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Orpheus Emerged

Page 8

by Jack Kerouac


  foolish artist turns on his age and attacks it

  indiscriminately. And listen to this:

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  ORPHEUS EMERGED 139

  ‘Beauty, now

  dead, we have

  enshrined on

  public squares;

  and twice

  daily, queues

  of dark-shawled

  women come to

  weep at the

  tombstone of

  joy.’

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  My, my, such sadness! ‘There is a child I

  hear weeping in the steel tunnel beneath

  the street; and on the street above, a crowd

  is congregated beholding mutilation, as it

  rains.’ That is rather strange, isn’t it, Leo? —

  I like it, but as they say, I can see all this a lit-

  tle too crystal-clear. For instance, this: ‘Life

  is an unpleasant sensation—’ like a

  toothache, ha ha!” Paul inserted wildly.

  “And then it says, ‘knowledge is the

  enchantress of sorrow, and the mood of

  death.’ That’s rather nice. ‘For the sun has

  gone out,’ he goes on to say, ‘and small fires

  rage on rooftops: and in the north, sieged

  cities leave their dead on the frozen boule-

  vards. Gardens are brown and bare, and

  birds are gone forever south: the wounded

  sparrow peers out of ferret eyes from his

  nest of corpse hairs in the eave of the Public

  Library..’ ”

  Paul lowered the sheets. “Oh, what terri-

  ble stuff!” he cried. “But as I say, I under-

  stand it all too well. And maybe, maybe it

  moves me.”

  “I’ve seen other things that Michael has

  written,” Leo put in at this point, “which are

  perhaps better than this. Didn’t you read his

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  poem on the impulse of God?”

  “I may have it here, but I’ll have to read it

  before I listen to anyone praise it. Michael is

  a failure, I tell you!”

  “Why do you keep insisting that?” Leo

  demanded.

  Paul didn’t answer. Now he was holding

  up another sheet and reading it. “Here it is,”

  he said, “I think this one here is the poem

  that you were just talking about. Hmm, let’s

  see…he entitles it ‘Notes Gleaned From a

  Voyage to Morphina’… Morphina,

  Morphina? Where’s that?”

  “Well,” Leo said, “it should be clear to

  you. It’s a mythical land, the land you go to

  when you take morphine. De Quincey and

  his opium, he went there, and all the others

  like him. It’s the paradis artificiel of

  Baudelaire…”

  “And so Michael has been taking to

  drugs?” Paul asked innocently.

  “He’s not an addict,” Leo assured him.

  “Under the influence, you see, of drugs, he’s

  managed to discover a new poetic idea—if

  such one can call it. Here, let me have that

  paper…I’ll read you the poem. I’ve read it

  before.”

  Leo took the paper from Paul’s hand.

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  Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out

  a handful of peanuts, which he threw at the

  pigeons surrounding their bench.

  “Here’s the way it goes,” Leo said, begin-

  ning to read. “ ‘Contemplate the universe—

  close your eyes—and, like God, begin to

  sense, without words or image, sound or

  shape, the impulse of all creation. This is the

  pure moment of God’s imagination before

  the epileptic fit of fault and history begins..’ ”

  “That,” interrupted Paul, “that is rather

  strange, and I don’t understand it.”

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  “Wait. Now… ‘A white rhythm under-

  lines the impulse that is soon to issue

  Logos— The impulse of creation is the key

  to the sign of the Macrocosm: it is the

  silence of the Golden Age, the stasis of the

  soul in repose. I am about to go up in a con-

  suming flame—I am an old saint—and soon

  I will disappear!’ ”

  “What?” cried Paul incredulously. “Does

  he say that in all seriousness? Oh, the folly of

  all this…”

  “Never mind,” Leo warned him, and con-

  tinued to read. “ ‘I feel everything, I sense

  God, and I exist with Eternity. I have lost my

  human self: I am one with Paramatma!

  Listen!—silence rings its immortal chord…’ ”

  But Paul had jumped up on his feet and

  was pacing nervously back and forth in

  front of the bench.

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  “ ‘In the middle

  of creation, in

  an attitude of

  silence and cun-

  ning, with my

  hands over my

  eyes and ears, I

  think, I feel, I

  pray to the mute

  darkness of my

  soul, I wait, I

  hold my breath,

  and now, slowly,

  softly, all

  meaning marches

  to me, and God

  is on the

  threshold of my

  being, and is

  soon to enter

  me, and become

  One with me!

