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Orpheus Emerged

Page 7

by Jack Kerouac


  ed the remaining flight and was soon dis-

  solved into the darkness of the alley below.

  Michael then got up and walked across

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  the two rooms under the scrutiny of all the

  eyes. He went into his room and closed the

  door quietly. There was a hush—followed

  by many mumbles of excitement and

  curiosity, and finally, the murmur of depar-

  ture. The party was quietly breaking up and

  everybody was going elsewhere.

  Maureen put on her coat and went out

  with the others. She confessed that she was

  afraid of Michael—at least, for this night—

  and that she wouldn’t sleep there at all costs;

  and Barbara extended her an invitation to

  stay at her place for the night. So that Michael

  was left alone in the apartment that night,

  with the broken lamp left as it lay—and with

  whatever thoughts he had.

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  IV

  WHEN MAUREEN

  RETURNED

  to her apartment the following day, she

  found a note from Michael stating that

  he would be gone for awhile, perhaps a

  week or so, on a trip south. He had

  packed a small bag.

  Michael had the habit of going off on

  short trips, especially when he began to

  feel the pressure of his own nervous

  tension, so that Maureen was not too

  alarmed at his absence. He always

  came back.

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  Paul, too, had disappeared from the

  campus scene. Leo was of the opinion that

  he, for all that had happened, was probably

  gone for good. No one as yet understood

  the full significance of the violent scene at

  the party, with its touching and gentle

  denouement, so that the absence of both

  “participants” tended to reduce interest in

  the mysterious affair to a minimum.

  A third absence was noted around the

  general campus neighborhood, that of

  both Anthony and Marie. Arthur, who had

  grown accustomed to plenty of excite-

  ment, now felt suddenly becalmed; and

  though he was immersed in his studies of

  that week, he waited with some impa-

  tience for the return of Michael, or even of

  Paul or Anthony, for life was certainly not

  the same without these tempestuous

  beings.

  And so one day, Paul returned—exactly a

  week after Spring Day eve—and it was Leo

  who found him sitting on a bench in the

  park. It was a rather gloomy, gray-skied,

  ominous day full of the smell of rain and

  thawing spring muds.

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  “Where have you been, Paul?” cried Leo

  happily, looking anxiously into his friend’s

  face. “I thought you were gone for good.”

  “I knew you would think that,” Paul

  answered, smiling and blushing. “Well,

  how are you, Leo?”

  “All right. Where did you go?”

  “Just out of the city for a while.”

  “To do what?” Leo persisted.

  “Come on,” Paul ignored his questioning.

  “Let’s go straightaway to Michael’s. I was

  going there myself, but now that you’re

  here, we’ll go together…”

  Leo glanced sharply at the other.

  “Do you think Michael will want to see

  you?” he asked, remembering all too clear-

  ly the incident of the floor lamp.

  “Certainly. He’ll have forgotten about

  everything. Don’t you even know Michael

  at all?”

  They walked up X Street. “Michael’s

  been gone all this time too,” Leo told Paul.

  “They say he took a trip south. And where

  did you go?…what did you do?”

  “Well, if you insist on knowing…I just

  went on a little excursion through the country.

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  I slept

  on the

  grass, ate

  fruit for

  breakfast.

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  ORPHEUS EMERGED 126

  That’s all.”

  They were going up the stairs at

  Michael’s apartment when they met

  Maureen coming down with a shopping bag

  under her arm. She seemed to be in a hurry.

  “Well,” was the first thing she said.

  “Michael’s going to be glad to see you!” She

  paused and glanced at Paul’s clothes. “You

  might as well give it up anyway. Michael’s

  not back from his trip yet. Why do you insist

  on bothering him?”

  “It’s none of your business,” said Paul

  evenly. Maureen shrugged her shoulders

  and went down the stairs; they heard the

  hall door alarm as she went out. Paul con-

  tinued on up the stairway and walked care-

  lessly into Maureen’s apartment; he went to

  the front room and flung himself on the

  couch. “Where are you, Leo?” he called.

  Leo walked into the apartment indecisively.

  “What are we going to do here?” he asked. “I

  don’t think Maureen will like it!” He stood over

  the couch and looked down at Paul.

  “You noticed the door wasn’t locked,

  didn’t you?” Paul said to him. “It’s fairly an

  invitation, my friend. But I had a purpose

  in wanting to come up here…what was it?

  Oh, yes! Poetry.”

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  “What?”

  Paul went into Michael’s bedroom and

  began going through the workdesk drawer.

