The sexual organs of fathers: The penises of fathers are traditionally hidden from the inspection of those who are not “clubbable,” as the expression runs. These penises are magical, but not most of the time. Most of the time they are “at rest.” In the “at rest” position they are small, almost shriveled, and easily concealed in carpenter’s aprons, chaps, bathing suits, or ordinary trousers. Actually they are not anything that you would want to show anyone, in this state, they are rather like mushrooms or, possibly, large snails. The magic, at these times, resides in other parts of the father (fingertips, right arm) and not in the penis. Occasionally a child, usually a bold six-year-old daughter, will request permission to see it. This request should be granted, once. But only in the early morning, when you are in bed, and only when an early-morning erection is not present. Yes, let her touch it (lightly, of course), but briefly. Do not permit her to linger or get too interested. Be matter-of-fact, kind, and undramatic. Pretend, for the moment, that it is as mundane as a big toe. And then calmly, without unseemly haste, cover it up again. Remember that she is being allowed to “touch it,” not “hold it”; the distinction is important. About sons you must use your own judgment. It is injudicious (as well as unnecessary) to terrify them; you have many other ways of accomplishing that. Chancre is a good reason for not doing any of this. When the penises of fathers are semi-erect, titillated by some stray erotic observation, such as a glimpse of an attractive female hoof, bereft of its slipper, knowing smiles should be exchanged with the other fathers present (better: half smiles) and the matter let drop. Semi-erectness is a half measure, as Aristotle knew; that is why most of the penises in museums have been knocked off with a mallet. The original artificers could not bear the idea of Aristotle’s disapproval, and mutilated their work rather than merit the scorn of the great Peripatetic. The notion that this mutilation was carried out by later (Christian) “cleanup squads” is untrue, pure legend. The matter is as I have presented it. The excited, mad, fully erect penis should be displayed only to the one who has excited it, for his or her lips, for the kiss of amelioration. Many other things can be done with the penises of fathers, but these have already been adequately described by other people. The penises of fathers are in every respect superior to the penises of nonfathers, not because of size or weight or any consideration of that sort but because of a metaphysical “responsibility.” This is true even of poor, bad, or insane fathers. African artifacts reflect this special situation. Pre-Columbian artifacts, for the most part, do not.
The names of fathers: Fathers are named
Badgal
Balberith
Baldwin
Balthial
Basus
Bathor
Bat Qol
Bealphares
Beli
Bigtha
Binah
Biqu
Birch
Bird
Blaef
Blake
Bludon
Boamiel
Bob
Bodiel
Bualu
Buhair
Bull
Butator
Byleth
I knew a father named Yamos who was landlord of the bear gardens at Southwark. Yamos was known to be a principled man and never, never, never ate any of his children no matter how dire the state of his purse. Yet the children, one by one, disappeared.
We have seen that the key idea, in fatherhood, is “responsibility.” First, that heavy chunks of blue or gray sky do not fall down and crush our bodies, or that the solid earth does not turn into a yielding pit beneath us (although the tunneling father is sometimes responsible, in the wrong sense, for the latter). The responsibility of the father is chiefly that his child not die, that enough food is pushed into its face to sustain it, and that heavy blankets protect it from the chill, cutting air. The father almost always meets this responsibility with valor and steadfastness (except in the case of child abusers or thiefs of children or managers of child labor or sick, unholy sexual ghouls). The child lives, mostly, lives and grows into a healthy, normal adult. Good! The father has been successful in his burdensome, very often thankless, task, that of keeping the child breathing. Good work, Sam, your child has taken his place in the tribe, has a good job selling thermocouples, has married a nice girl whom you like, and has impregnated her to the point that she will doubtless have a new child, soon. And is not in jail. But have you noticed the slight curl at the end of Sam II’s mouth, when he looks at you? It means that he didn’t want you to name him Sam II, for one thing, and for two other things it means that he has a sawed-off in his left pant leg, and a baling hook in his right pant leg, and is ready to kill you with either one of them, given the opportunity. The father is taken aback. What he usually says, in such a confrontation, is “I changed your diapers for you, little snot.” This is not the right thing to say. First, it is not true (mothers change nine diapers out of ten), and second, it instantly reminds Sam II of what he is mad about. He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that’s not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that either, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it, he is insane because when he loved you, you didn’t notice.
