time suspended for an eternity until the hands of the clock released him and his heart started beating and air fought its way through the fear clogging hi? throat….
then he was standing in the doorway staring at Bobby sitting on the floor trembling, staring at nothing, Moishes mouth open but no words coming out though he could feel them struggling to be formed and released, Moishe leaning heavily against the doorjamb, unable to keep himself erect, feeling his strength slowly ebbing once again, feeling the tears still flowing down his cheeks, waiting, wondering, trembling….
then Bobby
slowly turned his head….
looked at Moishe and a great sense of relief started strengthening Moishe as he looked into Bobbys face…yes, it was Bobby, he was once again Bobby and even though Moishe could see the profound pain and despair in Bobbys eyes he still felt a slight surge of relief, it was Bobbys face, Bobby was back, back from wherever he had been, but the joy quickly disappeared as he was caught in Bobbys pain as he watched the tears trickling down his dark cheeks, seeming to glisten and shimmer in the light….
They continued looking into each others eyes, Moishe more and more feeling the pain behind Bobbys eyes looking at him with despair and pleading, looking to him for something…anything to ease his torment….
Moishe moved.
His legs, somehow, moved him to Bobby.
He sat beside him.
They continued looking at each other.
The pleading in Bobbys eyes tore at Moishes heart, yet the hands of the clock were moving in their own natural way, unnoticed. Moishe could feel the blood flowing through his body, his face relaxing, his expression softening, his heart murmuring simply, I love you Bobby.
Time passed. Yes, yes it moved. The pain still tore at Moishes heart, but time was passing, O dear, sweet god, time was passing.
Moishe remained as silent as the clock as he watched Bobby struggling with something unknown to both of them. Moishe could see the tremors in Bobbys cheeks and chin as he searched for words and the ability to speak them. Moishe could feel Bobbys struggle, his desperation, his sense of overwhelming hopelessness and it continued to bring tears to both their eyes, but thank god time was passing….
Bobbys mouth opened and Moishe rejoiced in this small yet monumental victory, and then his words cut through Moishe tearing whatever was left within him to agonizing shreds and he folded to the floor—I fucked up Mush….I fucked up bad…they stared at each other through their tears, Bobbys voice filled with anguish—I couldnt do it Mush….I couldnt do it—still looking at Moishe pleadingly, tears flowing down his cheeks, sparkling in the light as they fell like little crystals onto his shirt and pants—I couldnt killim—his voice was soft, lyrical, his words sweet and soothing to Moishes ears—I hadim….I hadim, jus like I plan…hadim hangin over the edge of that roof an he be so scart he look like hebedyin…but I couldnt doit. O Mush, I couldnt do it, now Maria dont never get to jus the but gotta be fallin over an over O Mush, what Im gonna do—even in his rejoicing Moishe knew how Bobby felt, how weakening it is to have the hate that was the foundation of your life be gone, to be without the violent fantasies that kept you alive when there was no reason to live, nothing to hope for other than to satisfy that hate, the hate that was the structure and reason for your existence and when it was gone you seemed to crumble into a bottomless pit—An I be losin the scarf Mush, the muthafucka be gone O shit, what the fuck Im gonna do Mush…what the fuck Im gonna do???? and his body slowly slid along the edge of the bed until he was leaning against Moishe and Moishe held him and rocked him, silently, as Bobby sobbed, Moishes tears falling on the top of Bobbys head, Moishe bathed in a blessed relief and sense of such overwhelming gratitude he was partially blinded by his tears, all of his being rejoicing yet still aware of Bobbys unrelenting fear and agony, cradling Bobby in his arms, the image of Sols face so clear in his mind, a face smiling in a way he had never seen before…or since, and a quick prayer spontaneously filled his heart and he hoped that that smile was now on his face, hoping that his arms felt to Bobby as Sols had to him, bringing a sense of acceptance, understanding and comfort that could never be defined as it flowed not only through his heart, but his mind….Yes, his mind as if the tangible love that flowed from Sol into his heart not only lightened his body almost to a point of weightlessness, but brought a light that cleansed the darkness from the furthest and deepest parts of his mind, to the parts Moishe was unaware of, the parts so long forgotten, those tiny corners and recesses not only beyond memory, but were thousands, millions of years old….Yes, those tortured parts that were born at the beginning of time….
So they sat on the floor, time now meaningless…non-existent, the hands of the singing clock soothing them….
In time they stirred …moved….
each wet with their own and each others tears….
then sat up and leaned against the bed and looked at each other, Moishe still seeing dancing angels in Bobbys tears, yet aware of the pain as Bobby tried to grin, looking like a child suffering with a toothache but not wanting to cry, Moishe suddenly filled, yet again, with memories of Karl-Heinz, Sol, Gertrude, the camps, yet all viewed through the joy of the moment, the glorious song of Bobbys words, I couldnt do it Mush….I couldnt killim….