  “Ah,” he said, holding up several sheets of

  paper. “At last. This has been my first oppor-

  tunity to take these.”

  Leo, with his head in the doorway—a pic-

  ture of reluctant eagerness—asked, “What

  are they?”

  “They’re Michael’s writings, some of

  them, at least.”

  Paul stuffed the papers in his pockets and

  started to walk out of the apartment. “Come

  on,” he beckoned to Leo. “Let’s go out now.”

  “What’s Michael going to say your walk-

  ing into his bedroom and stealing his writ-

  ings. He’ll be so mad all over again, only

  worse!”

  Paul was laughing.

  “Are you going to keep them?” Leo

  inquired.

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  “If I

  like them.”

  They were down on the street again.

  Paul, who had stopped, was looking up at the

  dark cloudy sky and sniffing the air. “What a

  terrible day,” he shuddered. “And yet there’s

  energy in the air. It may be a day of power.”

  They walked on up X Street. “Well,” Leo

  concluded. “That was a neat bit of lifting.

  Now what are you going to do with his poet-

  ry?”

  “Read it.” Paul was already reading a page
/>   as he walked.

  “Is that all you did,” Leo asked, smiling at

  Paul, “on your excursion, sleep on the grass

  and eat fruit for breakfast? Hey?”

  “That’s enough, isn’t it?” Paul said. “It

  was beautiful, you know. Will you look at

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  this,” he added, waving a paper at Leo.

  “Listen. I’ll read you a line or two here:

  ‘Symbols pristine and splendorous I need,

  for my journey down this corridor: here,

  now, too late to rejoin the others, and acci-

  dent need not apologize.’ Foo! As though

  accident apologized for anything! What

  utter rot he writes!”

  “What is he talking about?” Leo asked,

  leaning over to look at the paper. “Symbols,

  corridors…”

  “And here’s some more,” Paul went on,

  ignoring Leo’s question. “ ‘I am high—I

  reprise my sympathy for the masses.’ More

  nonsense—he won’t call a spade a spade,

  the masses indeed! He means his family, of

  course. That’s the rotten part about all this

  business, this poetry. Oh! And look here:

  ‘On the other side of this corridor, across

  these obstructions inviting insanity, I see

  new emotions and a new humanity: a cul-

  tural emotional, ultimacies, new man, shad-

  ows of this grotesque deformity: Beauty is

  tyrant, passion overrules; this instinct is

  mute, this vision Eternal.’ You see, don’t

  you, Leo, that when he cannot express what

  he means, he says ‘this instinct is mute’ and

  such trash. Ultimacies… Now as to that, I

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  don’t know. Cultural emotionals… Yes.

  Hmm. I only criticize what I understand, of

  course. Those points there, they may be of

  course way beyond my learning. Michael is

  a very learned fellow…”

  Leo began to laugh and had to stop short

  in the midst of their walking. “Really, Paul,

  you make me laugh. First you call Michael

  a dunce and a fool, and the next moment

  you dub him as ‘very learned.’ He’s neither,

  you know. You should learn to control your

  excesses—”

  “Yes? Well, then, if that’s so, what does

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  this mean: ‘Mind the basis of Eternity.’ Now

  what on earth is that if it isn’t profound and

  learned? Mark you, Leo, I only criticize

  those parts of the work that I understand.

  But there are places where Michael is far

  beyond me…”

  Leo was still laughing.

  “ ‘Mind the basis of Eternity,’ ” repeated

  Paul almost angrily. “Explain that if you

  will, Professor!”

  “It wouldn’t be difficult,” gasped Leo

  faintly, “if I had knowledge of his special

  vocabulary, or even if I read the whole

  poem. You can be so charmingly naive—

  really, it’s amazing to watch.”

  Paul was thumbing through some other

  pages…now, he cried out exultantly, “And

  this! This I expected to find, by all means!

  Listen:

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  ‘One October

  feeling is worth

  ten archetypal

  tragedies that

  occur beneath

  the tender blue

  char of morning

  skies: and one

  melancholy

  frowse of har-

  vest stack, now,

  beyond measure

  surpasses this

  news of human

  travail.’

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  Don’t you see, in order to speak with God—

  as he puts it—he’s trying to de-humanize

  himself. Claims here October moves him

  more than news of human tragedy.”

  “That’s interesting…”

  “And now, to cap all the nonsense, is this

  despairing cry!” Paul went on excitedly.

