Finally, I got bored.
He was not bright; he was lonely; he was belligerent. Friendship with Robert did not cut me off from friendship with anyone else: Robert was just strange. Friendship with Arthur did: Arthur was actively antisocial. Because he was ill-practiced in keeping friendships going, it was extremely easy to maneuver my way out of it, by being otherwise occupied here, too busy there, all the while counting on the fact he valued me too much to protest. In another week, without any particular scenes, we were no longer even speaking.
Anywhere outside the gymnasium, Arthur was subjected to a needling harassment that certainly fed his belligerence and, in its way, was much more vicious than that first day’s attack on Robert. Robert’s attack lasted minutes. Arthur’s, practically without let-up, went on for years.
Arthur had committed some particularly annoying offense. A bunch of us got together and decided we must teach him a lesson. We agreed that, for the rest of the week, no one in the class would speak to him, or acknowledge he was there in any way. After a couple of hours, he hit a few people. They scooted out of the way, giggling. An hour after that, he was sitting on the hallway floor by the green book-box, leaning against it, sobbing. The teachers finally realized what we were doing and demanded we stop. So we did—while any teachers were around.
On the last day of this treatment (and there were others, dreamed up for him practically every month), Arthur managed to confront a bunch of us in the narrow, fenced-in enclosure in front of the school. He yelled at us angrily, then began to cry. We watched, mild embarrassment masked with mild approval, when, in the middle of his crying, Arthur suddenly pointed to me and exclaimed: “But you’re my friend! You’re my friend!”
Had it not been the last day, I would have stayed with my group. As it was, I spoke to him, left my friends, and went with him to the corner where he caught his bus home. I may even have explained to him why we’d done it. But I doubt, at this point, if he either understood or cared.
I think, however, this was where I began to realize that such cerebral punishments teach the offender nothing of the nature of annoyance, injury, or suffering he has inflicted: They teach only the strength of the group, and the group’s cruelty—the group’s oblivion to the annoyance, injury, and suffering it can inflict—the same, basic failing of the offender.
I didn’t consider Arthur my friend. After walking him to the corner, I made no other efforts to be friendly. As other harassments came up, I was just as likely to be party—except that I now stayed more in the background to avoid being called to witness. But in gym class, Arthur no longer hurled at me his bombardment ball.
At six and seven, Arthur was a bully. By eleven or twelve, he was class clown; last in his school work, still incredibly aggressive in sports, now, whenever there was any tension between him and any teacher or classmate, he would drop his books all over the floor, belch loudly, or give a shrill, pointless giggle. We, at any rate, laughed—and despised him nonetheless. Our harassments had been effective: He was no longer likely to hit you. Frankly, I’m not sure that his earlier reactions weren’t the more valid.
I am sure, however, that given another time, another place, another school, and children from families that had indulged different values, Arthur might have been the well-liked, admired student while I, an eccentric weakling of a different race, who lived half his life in another world, might have suffered all the harassment I so cavalierly helped in heaping on him.
Dalton prided itself in its progressiveness and courted an image of eccentricity. (The bizarre elementary school in Patrick Dennis’s Auntie Mame is supposedly Dalton.) The eccentricity went no further than the headmistress announcing to each class, at the beginning of each year, in a very guarded tone: “If you really have something worthwhile, creative, and constructive to do, then you may arrange to be excused from regular classes.” The announcement was made once and never repeated, though, in the Dalton brochures, this aspect of the school’s individualized approach to each student was made much of. To my knowledge, I was the only student from my year who ever got to wheedle his way out of some of the more arduous classes: I developed an incredibly complex art project that involved paintings, sculptures, and electric lights, and announced to my math teacher that I wanted special instruction in calculus, and wanted it now.
For several months, I got away with spending most of my school day between the art room and special math tutoring sessions.
I was doing practically no assigned work. My arithmetic had never been strong. And my parents, who were nowhere near as eccentrically progressive as the school, decided to send me to a tutor, during this time, three afternoons a week.
Amanda Kemp was a small, white-haired, black woman, who lived on the top floor of an apartment house on Edgecomb Avenue, in small, dark rooms that smelled of leaking gas.
With much good will and infinite patience, she tried to “interest” me in things that I had invested a good deal of emotional autonomy in remaining uninterested in—“Since,” she explained to my mother, after the first week, “actually teaching him is certainly no problem. He learns whatever he wants to learn all too quickly,” and she gave me a book of poems by Countee Cullen, which he had personally inscribed to her, years earlier, when they worked together in the city school system, its illustrations marvelously macabre, showing imaginary beasts of Jabber-wockian complexity, each described by an accompanying rhymed text.
The person in my math class who did get the constantly easy hundred was Priscilla. Sometime around here, I decided to write a science- fiction novel—announced my project to a group of friends in the coffee shop on the corner, where we all adjourned after school to indulge in an obligatory toasted English muffin and/or lemon coke. I actually wrote the opening chapter: twenty pages of single-spaced typing on lined, three-holed, loose-leaf paper. I brought it into school and, during one study period, asked Priscilla to read it and pass judgment.