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  Then!…I open my eyes, uncover my ears,

  and breathe, and there is the sky on the pool

  atremble, here is the birdsong and the mur-

  mur, the morning-moist grass—clean as the

  rain on dark tree-trunks—and an odor from

  the meadow beyond where the cows stand

  mute, and a crow caws and the forest roof

  reverberates. I know what the flower is, just

  after the break of sun! I know with God!…’ ”

  Paul came back and sat down on the

  bench beside Leo.

  “He can’t!” he was mumbling. “He

  should realize that—”

  “Look!” cried Leo, who had been reading

  another part of the sheet. “This is strange!

  Can it be?… look what he wrote here. ‘This

  is an age that has created sick men like

  me—’ ”

  “The age again!” Paul scoffed impatient-

  ly. “Age! Age! Completely absolved of all

  responsibility to himself, isn’t he!…”

  “ ‘What we need is a journey to new

  lands. I shall embark soon on one of these.

  I shall sleep on the grass and eat fruit for

  breakfast.’ Now, isn’t that what you just told

  me a while ago, isn’t that what you did? How

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  can he have— But I know, when you knew

  each other in the past, it was a stock phrase

  between the two of you, isn’t that it?”

  “Nothing of the sort!” cried Paul, almost

  angrily.

  “But of course! Unless it’s a famous line

  from some other poet. No? How can it be?

  You said that very same thing just a few />
  minutes ago, you told me you had slept on

  the grass and eaten fruit for breakfast, don’t

  you remember? Maybe it’s that…yes, you’ve

  obviously read this poem before, and you

  were quoting his lines…”

  “No,” said Paul gravely, “no, not at all.”

  “But that’s impossible!” Leo cried.

  “Oh, is it?” Paul replied, again getting up

  nervously from the bench. “No, Leo, I

  assure you: the same phrase happened to

  enter his mind.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “And why shouldn’t it be possible? Who

  are you to deny it! It’s very simple…”

  “It’s not so simple,” Leo answered firmly.

  “It is!” Paul fairly screamed. “You don’t know

  the facts… Oh shut up!” And with this, Paul had

  started to walk away; then he came back and

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  wrenched the papers from Leo, who was grin-

  ning at the angry Paul. At this point Arthur hove

  into sight around the walk.

  “Well, Paul,” he greeted. “You’re back…”

  “Where are you going?” Leo inquired of

  Arthur.

  “I’m on my way to Michael’s. I just saw

  Julius, and he told me that Michael was

  back from his trip.”

  “He’s not home. We just went there.”

  “He’s home now. Here comes Julius

  now, he’ll tell you.” And with this, Arthur

  hurried on to Michael’s house. Julius was

  coming up the walk in his slow leisurely

  gait.

  “Hello Paul!” he called. Paul, with the

  papers in his pockets, was walking away

  from Leo. “Wait a minute!” called Julius,

  hurrying his pace.

  “Well?” said Paul defiantly. “What do you

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  want, Julius?”

  Julius stopped and began smiling at Paul.

  “I have a little news for you,” he said.

  “About Michael’s so-called trip…”

  “What of it?”

  “Yes,” pressed Leo, “tell us.”

  “You might as well know,” Julius began,

  “since it’s all beginning to come out. This

  past week, Michael, on his so-called trip,

  has really been living in the Bohemian

  Quarter with Anthony’s wife, Marie…”

  “What?” Paul gasped.

  “Yes. And they say that Anthony is all out

  of sorts, because Marie had just left him a

  note, and didn’t explain where she was

  going or why. The truth was, she went on a

  little holiday with our Michael, they’ve been

  having an affair down in the Quarter…”

  “And you say that Anthony is…?” Paul

  stammered.

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  “He’s ill, I heard. From the shock, they

  say; but I happen to know that it’s mostly

  from drink. With Marie gone, he just let

  himself go and drank and drank, and the

  reason why no one’s seen him all this past

  week is because he’s been staying in his

  room drinking and starving himself. Both

  Michael and Marie just came back a half an

  hour ago. I just saw Michael on X Street,

  and he told me that Marie had gone to her

  place to tend to the derelict husband…”

  “You seem to be happy about it all!” Paul

  accused, for Julius was saying all this in a

  tone of great relish.

  Julius held up his hands, as though to say,

  ‘What do I care? These are the tribulations

  of others—and they amuse me.’

  “Well!” Leo said at length, and fell into a

  daze of reflection.

