to describe the work is such a way that the description, besides being applicable to other pictures, can be applied also to the emotional experience of looking in a delicatessen window. If the WIAC writes, "In Prosciuttini's paintings perception of forms is never inert reception of sense-data. Prosciuttini tells us that there is no perception without interpretation and work, and the passage from the felt to the perceived is activity, praxis, being-in-the-world as construction of Abshaetungen cut deliberately in the very flesh of the thing-in-itself," the reader recognizes Prosciuttini's truth because it corresponds to the mechanisms through which he distinguishes, in the deli, a slice of baloney from the macaroni salad.

  Which establishes, in addition to a criterion of viability and efficacy, also a criterion of morality: it is enough to tell the truth. Naturally, truth comes in all sizes.

  1980

  Appendix

  The following text was actually written—by me—to introduce the painting of Antonio Fomez in accordance with the rules of postmodern quotation (cf. Antonio Fomez, From Ruoppolo to Me. Studio Annunciata, Milan, 1982).

  To give the reader (for concept of "reader" cf. D. Coste, "Three concepts of the reader and their contribution to a theory of literary texts," Orbis literarum 34, 1880; W. Iser, Der Akt des Lesens, München, 1972; Der implizite Leser, München, 1976; U. Eco, Lector in fabula, Milano, 1979; G. Prince, "Introduction à l'étude du narrataire," Poétique 14, 1973; M. Nojgaard, "Le lecteur et la critique," Degrés 21, 1980) some creative intuitions (cf. B. Croce, Estetica come scienza dell'espressione e linguistica generale, Bari, 1902; H. Bergson, Oeuvres, Edition du Centenaire, Paris, 1963; E. Husserl, Ideen zu einer Phaenomenologie und phaenomenologischen Philosophie, Den Haag, 1950) about the painting (for the concept of "painting" cf. Cennino Cennini, Trattato della pittura; Bellori, Vite d'artisti; Vasari, Le vite; P. Barocchi (ed.), Trattati d'arte del Cinque-cento, Bari, 1960; Lomazzo, Trattato dell'arte della pittura; Alberti, Della pittura; Armenini, De' veri precetti della pittura; Baldinucci, Vocabolario toscano dell'arte del disegno; S. van Hoogstraaten, Inleyding tot de Hooge Scboole der Schilderkonst, 1678, VIII, 1, pp. 279 et seq.; L. Dolce, Dialogo della pittura; Zuccari, Idea de'pittori) of Antonio Fomez (cf., for a general bibliography, G. Pedicini, Fomez, Milan, 1980, and in particular [>]), I should essay an analysis (cf. H. Putnam, "The analytic and the synthetic," in Mind, language, and reality 2, London and Cambridge, 1975; M. White (ed.), The Age of Analysis, New York, 1955) in a form (cf. W. Köhler, Gestalt Psychology, New York, 1947; P. Guillaume, La psychologie de la forme, Paris, 1937) that is absolutely innocent and unbiased (cf. J. Piaget, La representation du monde chez l'enfant, Paris, 1955; G. Kanizsa, Grammatica del vedere, Bologna, 1981). But this is a thing (for the thing in itself, cf. I. Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 1781–1787) that is very difficult in this world (cf. Aristotle, Metaphysics) of the postmodern (cf. cf. ((cf. (((cf. cf.)))))). Hence I will do nothing (cf. Sartre, L'ètre et le néant, Paris, 1943). The rest is silence (Wittgenstein, Tractatus, 7). Sorry, maybe some other (cf. Lacan, Ecrits, Paris, 1966) time (cf. J.B. Priestley, Time and the Conways, London, 1937; J. Hilton, Lost Horizon, London, 1933).

  How to Set the Record Straight

  Letter to the Editor

  Dear Sir:

  With reference to the article by Vera O'Verity entitled "Ides Murder Suspect Denies All" in yesterday's issue, I would like to set the record straight about several matters.

  First of all, it is not true that I was present at the assassination of Julius Caesar. As you can see for yourself from the enclosed birth certificate, I was born in Molfetta on March 15, 1944, many centuries, therefore, after the unfortunate event, which, for that matter, I have always deplored. Hence your Ms. O'Verity must have misunderstood when I told her that, with a few friends, I always celebrate the anniversary of March 15—my birthday.

  Further, it is similarly incorrect to quote me as saying later to a certain Brutus, "We will meet at Philippi," or words to that effect. I have never had any contacts with this Mr. Brutus, whose name I heard yesterday for the first time. In the course of our brief telephone interview, I did indeed tell Ms. O'Verity that I would soon be meeting the traffic commissioner, Mr. Filippi, but I mentioned this in the course of discussing the city's traffic problems. In this context, I never said I was hiring some killers to eliminate "that traitor Caesar"; what I said was, "We'd have to be a bunch of maniacs not to take a stab at banning traffic around Caesar Plaza...."