During the next half hour I chewed through several pencil erasers, stripped the little brass edge out of my wooden ruler, and accomplished some half dozen more intense, small, and absorbing destructions.
Priscilla, finally, looked up. (We were sitting on the green stairs.)
“Did you like it?” I asked. “Did you understand it?”
“I don’t,” she said, a little dryly, “believe anyone could understand it with your spelling the way it is. Here, let me make you a list. . .”It was the beginning of a marvelous friendship (that, a year ago, reflowered just as warmly when I visited Wesleyan University where she is now a professor of Russian) which quickly came to include nightly hour-plus phone calls, made up mostly of ritual catch phrases (such as: “What has that got to do with the price of eggs in Afghanistan!”) which somehow, by the slightest variation of inflection, communicated the most profound and arcane ideas, or, conversely, reduced us to hysterical laughter, to the annoyance of both our parents at both our houses. Besides correcting my spelling, Priscilla also told me about a book she said was perfectly wonderful and I must read, called Titus Groan. For fourteen years, it suffered the fate of Rocketship Galileo. I only got around to reading it one evening over a weekend at Damon Knight’s sprawling Anchorage in Milford, Pennsylvania (Damon had just made some rather familiar sounding comments on the spellings in a manuscript I had given him to read); Priscilla had been right.
The last year of elementary school was drawing to a close. I had just been accepted at the Bronx High School of Science. I was sitting in the school’s smaller, upstairs library, reading More Than Human for the second time, when several students, Robert and Priscilla among them, came in to tell me that I had been elected Most Popular Person in the Class—a distinction which carried with it the dubious honor of making a small speech at graduation.
I was terribly pleased.
Like many children who get along easily with their peers, I was an incredibly vicious and self-centered child, a liar when it suited me and a thief when I could get away with it, who, with an astonishi
ng lack of altruism, had learned some of the advantages of being nice to people nobody else wanted to be bothered with.
I think, sometimes, when we are trying to be the most honest, the fictionalizing process is at its strongest. Would Robert, Mrs. Mackerjee, Gene, Arthur, Marty, or Priscilla agree with any of what I have written here, or even recognize it? What do they remember that, perhaps, I have forgotten—either because it was too painful, too damning, or because it made no real impression at all?
Language, Myth, Science Fiction . . .
58. Browsing in Joe Kennedy’s Counter/Measures, I came across a poem by John Bricuth called Myth. Liked it muchly. It begins with an epigraph from Lévi-Strauss:
“Music and mythology confront man with virtual objects whose shadow alone is real . . .”
Then this from Quine’s Philosophy of Logic:
“The long and short of it is that propositions have been projected as shadows of sentences, if I may transpose a figure of Wittgenstein’s. At best they will give us nothing the sentence will not give. Their promise of more is mainly due to our uncritically assuming for them an individuation which matches no equivalence between sentences that we can see how to define. The shadows favoured wishful thinking.”
And from Spicer’s poem Language, in his discussion of the candle flame and the finger he has just blistered:
do they both point us to the
grapheme on the concrete wall—
the space between it
where the shadow and the flame are one?
Just as “propositions” can be dismissed from logic on the formal side as a logical shadow in a field where we wish for light, on the informal side we can dismiss the movable predicate—x “walks” which can be moved to y “walks” and so on to the ith variable “. . . if and only if the ith thing in the sequence walks” (presumably true of x, y, and the others) [Philosophy of Logic, p. 40]—as an empirical shadow: It is a shadow of the empirical resolution at which we observe a given set of process phenomena that allows us to subsume them all under one word. If, for instance, all that can be referred to by “walks” is, like the word, a singular entity, then a very strange entity it is. Among other things, it is discontinuous in both time and space, since both x and y can perform it simultaneously in different locations and/or at different times! In the empirical world, however, spatial and temporal discontinuity is multiplicity of entities. And “a multiple entity” in our language at any rate is as silly a concept as “many rock.” (This, I suspect, is the practical side of Quine’s refusal to “quantify over predicates” [Philosophy of Logic, p. 28]. If we have a situation where every instance of predicate-with-every-variable can be empirically resolved into separate predicates (P), we have a situation where the existential quantifier (EP), would always have the same value as the universal quantifier (P). If there is only one q, then everything you can say of “at least one q” you can say of “all q.” Similarly, the negation of one quantifier could always be taken as the other or empty, as one liked. This gets the formal logician into the same sort of trouble as the mathematician who allows himself to divide by zero in formal algebra.)
If we have a universe composed only of real, unique objects performing unique processes, how do we order them? (Are we stuck with G. Spencer-Brown’s suggestion from Laws of Form that “equals” must be taken to mean “is confused with”?) Or, more germane: Since we do perceive the universe as ordered, can we work back to such a universe of unique objects-and-processes without contradiction?