  “I was the first to know all about this

  affair,” Julius went on, with a faint smile on

  his face. “You see, I was down in the

  Quarter about five days ago, and I saw

  Michael and Marie walking across the

  Quarter Park. I kept everything to myself, of

  course, but I knew, after I’d seen them down

  there, what was going on. Michael had

  stopped to talk to some little children who

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  were playing in the park, and I managed to

  duck into a doorway and watch to see

  where they were going. They went into a

  small apartment house.”

  “All right, all right!” cried Paul impatiently.

  “You seem to resent this news!” Julius

  said, surprised.

  “It’s only your attitude,” Paul muttered,

  “although I can understand that, too.” And

  with this, Paul walked away without any

  further say.

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  “Where are you going?” Leo called.

  “To Anthony’s,” Paul flung back, and he

  hurried on. Leo nodded briefly to Julius

  and started out after Paul.

  “Paul,” he cried, “I have to go to my class

  this afternoon. I wish I could go with you!”

  Paul was in too much of a hurry to answer,

  so that Leo stopped, gazed rather ruefully

  after the other, and then turned dutifully

  around and went to his class.

  Paul had reached Marie’s apartment

  house and was climbing the steps when he

  met her coming down. “Marie!” he said.

  “I’ve just heard…”

  “Yes, yes,” she muttered impatiently, push-

  ing him out of the way to pass. Paul persist-

  ed and followed her down to the landing.

  “But Marie, what’s it all about? How’s

  Anthony?”

  Marie stopped and glared at Paul. “Will

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  you shut up? It’s none of your business. If

  you insist on being little Jesus Christ, go on

  up and watch Anthony while I’m out.”

  “Well, where are you going now?”

  “I’m going to see Maureen and I’m going

  to get some medicine. Is that all you want to

  know?”

  “But this is all so crazy!” Paul cried, hold-

  ing out his hands. “I don’t understand what

  you’ve done…and Michael: I mean, why?”

  “And you’re the craziest of the lot,” Marie

  told him. “Shut up and play your part.” And

  with this, Marie walked out on the street.

  Paul stood for at least a whole minute,

  after that, and staring after the vanished

  Marie. Then he shrugged his shoulders and

  went upstairs to Marie’s apartment.

  There, in the bedroom, he found poor Anthony

  asleep; Marie had obviously put him to bed.

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  The room

  smelled terri-

  bly of liquor

  and of fever.

  There were at

  least five

  quart bottles

  of whiskey,

  all of them

  empty, strewn

  around the

  floor;

  and dirty clothes abounded on all the

  chairs. Anthony had obviously been living

 
; in this room ever since Marie’s departure—

  in the room, significantly enough, where

  they slept together as man and wife—and it

  was evident from the general wreckage

  around that at first he had flown into a

  destructive rages and broken furniture and

  flower pots; and later, when that had died

  down, he had bought a week’s store of

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  liquor and proceeded to annihilate his mis-

  ery. Paul knew, as he stood there looking

  down at Anthony, that the wretch had

  planned his game well; that he knew, when

  Marie returned, that she would find him

  there in their marital chamber, a complete

  wreck. And this, it must be remarked, was

  Anthony’s revenge on Marie: she would find

  him in this state, and thus feel guilty about

  her escapade. It was a perfect martyr-

  technique.

  Paul went back into the front room and

  sat down by the window. It was growing

  darker outside with the thickening clouds,

  and there was the smell of rain in the air.

  Marie finally came back, with packages

  under her arm. Without saying a word to

  Paul, who, for his part, was also silent, she

  went to work on her husband. Ice bags, pills,

  hot soup—everything was marshaled into

  the devotional labor, and Paul could hear,

  from his seat in the other room, the cooing

  sounds of Anthony’s revival. “Marie, Marie,”

  he was mumbling. “Why did you do it?”

  And Marie only answered, “Shut up!” and

  marched out of the bedroom with the empty

  whiskey bottles and threw them in the

  dumb-waiter.

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  V

  ARTHUR PUSHED

  OPEN

  the door of Michael’s bedroom and

  looked in. Michael was sitting in the

  easy chair by the window, smoking a

  cigarette and staring gloomily outside

  at the gray rooftops.

  “Michael!” greeted Arthur. “Just got

  back?”

  Michael looked up. “Yes,” he said.

  “How are you, Arthur? Have you seen

  Maureen?”

  Arthur smiled. “Yes, I just saw her

  down by the markets. She’s out shopping,

  I guess. I don’t suppose she knows—”

  “Knows what?”

  “Well,” Arthur began with a half-

  mocking, half-bashful smile. “I know all

 

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