  Respectfully yours,

  Frank Tawk

  Vera O'Verity replies:

  Nothing in Mr. Tawk's letter alters the fact that Julius Caesar was assassinated on the Ides of March in '44. I can readily believe that Mr. Tawk and his friends always celebrate the anniversary of March 15, '44. In fact, it was information revealing this suspect behavior that inspired my article. Mr. Tawk may well have personal reasons to propose festive toasts on that date, but even he must agree that the coincidence is, at the very least, curious. He will further recall that, in the course of our long, in-depth telephone interview, he said the words, "I always believe in rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar's." A source very close to Mr. Tawk—whose good reliability I have no reason to question—has assured me that what was rendered to Caesar was twenty-three stab wounds.

  I notice that throughout his letter, Mr. Tawk takes care to avoid saying who finally was responsible for those wounds. As for the pathetic "rec
tification" concerning Philippi, I have before my eyes the notebook in which I wrote, beyond any question, that Mr. Tawk did not say: "I'll be seeing Mr. Filippi." What he said was: "I will see thee at Philippi."

  I can similarly confirm the threats uttered against Julius Caesar. The jottings in my notebook, which I am consulting as I write, say clearly: "A bunch of maniacs ... stab at ... Caesar...." Splitting hairs and mincing words cannot absolve Mr. Tawk of his grave responsibilities; nor will his pathetic attempts succeed in gagging our free press.

  1988

  How to Watch Out for Widows

  It may be, dear writers, both male and female, that posterity is of no importance to you; but I don't believe it. Anyone, even the sixteen-year-old who pens a poem about the rustling forest, or the woman who keeps a lifelong diary, merely recording "dentist's appointment this morning," hopes that posterity will cherish those words. For, even if some authors actually desired oblivion, today's publishers are irrepressible in the rediscovery of "forgotten minor writers," even when these never actually wrote a single line.

  Posterity, as we know, is voracious and easily pleased. In order to have something to write about, any writing by others will do. Therefore, O writers, you must beware of the use that posterity may make of your work. Naturally, the ideal course would be to leave lying around only the things that, in your lifetime, you had decided to publish, shredding daily any other documentation, including third galleys. But, as we also know, keeping notes as you work is necessary, and death can arrive unexpectedly.

  When it does, the first risk is that unpublished material will be published, and will reveal that you were a perfect idiot. And if everyone reads the notes written in the notebook the day before you died, this risk is very strong indeed (particularly because the notes are, inevitably, out of context).

  In the absence of notes and notebooks, the second risk is that, immediately post mortem, there will be an epidemic of conferences about your work. Every writer wants to be remembered in essays, doctoral dissertations, critical editions; but these things take time and cash. The immediate conference achieves two results. First, it inspires hordes of friends, admirers, young people in search of fame, to scribble hasty reinterpretations—but, as we know, in such cases they dish up only the familiar gruel, confirming a stereotype. And then, in no time, readers fall out of love with writers so blatantly obvious.

  The third risk is that private letters will be published. Writers rarely write private letters that differ from those of ordinary mortals, unless the letters are a pretense, as in the case of Foscolo. They can write "send me some Preparation H" or "I love you like crazy and I thank God that you exist"—which is only normal and natural, and it is pathetic that posterity should seek out these documents simply to conclude that the writer was a human being. What did you think he or she was? A flamingo?

  How can such misfortunes be avoided? With notes and notebooks, I would suggest leaving them in an unlikely place, while abandoning in a desk drawer a kind of buried-treasure map indicating the existence of these documents but with undecipherable directions for finding them. This ensures both that the manuscripts will remain hidden and that many dissertations will be written on the sphinx-like impenetrability of those maps.

  As for conferences: it might be a good idea to leave precise testamentary instructions, asking, in the name of Humankind, that for every conference held within ten years of your death, the organizers donate twenty million dollars to UNICEF. It will be hard to raise the sum, and few will be so brazen as to go against the express wishes of the deceased.

  The love-letter problem is more complex. For those yet to be written it is a good idea to use the computer, thus thwarting graphologists; sign them with affectionate nicknames ("Your puppy dog, Fur-rikins"), changing names for each lover, so attribution will prove problematical. It is also advisable to include phrases that, however impassioned, are embarrassing for the addressee ("I love everything about you, even your flatulence"), who will thus be dissuaded from publishing.

  Letters already written, especially during adolescence, are beyond revision, however. For these, the best course is to track down the recipient and write a note recalling in tranquillity those bygone days; and promising that even after your death you will revisit the scene, still in the thrall of those memories. This doesn't always work, but a ghost is, after all, a ghost; and the recipient will not sleep well after that.