Bobby looked at Moishe with so much torment and pleading in his eyes Moishe almost crumbled, I dont know what be happenin Mush—shaking his head in bewilderment—I jus dont know.
Moishe reached out and put his arms around Bobby and gently pulled him close, Is alright Bobby, is—
I hadim Mush. I had the muthafucka—Bobby extending his fists as if he had Raul by the throat—But I—he suddenly opened his hands and dropped them to his lap and shook his head, bewildered….
Moishe remained silent, love, compassion and empathy flowing from him in almost tangible waves….
Tears flowed from Bobbys eyes, looking like stars to Moishe, as he looked at Moishe, then told him what happened….I be havin no idea I be sayin that. It jus be comin out my mouth. I never even be thinkin that—shaking his head, swallowed sobs trembling his voice—It jus come out my mouth but I didnt say it Mush—leaning more heavily against Moishe whose shirt was soaked with Bobbys tears—I dont really be sayin that but it come out my mouth, how can that be Mush—clinging desperately to Moishe—an I dont be wishin forim, not really wishin O Mush, what Im gonna do????
Moishe continued to hug Bobby, all of his being singing, Thank You….Bobby, is beautiful what is happening. Ya, beautiful…no words to say how beautiful—Bobby still clinging to Moishe like a drowning man his rescuer—But so scary. Is an unknown feeling, ya? Is so new its like the world is falling apart…like…ya, like theres no place to stand, like nothing to lean against, no walls…like so sudden the ground is all soft an youre thinking, Im going to sink, it will swallow me up.
Bobby trembled for a moment, I dont be knowin whats happenin bro…but thats how I be feelin…but how can it be good Mush, I never feel so bad in my life…I hadim—
Moishes expression was as gentle and loving as his voice, Is simple Bobby…you didnt want to kill him.
Bobbys head jerked back, his eyes wide, bugged, What the fuck you mean? I be wantin to kill that muthafucka so bad it be chewin me up…for how long? It be a long ass time I be afta that muthafucka, a long time Mush.
Moishe continued smiling and holding Bobby in his arms, No Bobby, in your heart youre not wanting to kill him. Youre thinking youre supposed to, but youre not really wanting to.
O Mush—shaking his head in disbelief—that be bull—
Bobby, youre not having to believe me…look what happened.
Bobby blinked at Moishe….
Youre having him over the edge of the roof…hes able to do nothing…nothing and—
Thats just it Mush, I gotim just like I planned, I had him—
So…if youre really wanting to kill him hes already dead. Ya—Bobby looked at him wide-eyed—He cant stop you. Bobby—Moishe spoke slowly, gently, lo
vingly—if you truly wanted to kill him you would have. No one could stop you. Is obvious, ya? you did not want to kill him—Moishe could feel the softness of the smile on his face, the singing in his heart, Is alright Bobby. Is fine. What is happening is good. Ya, is very good.
Bobby stared at Moishe for a moment, then shrugged and shook his head. Moishe could see the heaviness in Bobbys eyes, could feel the tension and energy draining from him, So, maybe now you sleep and we talk more later, ya?
Yeah. Guess maybe you be right. I be feelin like I cant move this black ass nowheres right now.
So, is best you put it to bed, ya?—grinning at Bobby, Moishe leaning on the bed as he got to his feet.
Bobby looked dazed, weak, as he stood, wobbling slightly, blinked his eyes a few times and shook his head, Damn.
Moishe smiled, So, tomorrow we talk. Sleep Bobby, sleep good, ya?
Yeah—nodding his head—I be feelin like I never be wakin up.
Ya, you sleep good.
