too. Why should you care? That’s not why you write. You write to do it. Isn’t that so?
Do you mean that?
Certainly, I mean it.
You think we writers are destructively self-involved?
Duh!
Well, I must say. I never thought of it from your point of view. And what you say makes sense. I don’t write for you, any of you. I write for me. Yes! This conversation has been a real eye-opener. Thanks. Thanks very much. Just one more question.
{ essay in The Kenyon Review }
Everyone’s Work Is Magnificent
This rule applies to those occasions when people, often total strangers, have decided that you are the one person on earth to assess the merits of their oil painting, cooking, wood carving, sand sculpture, dress design, electric train setup, love song, or the 30,000-line tragicomic epic poem they have composed on the life of John Gotti, that they have never shown anyone until today. They “know what an imposition” their request is. But they seek your “frank opinion” because they “really respect your judgment.” Here is your judgment:
“It’s magnificent.” Do not add a syllable. Shake their hand warmly, slap them on the back heartily, grin, and get out of there. If you believe that they wanted to hear anything other than “magnificent,” you need a lot more help than they do.
{ from the instruction book Rules for Aging }
My Bear
My bear is of the polar variety. He squats at the other end of my kitchen table every morning, and he stares at me with his black, black eyes. He does not move, but I hear his even snorting. Gnnn, gnnn, gnnn. Like that, in a low guttural snort that is neither threatening nor amiable. If my kitchen window is open, the breeze will flutter the tips of his white fur. He is seven or eight feet tall (I haven’t measured). There is nothing immediately alarming about him; yet, once I sit down, I am afraid to move.
He has something to do with my writing—anyone can see that. My fears. Or with my not writing. My blocks. Or with my mood swings. Once I suggested to him that he might be a bi-polar bear, but he showed no amusement. I offered him Frosted Flakes one morning, too. I do not think that bears have a sense of humor.
I cannot recall when he first appeared—some years ago, certainly. It was not in the morning that I first saw him but rather one midnight, when, for lack of sleep, I came downstairs for a snack of Jell-O, and there he was, glowing white in the light of a full moon. I sat and stared at him, as he stared at me. Eventually, I got sleepy and retired.
Lately, he has stirred from the kitchen, where he spends his days and has moved up to the bedroom at night, where he squats at the foot of my bed. He seems to wish to be with me night and day. I do not know what it is about me that attracts him. If he wanted to kill me, he could have done that long ago. Bears may look cute, but they are ferocious. One swipe of the paw and I would be scattered around the room like so many pieces of paper.
One night I decided to flatter him, but it made no impression. One night I presented a philosophical monologue to him—something that involved the fates of bears and men together in harmony. He did not so much as blink. One night I cursed him out. I don’t know where I got the courage, but I even raised my hand to him. I hardly need to tell you that there was no reaction.
Here’s my problem: If he establishes his influence in my household, as he has pretty much done already, how long will it be before he follows me outside? How long before he accompanies me to the newsstand or the grocer’s? Think of the awkwardness, the embarrassment. He is not Harvey, after all, he’s not invisible. And he is certainly not sweet natured or wise. Soon, no one will come near me out of fright.
I am thinking of calling the ASPCA. Perhaps tomorrow, or the day after that. My bear is an unwanted animal, is he not? It is the business of the ASPCA, their duty, to take unwanted animals and treat them humanely. I would not want him hurt. Yes, I will definitely call the ASPCA by the end of the week, or early next at the latest, and tell them to please rid me of my bear, my beautiful, big, white polar bear.
{ from the play Ashley Montana Goes Ashore in the Caicos }
From the Unpublished Novel Young Murph
And do you know what’s really great about the imagination? I said. No, tell me, Dr. Watson. What’s really great about the imagination? Cait said, not even bothering to stifle a giggle of amused superiority. Well, I’m going to tell you, Holmes, you bitch. She laughed. The thing about the imagination is no one knows where it is located. No neuroscientist has the slightest idea where the imagination lives in the human brain. Mrs. Dwyer has this book about the brain, the areas of life it controls. Moving your limbs. Singing. Learning. Seeing. Hearing. All those functions, and more. Even loving. Every one of our activities has a home in some particular area of the brain. Not the imagination. The scientists concede the imagination is real, but they haven’t found out where it lives. Most of them say it lives everywhere, in all the brain’s regions. You know what I say? No, Watson, what do you say? She hadn’t stopped smiling. I say the imagination is bigger than the human brain. It fills the universe. I say the imagination imagines itself.
The Writer’s Wife
Look at him, my active man. Sometimes he sits and turns to the left. Sometimes, to the right. I wouldn’t think of disturbing him. He is dreaming his writer’s dreams, and his dreams are inviolable. I have the privilege of serving him, and of watching him.
Did you say something, dear? Nothing yet? Still dreaming? Well, while you’re at it, I’d better get to my chores. No, don’t get up. I can handle it: fix the engine on the Prius; recondition the Steinway; point up the bricks on the west wall; build a bathroom in the basement, from scratch. Busy, busy is the writer’s wife.
And please, don’t even think of lowering yourself to the details of bill paying, dry cleaning, shopping, cooking, dishwashing, trash toting. May I get the door for you? May I get two?
Am I complaining about my lot? Never, sweetheart. The intellectual challenges alone make it worthwhile. How many ways can I invent to assure you that you’re not losing a step? Our topics of conversation: Your obligation to your gift. My obligation to your obligation. Were you born before your time, or after your time, or just in time? I forget.
Then there’s our social life. The dinner parties where everyone speaks in quotations. The book parties where everyone says, “There he is. Or variously: “There she is!”
Do I want to go to Elaine’s? Are you kidding? I want to live there!
And don’t worry. I’ve laid out your uniform. Dark suit, dark shirt, dark tie. Your special look.
Do you think you might speak to me this month? It was so nice last month, or was it the month before that, when you asked me how I was. For a moment there, I thought you’d ask who I was. That’s just a little joke. Nothing to upset yourself about. But what am I saying? Why would you be upset? Why would you—sitting there in your dreamscape—why would you even look up?
My folks, having met you but once, suggested I marry an actuary or mortgage broker. Or a wife beater. Hell, what do parents know about the life of the mind—yours. The precious moments we share—
Such as the times you asked me to read something you’ve written, and if I say “I love it!” you say I’m blowing you off, and if I appear disappointed or confused, you go into a clinical depression, and if I say, “Then please don’t ask me, if you don’t want my opinion,” you go into a clinical depression.
Oh, dear. Did I say, “That was the best thing you ever wrote”? Of course, what I meant to say was, “Everything you write is a masterpiece. And this latest masterpiece just proves it.” That’s what I meant to say. You’re right. I