The death of fathers: When a father dies, his fatherhood is returned to the All-Father, who is the sum of all dead fathers taken together. (This is not a definition of the All-Father, only an aspect of his being.) The fatherhood is returned to the All-Father, first because that is where it belongs and second in order that it may be denied to you. Transfers of power of this kind are marked with appropriate ceremonies; top hats are burned. Fatherless now, you must deal with the memory of a father. Often that memory is more potent than the living presence of a father, is an inner voice commanding, haranguing, yes-ing and no-ing—a binary code, yes no yes no yes no yes no, governing your every, your slightest movement, mental or physical. At what point do you become yourself? Never, wholly, you are always partly him. That privileged position in your inner ear is his last “perk” and no father has ever passed it by.
Similarly, jealousy is a useless passion because it is directed mostly at one’s peers, and that is the wrong direction. There is only one jealousy that is useful and important, the original jealousy.
Patricide: Patricide is a bad idea, first because it is contrary to law and custom and second because it proves, beyond a doubt, that the father’s every fluted accusation against you was correct: you are a thoroughly bad individual, a patricide!—member of a class of persons universally ill-regarded. It is all right to feel this hot emotion, but not to act upon it. And it is not necessary. It is not necessary to slay your father, time will slay him, that is a virtual certainty. Your true task lies elsewhere.
Your true task, as a son, is to reproduce every one of the enormities touched upon in this manual, but in attenuated form. You must become your father, but a paler, weaker version of him. The enormities go with the job, but close study will allow you to perform the job less well than it has previously been done, thus moving toward a golden age of decency, quiet, and calmed fevers. Your contribution will not be a small one, but “small” is one of the concepts that you should shoot for. If your father was a captain in Battery D, then content yourself with a corporalship in the same battery. Do not attend the annual reunions. Do not drink beer or sing songs at the reunions. Begin by whispering, in front of a mirror, for thirty minutes a day. Then tie your hands behind your back for thirty minutes a day, or get someone else to do this for you. Then, choose one of your most deeply held beliefs, such as the belief that your honors and awards have something to do with you, and abjure it. Friends will help you abjure it, and can be telephoned if you begin to backslide. You see the pattern, put it into practice. Fatherhood can be, if not conquered, at least “turned down” in this generation—by the combined efforts of all of us together.
* * *
Seems a little harsh, Julie said, when they had finished reading.
Yes it does seem a little harsh, said Thomas.
Or perhaps it’s not harsh enough?
It would depend on the experience of the individual making the judgment, as to whether it was judged to be too harsh or judged to be not harsh enough.
I hate relativists, she said, and threw the book into the fire.
18
The jolting of the road. The dust. The sweat. The ladies in conversation.
Break your thumbs for you.
That’s your option.
Take a walk.
Snowflakes, by echoes, by tumbleweed.
Right in the mouth with a four-by-four.
His basket bulging.
I know that.
Hunger for perfection indomitable spirit reminds me of Lord Baden-Powell at times.
I know that.
Was there a message?
Buzzing in the right ball.
Sometimes forgets and uses too many teeth.
Pop one of these. Make you feel better.
What is the motivation?
I was suspicious of him from the first.
At the launching of his now rapidly fading career.
And in the poorest houses nuts are roasted and sweet brans.
Tattering leather and balding blue velvet.
Where can a body get a bang around here?
Certain provocations the government couldn’t handle.
A long series of raptures and other spiritual experiences.
He was pleased.
Beside himself.
Something trembling in the balance.
Codpiece trimmed with the fur of silver monkeys.
He was pleased.
Feeling is what’s important.
A gesture was made.
You were his second wife?
Second or third he lied rather often.
I wouldn’t put it past him.
The child’s interests were not protected.
Fill your face with bubblegum and suck your pacifier.
Saw a unicyclist in a brown hat.
I’m not into disgust.
Thought I heard a dog barking.
Handed him the yellow towel which he stuffed into his trousers.
Nobody ever died of it.
Worked them down over her hips.
Sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation.
Removing with a shout of triumph a whole live chicken.
He’s not bad-looking.
I’ve noticed that.
We couldn’t have been happier.
Mountain goats posing with their front legs together on the filing cabinets.
Feeling is what’s important.
What was the room like?
Gray and the ceiling white.
What was the room like?
A shrug and a burst into tears.
Long gowns to the floor one yellow-white and one cooked-shrimp colored.
Something trembling in the balance.
Content to suck on a black tiptoe.
I applied for more time spreading the documents out before them.
I thanked the large black woman and withdrew.
Would have pissed elsewhere out of my sight if the conventions were then as they are now.
It’s her own gut she’s after.
He said I respected you when you were younger.
That’s normal for cellists.
Got her a Rostropovich peg for her birthday.