Language is miraculous not in its power to differentiate. Differentiation, when all is said and done, is carried on nonverbally by the reasonable cross-checking of the information of the other senses. The wonder is that language can respond to any number of different things in the same way: it can call ashtrays, actors, and accidents “entities”; it can call poems, paintings, and nesselrode pies “art”; it can call what three different men at three different times of day do when going down the street “walking”; it can call three entities that walk down the street at the same time “women”; it can call sentences, ideas, and blue-prints “models”; it can call freedom, death, the color white, and the Second-World-War-and-all-its-causes “volumes in multidimensional meaning space”; it can call causing pain, inflicting suffering, and perpetrating injustice “evil.” In this way language guides the senses to concentrate on various areas and aspects of the world for further examination and further differential cross-checking.
Things “obviously” similar are coherent areas of meaning-space only because of the shadow the senses throw over them. Those areas not so obviously coherent become so under the various shadows language can cast.
59. Science fiction is a way of casting a language-shadow over coherent areas of imaginative space that would otherwise be largely inaccessible.
60. Is it the tragedy of mind? Or is it what assures the mind’s development: Today’s seminal idea is tomorrow’s critical cliché.
— London
1973–1974
*John Oliver Simon, with whom I actually went to summer camp at Woodland.
* Such translation into an artificial language may at first seem suspect. But is it really any more dubious than the translation Russell suggests in his theory of singular descriptions which so facilitates the untangling of Plato’s beard?
* Metonymy is, of course, the rhetorical figure by which one thing is called with the name of another thing associated with it. The historian who writes, “At last, the crown was safe at Hampton,” is not concerned with the metallic tiara but the monarch who, from time to time, wore it. The dispatcher who reports to the truckboss, “Thirty drivers rolled in this weekend,” is basically communicating about the arrival of trucks those drivers drove and cargoes those trucks hauled. Metonymic is a slightly strained, adjectival construction to label such associational processes. Metonym is a wholly-coined, nominative one, shored by a wholly spurious (etymologically speaking) resemblance to “synonymy/synonym” and “antinomy/antinym.” Still, it avoids confusion. In a text practically opaque with precision, it distinguishes “metonymy”-the-thing-associated (“crown,” “driver”) from “metonymy”-the-process-of-association (crown to monarch; driver to cargo). The orthodox way of referring to both is with the single term.
* The épistçmé is the structure of knowledge read from the epistemological textus when it is sliced through (usually with the help of several texts) at a given cultural moment.
*The important point here, of course, is that nonverbal material must already be considered as language, if not as part of language.
* This is another invocation of the idea, out of favor for so long, of “morphophonemes.” The theoretical question of course is do they differ (or how do they differ) from “sememes.”
* Welsh (and Homeric Greek) divide the spectrum (both as to colors and intensity) quite differently from English.
Index
“A” (Zukofsky), 166, 172
A la recherche du temps perdu (Proust), 202
A-minor Symphony (Mendelssohn), 50
ABC (Silliman), 146, 169, 172
Adam, Helen Douglas, 209
Adam Bede (Eliot), 260
Adamov, Arthur, 4
Addison, Joseph, xiv
Adorno, Theodor, 68, 70, 78
In Search of Wagner, 68
The Jargon of Authenticity, 70
Adventures of Alyx, The (Russ), 116
Agassiz, Louis, 110
“Age of Dream, An” (Johnson), 243n
Agon: Towards a Theory of Revisionism (Bloom), 196
Ailey, Alvin, 18
“Albany” (Silliman), 146, 169, 170, 172
Aldington, Richard, 147
Portrait of a Genius, But . . ., 174
Aldiss, Brian W., 278
Report on Probability A, 280
Alien Critic, The, 257, 298
Allen, Donald, 240
Allen, Robert, 261
Allgemeine Oesterreichische Zeitung, 52
Alphabet, The, series (Silliman), 146, 157, 163, 169, 171, 172
Alvarez, A., 185
American Shore, The (Delany), xvi
Amitie du Prince (Perse), 209
“An einen Staatsanwalt” (Wagner), 52
Anabase (Perse), 209
Anathēmata, The (Jones), 166
“And I Am Telling You” (Bennett), 154
Anderson, Laurie, xxx
Angel Fire (Oates), 259
“Angouleme” (Disch), xvii, xxiv
Anouilh, Jean, 14, 80, 315
Anthony and Cleopatra (Barber), 18–21
Antigone (Cocteau), 14
antinomies, 265–274
Grelling’s paradox, 273
Apollo of Bellac, The (Giraudoux), 317
“Apology for Raymond Sebond, An” (Montaigne), xxxv
Appalachian Spring (de Mille), 197n
“Architecture of The Bridge” (Unterecker), 187
Ardrey, Robert, 157
Arendt, Hannah, 71, 93
The Origins of Totalitarianism, 71, 93
Aristotle, 13, 25, 40, Poetics, 13
Armantraut, Rae, 170
“Engines,” 170
Arnold, Matthew, 35–37, 40–42, 64, 78, 79
Culture and Anarchy, 35
“Culture and Its Enemies,” 40, 78
“Dover Beach,” 35
Arp, Hans, 4
Art and Death (Artaud), 13
Art and Illusion (Gombrich), 273
Art and Revolution (Wagner), 3, 16, 48, 63
Artaud, Antonin, x, xxvii–xxx, 1–17, 22, 41, 42, 75, 76, 78–84, 172