“Yet when I talk to him sometimes, I hear my voice returning to me larger than it left: I find my thinking clarified, my mistakes disclosed, just by being spoken into him, because he naturally knows how to echo: first from this surface of consideration, then from that; each time differently, bending, shaping the conception, allowing all its holes to fill with further holes until it comes back hollow as a shell, and you are left with only your memory of how it once reverberated; how before, when it departed your sunny solicitous shore, your thought was vital, energetic, sea deep, insistent as surf, and how now it is tiny, tinny, thin, an alien husk, a brittle bit of calcified skin some worm’s worn.”
W. Gass, The Tunnel, Dalkey Archive Press, 1999, p. 415.
The Tunnel is: William H. Gass showing his ID, showing it, et al. (this is a plural), with super-egotistic condescension to his Herschel Honey readers – to nobodies like me. With 250 pages to go Herschel is, as I always am, the latecomer who – as the voice of reason popping up in your head just after sending the annoying mail that will haunt you until the unreasonableness of its reply has been registered – is dumb enough not to feel disappointed at being too late to make the difference.
The article makes a difference (two can play at that).
BOEM PAUKESLAG definitely is the expectation of precocious pricks whose prodding prepares the rest of us for the unrest they already feel way ahead of us, because their long necks allow them to spot early the dangers in front of us. We, latecomers, are the little birds eating ticks out of the anus of the giraffe; our view is fundamentally indefinite (and therefore definitely non-fundamentalist) in that we see that where we come from most likely is where we’ll go, somewhat altered, somewhat different. We come in handy, as a nuisance busy nullifying the greater nuisance; albeit that by cleaning up a mess created by a mess we are merely part of the mess; part of the blind backward hole that, unseen, cannot see the grander catastrophic whole our precocious pricks are preparing for. They won’t go there however (unless they are disappointed enough to desire the drastic catastrophe – to which we’ll have to tag along) and instead they’ll wind up going back to some degree of the 180 we can see (in which case we’ll be mostly alright although not always altogether better than we were before, them lacking hindsight).
I shan’t explain (this and much more Kohler does get right).
This morning I was expecting my wife to seize the initiative. So I go take a leak, a preemptive strike archetype, and go back to bed to curl up facing the wall doing the best I can to pretend going back to sleep. Her cue. Nothing happens. I stiffen up but not there. As vivid are the expectations, as livid is the disappointment. It is beyond the thoughts engendered by an early morning erection that a woman is deaf to the cue and does not muster waking up, putting on a thong or some other sort of genitalia attention enhancing apparel to get on all fours simultaneously licking your dick, showing her ass and looking you into the eyes. In this my wife is as most insufficiently terrorized women: she is a latecomer. I had no choice to break the tension by picking up my book (The Tunnel: pp. 442-443). She took a leak then, tits showing, night knickers on (do all women refuse to wear their sex knickers to sleep?) with one buttock showing. I could hardly see it as she passed me to my left and the naked buttock was her right one; the left cannot appreciate the right as we all know.
Her step was light and bubbly, clearly unaware of my disappointment that grew at a speed that made my morning erection dwindle in metaphorical comparison – one cannot but loathe latecomers.
It didn’t take her long to be back, she neither being old nor cursed with prostate, nor having taken the time in some sex-mad vixen hell-bent on sucking cock. Her cuddle was refused by my disappointment. She wanted to make peace (who am I kidding, she got the cue but refused the mental rape carefully avoiding the word ‘no’ to spare the feelings of a coward no-good at rape of any but the manipulative kind) by offering to prepare breakfast. I didn’t tell her I had breakfast prepared for her because it is more painful to grunt and hit people over the head with what is untold. The unsaid is tough without being brittle, it leaves no discernible mark whilst being fitted with thousands of needles their pins facing outward.
Shorter: I Herschel Honey‘d her out of our bedroom. She left, we ate, I grunted a little more. She felt bad and good worse news. She cried. We made up. Then she fucked me as compensation for fucking me up. And I fucked her back, because I came late to the realization she woke up to a day which could not but disappoint her; a day full of plans and expectations that involved others living up to them; a day that could not but go bad. A bad day. We fucked until we could hear she was as horny as she could never have been in the morning – in any morning. Coming late has its advantages. Coming late opens the perspective of coming back and it is a fact that we did come, both, back.
But before all of that I was too blind to read so I re-read pp. 442-443 and didn’t much care for either of them (“treaty of Versigh”, come on). P. 444 is dog-eared though, presumably for this:
“(..) my high school teacher said, Poets are Peter Pans, they don’t grow up. What did she know? but I didn’t know that.”
And indeed, why grow up? Kohler conniving with Herschel Honey to KO Plans.