  You could also keep a fake diary, including occasional suggestions that friends and lovers had a tendency to invent and to falsify. "What a delightful liar dear Adelaide is," or "Today Reginald showed me a fake letter from Pessoa: a really admirable job."

  1990

  How to Organize a Public Library

  1. The various catalogues must be housed as far apart as possible from one another. All care must be taken to separate the catalogue of books from that of periodicals, and these two from the catalogue by subject; similarly, the recent acquisitions must be kept well away from older collections. If possible, the spelling in the two catalogues (recent acquisitions and older collections) must be different. In the recent acquisitions, for example, pajama should be spelled with an a, in the older, pyjama with a y. Chaĭkovskiĭ in recent acquisitions will follow the Library of Congress system; in the older catalogue the name will be spelled in the old-fashioned way, with Tch.

  2. The subjects must be determined by the librarian. On their copyright pages the books must bear no indication of the subjects under which they are to be listed.

  3. Call numbers should be impossible to decipher and, if possible, very complex, so that anyone filling out a call slip will never have room to include the last line of numbers and will assume they are irrelevant. Then the desk attendant will hand the slip back to him with the admonition to fill it out properly.

  4. The time between request and delivery must be as long as possible.

  5. Only one book should be released at a time.

  6. The books distributed by the attendant after the request form has been properly submitted cannot be taken into the reference room, so the scholars must divide their working life into two fundamental aspects: reading on the one hand, and reference consultation on the other. The library must discourage, as conducive to strabismus, any crossover tendencies or attempts at the simultaneous reading of several books.

  7. Insofar as possible, no photocopier should be available; if such a machine does exist, access to it must be made very time-consuming and toilsome, fees should be higher than those in any neighborhood copy shop, and the maximum number of copied pages permitted should not exceed two or three.

  8. The librarian must consider the reader an enemy, a waster of time (otherwise he or she would be at work), and a potential thief.

  9. The reference librarian's office must be impregnable.

  10. Loans must be discouraged.

  11. Interlibrary loans must be impossible or, at best, must require months. The ideal course, in any event, is to ensure the impossibility of discovering the contents of other libraries.

  12. Given this policy, theft must be very easy.

  13. Opening hours must coincide precisely with local office hours, determined by foresighted discussions with trade union officials and the Chamber of Commerce; total closing on Saturday, Sunday, evenings and mealtimes goes without saying. The library's worst enemy is the employed student; its best friend is Thomas Jefferson, someone who has a large personal library and therefore no need to visit the public library (to which he may nevertheless bequeath his books at his death).

  14. It must be impossible to find any refreshment inside the library, under any circumstances; and it must also be impossible to leave the library to seek sustenance elsewhere without first returning all books in use, so that, after having a cup of coffee, the student must fill out requests for them again.

  15. It must be impossible on a given day to find the book one had been using the day before.

  16. It must be impossible to learn who has a book that is
currently out on loan.

  17. If possible, no rest rooms.

  18. Ideally, the reader should be unable to enter the library. If he does actually enter, exploiting with tedious insistence a right, granted on the basis of the principles of 1789, that has nevertheless not been assimilated by the collective sensibility, he must never ever—with the exception of rapid visits to the reference shelves—be allowed access to the sanctum of the stacks.

  CONFIDENTIAL NOTE: All staff must be affected by physical defects, as it is the duty of a public institution to offer job opportunities to handicapped citizens (the Fire Department is considering an extension of this rule to their ranks). In particular, the ideal librarian should limp, in order to lengthen the time devoted to receiving the call slip, descending into the basement, and returning. For personnel expected to use ladders to reach the shelves more than eight meters above the ground, it is required that missing arms be replaced by prosthetic hooks, for security reasons. Personnel lacking both upper limbs will deliver the requested volume by gripping it in their teeth (library regulations tend to prevent the delivery of volumes in a format larger than octavo).

  1981

  How to Speak of Animals

  Central Park. The zoo. Some kids are playing near the polar bear tank. One dares the others to dive into the tank and swim alongside the bears; to force them to dive in, the challenger hides the others' clothes; the boys enter the water, splashing past a big male bear, peaceful and drowsy; they tease him, he becomes annoyed, extends a paw, and eats, or rather chomps on, two kids, leaving some bits lying around. The police come quickly, even the mayor arrives, there is some argument about whether or not the bear has to be killed, all admit it's not his fault; some sensational articles appear in the press. It so happens that the boys have Hispanic names: Puerto Ricans, perhaps black, perhaps newcomers to the city, in any event accustomed to feats of daring, like all slum kids who hang out in packs.