  “‘Quelqu’un à dérangé ma noirçeur! This I

  scream to a deaf and dumb cosmos.’ That’s

  nice, isn’t it Leo, but yet so typical of the stu-

  pid poet. ‘Someone has disturbed my dark-

  ness,’ he cries in French. Why on earth in

  French? His darkness indeed! That’s why he

  will sleep at all times of the day and night,

  and dream. What was that I heard a few

  weeks ago in class, someone was talking

  about it…the death-instinct, the death-

  instinct of Freud…”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And he adds here, rather sulkily, ‘better

  to live in hell than to die in heaven.’ Does he

  claim it was heaven before?…ha ha! Then

  he admits it…”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

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  Leo now inquired impatiently.

  “All esoteric matters,” Paul said. “And

  look at this!” — he had found more lines to

  read — “ ‘Alone with no one to love, is hell

  alive: can I not wait for bunglers and stum-

  blers that straggle out to me? Here, as at the

  end of a telescope, a crater of the moon. I

  wait for one of my kind with whom to wallow

  in my kindness.’ Now that,” Paul scoffed, “is

  sheer nonsense. He’s trying to work up the

  reader’s pity, or God’s. And he adds:

  ‘Aesthetic hell, I’m home.’ Ho ho! That’s

  good…he knows more about himself than he

  cares to admit. Calls it a ‘sordid denoue-

  ment.’ But here, his hope is regained; he

  says, ‘Tell me—for my emotions have always

  been, since then, but shifting sand—tell me

  that this is Eternity, the Sphinx and not the

  sand.’ What does he think he’s found? Is he

  panting after the new vision too, like all the

  others? Ha ha ha.”

  “I swear,” Leo said, “I’ve never heard

  anything like your criticism. Why don’t you

  do it objectively? It’s terrible to walk with

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  you and hear you defame the work of a man

  which you’ve just stolen.”

  “I’ll go one better,” Paul laughed, leering

  at Leo. “I’ll burn the whole works—what

  would you think of that?”

  “What? You mean, what would he think of

  that! You’re being very stupid, by the way; I

  don’t think you understand what he’s saying…”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Paul. “I understand bet-

  ter than he does. Look! He bases the whole

  long poem on a line from one of his dreams.

  Here, on the first page, it says ‘from a

  dream—’ and the quotation, taken, you see,

  from a dream he had, reads like this: ‘Is this

  the way I’m supposed to feel?’ Don’t you see,

  Leo, he’s searching for a new emotion, since

  he has rejected the one he had before. So

  first he disclaims the old emotion
by saying,

  am I supposed to feel it anyway? Then…at

  the end of the poem, after a thorough explo-

  ration of his so-called new emotion and new

  vision, which is some sort of mystical solip-

  sism undergone in a ‘dark corridor’—per-

  haps a symbolism from a dream—he finds

  that his journey into these regions, across

  this corridor, has been a failure. It reads:

  ‘This corridor alone remains—this corridor-

  ial loneliness.’ Now, I admit that all this is

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  lovely and appealing to the eye, to some

  extent, but it’s failure altogether.”

  “You may be right,” Leo put in, “but still

  it’s no reason for you to burn it. And I want

  to read these some time.”

  “Failure altogether,” Paul continued,

  ignoring Leo’s remarks. “He finds that

  there is no new emotion, or if there is, that

  it’s denied to him at least. Like that fellow

  Rimbaud that Arthur is always talking

  about. I was thinking about this Rimbaud

  all the past week.”

  “Paul,” said Leo warmly, “you’re the most

  unusual fellow! Is that what you were think-

  ing about on your bed of grass as you

  munched your fruit?”

  “Perhaps,” Paul laughed. “That and many

  other things, I admit. Now, let’s look at a few

  more of these things. This one is called ‘Song

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  of My Modern Sorrow.’ A likely title! He has a

  flair for attracting the eye! Look, that first line

  explains his whole failure—let’s sit down

  here and I’ll read you this…”

  They were now in the middle of the cam-

  pus green, and sat on a bench.

  Immediately, a flurry of pigeons swarmed

  around them.

  “ ‘Happiness is dead!’ he cries straight off.

  There is the root of his failure—I’ll explain.

  He goes on—‘Imponderable sorrow now

  rules, now stretches its moody nether-glow

  across my life, my city, and my soul. In the

  cities, silence mutters smokily. This is the

  Black Age.’ Ho ho! Now he really is down in

  the dumps, the Black Age he calls it. First

  having failed to find a new emotion, the

 

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