She exhibited gratitude, blinked three times.
Mother.
Printed circuits reprinting themselves.
Did you let him see yours?
I assumed a brusque but friendly tone.
Probably afraid that she would drop it.
Probably afraid.
Got him right between the shoulder blades.
From such combinations in ancient days were sprung monsters.
This is not like me.
Wake up one dark night with a prick in your eye.
That’s my business.
Approached it with a charming show of fastidious distaste.
That’s my business.
Years not unmarked by hideous strains.
The letter a failure but I mailed it nevertheless.
That’s your opinion.
Quite. That’s my opinion.
Cracked halfhaired puckerfaced creature.
Mother.
Asked if I wanted to play. I noticed that all of the pieces were black.
I read about it in Le Monde.
He doesn’t know what he’s in for.
Sender of the sweet rain.
Keeps the corn popping.
The bourgeois press told stories.
The incredibly handsome waiter had been listening.
Carbon paper under the tablecloth all the while.
Knits the power grips.
Eats his kids they say.
Her red lips against the bone in my nose.
I can make it hot for you.
What is your totem?
The credit card.
When you are an old person you live in a small room small but neat and you don’t have any cymbals any more they’ve taken your cymbals away from you.
It’s a dirge not a dance.
Stop being petty, stop trying to cut each other’s throat.
Always quick to call another woman beautiful.
Definite absolute negative influence.
And never does so if it is not true.
Hoping this will reach you at a favorable moment.
Some use camel saliva.
Teeth in dreams flaking away like mica.
They like to suck.
They do like to suck.
Sitting on some steps watching the tires of parked cars crack.
Shame, which has made marmosets of so many of us.
Mandrills watching from the sidelines with their clear, intelligent eyes.
Very busy making the arrangements.
Appeals to idealism.
Grocers wearing pistol belts.
It’s perfectly obvious.
I was astonished to discover that his golden urine has a purple stripe in it.
It’s no mystery.
A few severed heads on stakes along the trail.
Polished tubes carried by some of the men.
Not sure I understand what the issues are.
String quartets don’t march very well.
Whip her britches into a white foam.
I didn’t want to join, particularly, but felt it, in the last analysis, important.
Not wrong to be critical.
Half-a-scandal away.
Has a trickle-down effect on the brain.
Blushed like a blue dog.
Yes, after the war. I don’t deny it.
You must have studied English.
That’s one way of looking at it.
Wigwag me when you get a moment.
Never got the hang of it.
He’s an excellent pianist.
We remind him at every opportunity.
Throwing our caps in the air.
The beatings were long ago and not irregular.
A truck or horses could have been used.
That’s your opinion.
The son-of-a-bitch.
That’s your opinion.
Elegant way of putting chairs here and there.
I don’t think it’s so damned elegant.
Walks along placidly thinking his own thoughts.
Remembering, leaving, returning, staying.
Look at the parts separately.
Get an exploded view as they call it.
Tea on the lawn then.
The lawn!
Villains from the right, heroes from the left.
When he was again in their company he could not help remembering what he had seen.
A boiled brain and a burnt one.
Millions of birds have accepted.
Darkening the skies above the walkers.
> The main thing is to get moving.
Outside bright sunlight on the snow.
I can eat a good meal and look at a street.
You’re safe with me.
Sometimes a picture or two in a museum.
Sometimes.
I don’t mind hotel rooms.
Soldiers, horses, peasants, naked girls.
Playing a guitar.
He plays very well.
Hundreds of people squatting in a great half circle.
Throwing our caps in the air.
The son-of-a-bitch.
Control is the motif.
He made short work of them.
Is that a threat?
A vast barracks in very poor condition.
Carrying off caskets of municipal bonds.
Hers was a pretty fakey number.
Because the world’s peoples are choking.
Dead infants fishermen found in their nets.
Blood Clot Boy, Water Jar Boy, all the heroes of the past.
Stumble at noon as in the twilight.
What they say in town is, he wore elevator shoes.
Wrote things on her in colored chalks.
Her eyes seemed to be scanning the company searching with a furtive yet sincere interest.
Sicker than Pascal himself in the opinion of some.
Drinking vodka from paper cups.
She had a flight of the imagination then.
Even I liked the faint memory.
Courting disaster.
What stories is she telling herself?
Said he had a board in his chest.
Dr. Margaux corrected what Dr. Elias could not.
Sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation.
The cello leaning against the wall.
Have some.
What is it?
Potato.
Thank you.
Handed him a yellow towel which he stuffed into his trousers.