In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Starting Out Again Eyes sting when opening. Closes them tight. Black smeared with red and then just black. Again, slowly opening eyes and at the same time pulling the legs off the floor and swinging them onto the bed with feet hanging off the end of the bed . . . as confused as the language. Stretching , yawn. Was gonna have myself call down to the front desk, asking, what time is it? And the woman saying eight fifteen, pausing, wondering: morning or night? Of course it’s the night and I’ve only been out of it for a little while, not enough time to top up the batteries but still enough to whet the tongue for the stuff to kill the thirst, and they should all be in the pubs and though I don’t expect there are any parties, like long ago or even more recently, maybe there’ll be one and I can get myself inside among walls and find _________________________ _________________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________ Sterne wasn’t just dragged in. Unbuckles, drops pants, drops undershorts , takes himself in hand, hops over to sink and pisses. Shadows walk quickly near to the high fence of the Green. Two tall businessmen cross the street and seem to be going for the hotel. A bent woman is pushing a baby carriage piled high with newspapers. What will the night bring? The dead always know more than the living. A grim way of living. Have to be getting on with it. What happens if you wake up some morning and you got no complaint? The sweater comes off: cigarette smoke embedded in the wool. Put the sweater on after smelling the armpits. Sometimes they smell sweet and other times the smell of the deathbed and the relatives crowding about, waving roses under their noses. More likely under a street lamp, just off the Bowery, shoes stolen, pockets slit. St. Patrick’s Day ———— Fingers through hair, rain of dandruff on sweater brushed off. No clumps of hair this time. Down there to the street and out to the pubs again, as the night is as young as it ever is in Dublin, middle of the week, if memory serves. I see the pile of papers I can’t get rid of. They have gone from Beloit to California to Dublin to Sofia to Helsinki to Beograd, to Amsterdam to London and on; and to Paris to see Julian Green that second time, such a botch after meeting that woman in the Rodin Museum. Dear Mr. Green. . . . Dear Julian Green (this was gone into pages, pages ago; don’t need a clumsy bit of recurrence to show us that you have read about all of this some pages ago). Hand into the pocket to feel the still comfortable wad of paper money. Down in front of the fire in the lobby, cold Carlsberg at hand, the eyes on the well-polished brass instruments in their brass pot to the side of the fire, the squares of turf in their brass pot and ears open to the deals being made on either side. The gentleman on the right has two buttons on his lapels saying PUSH. The man he is talking to takes a chance and pushes the right button, that is, the button on his right lapel. A little flag pops up: DUMMY! PUSH THE OTHER BUTTON. Your man does so. DUMMY! PUSH THE OTHER BUTTON. These are serious men. They drink neat gin on the rocks with a bit of lime. Should be getting my show on the road. The Russell is a good home. People leave you alone. People are always asking, how is the Russell? How only those people who most want to be around people are always praising a place for letting you be alone with yourself. Chin to collarbone but no falling asleep. Not fat enough to get away with being a picturesque drunk asleep before fire, a study of an Englishman fallen upon bad times. The eyes close for a moment, open, close. Suddenly turn and look to the door. What if Barbara walked in right at this moment. What would I say, or maybe Susan? She’ll be living in the suburbs during the summer, but to never hear from her again even though she and I and Dickie planned to meet . . . what year was it? In Istanbul at the Blue Mosque and talk about all the years . . . those things only happen in books. Tonight, walk the body to...


Additional Information

Related ISBN
MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
Open Access
Back To Top

This website uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience on our website. Without cookies your experience may not be seamless.