Moishe wobbled slightly as he went to the kitchen, filled a bowl with ice cream and sat at the table. He watched a tear fall onto his ice cream, sparkle like a jewel, then disappear. A second one fell and he smiled, then chuckled at the idea of eating his own tears, O, how often have I done that, but there was no smiling then, no joy as now. How strange to feel so happy yet to have so many tears. With good news, a happy time, you laugh and cry, but when death is turned into life…there are no words, only tears…sweet water tears flowing like an offering quenching the thirsty hunger of the heart….No…no, there are words…thank you. Yes, yes, thank You, thank You, thank You. O, so many more words struggle to come…they fill my heart, yet all I can say is, thank You…and…I love You, yet of what use are words to express whats in my heart? All my words are so feeble…so limited…so…so human yet they are all I have to try and tell You whats in my heart…my heart of hearts, and, perhaps, they are as sweet to Your ears as they are to mine. I am only me, one little, inconspicuous and powerless me, yet I am so much more with You so much more….It is always You that lifts me from the darkness and anguish of my despair, that makes it possible for me to go so far beyond my human agony and limitations and put the shattered, painful pieces of me back together, and I am always so much more than I was before the darkness devoured me…yes, that too is true, I must do what is needed or nothing is done, but it is You that provides the power for me to reach beyond my ability and discover I can do what I believe I can not. O my Beloved, so often it seems I have doubted, cursed, and screamed at the darkness only to be transformed and I am so much more than me…like life, so fragile yet so strong! Yet I know all birth comes after a death and You are more powerless here than I am so I keep dying to give birth to You…and how wondrous to give birth to You…to You! Not hatred, not vengeance, not fear…not even love, but You….True, it is my willingness to forgive, to love, but You are so beyond that, so much beyond my understanding, so much beyond what I call love. Just a word…a word…a feeble attempt to explain the unexplainable, but You take me to where there are no words, no limitations, only the exquisite awareness of Your Presence and the infinite possibilities of life, and I feel, all through me, our hearts sing…sing as one heart, one song…and yes, we are all Your song…every one, all needed to make the song complete…me, Bobby, Klaus, all…all Your song, and how incredible to hear that song, to hear it sing through me and around me, in me…to just be the song O dear, dear, sweet Love I know someday I will never hear the song again…will only BE the song. But for now I just keep singing, waiting for that day…yes, the infinite possibilities that brought Bobby into my life, O Bobby, you have given me so much…so very, very much…the son I pined for all these years, a reason to live when I thought all purpose was gone and then you bring me your love O Bobby, someday you will see…yes, dear, sweet Bobby you will see that you see…you will see how well you love…you will see what you have done for this tired old man…Moishe still without any sense of time, or space, free of the weight of his body, his closed eyes seeing a light more brilliant yet soothing than open eyes have ever seen, aware of the exquisite essence of his being…filled with the bliss of the infinite oneness of this eternal moment…but gradually…gently…time and space began to intrude themselves and he started becoming aware of his body, Moishe resisting, his mind still with the experience as he became increasingly aware of his body, of Werner…of Moishe…of the physical world….Yes, always I come back to the body no matter how much I want to leave it behind, to simply be the Light and the Song. Someday I will not return, but there is more work to be done….Yes, there is yet more that needs doing….
O, the body is so heavy…how do we move it….
how do we survive it
A Biography of Hubert Selby, Jr.
Hubert Selby Jr. (1928–2004) was the celebrated author of seven novels, including Requiem for a Dream and the classic bestseller Last Exit to Brooklyn, both of which were made into successful motion pictures. His singular portrayals of addiction and urban despair have influenced generations of authors, artists, and musicians.
As a child, Selby’s father, Hubert Selby Sr., worked as a coal miner in Kentucky, but he left the mines at twelve years of age when his father died and his stepmother kicked him out of their home. Eventually he became an engineer, working for the Merchant Marine. In 1925, Selby Sr. met and courted Selby’s mother, Adalin, in Brooklyn, where she had been born and raised.
Selby Jr. grew up in hardscrabble south Brooklyn and dropped out of school at age fourteen. At age fifteen, he changed his birth certificate in order to join the Merchant Marine himself. He served through World War II, but in 1945, when he was seventeen, a shipboard doctor diagnosed Selby with tuberculosis, and he was sent home to Brooklyn.
During a three-year period of frequent hospitalization, Selby underwent four surgeries and became addicted to morphine, but an experimental drug saved his life. While in the TB ward, however, Selby often contemplated his mortality. He knew that when he died he didn’t want to regret what he had done with his life. He also wrote a letter to the family of a victim of the disease. Later, he would say that these two things had led directly to his becoming a writer.
Selby married his first wife, Inez, when he was twenty-five, and they had two children. While working as a typist at an insurance agency, he met someone who told him heroin was in the same family as morphine, and he began to use the drug. During this time, he also began to write and was encouraged by his friends, including the author Gil Sorrentino. Selby claimed that it was Sorrentino who taught him to write, but Sorrentino denied this.
In his writing, Selby experimented with grammar, punctuation, spelling, language, and spacing so that his readers would “experience” the story. The brutal urban landscapes he portrayed, combined with the potent immediacy of his prose, captivated early readers. His frank descriptions of drugs, prostitution, and the rough Brooklyn streets he’d known since childhood also attracted the attention of censors, and his stories were submitted as evidence in obscenity trials focused on publishers and editors.
Through the support of writers such as Allen Ginsberg and LeRoi Jones, known now as Amiri Baraka, Selby found a publisher for his first novel, Last Exit to Brooklyn (1964), a series of stories fused into a single narrative. It was published to rave reviews, and Ginsberg said he hoped the book would “explode like a rusty, hellish bombshell over America, and still be eagerly read in a hundred years.” Indeed, it seemed he had changed the face of modern literature.
After the success of his first novel, Selby moved to Los Angeles in an attempt to beat his addictions and start over. He kicked his heroin addiction while in jail on a possession charge, and when he was released he went directly to a bar in West Hollywood. There he met his third wife, Suzanne Schwartzman, with whom he would have two children. The couple joined Alcoholics Anonymous in 1969, and Selby began to write again, this time clean and sober. In the seventies, his reputation expanded with the release of his second and third novels, The Room (1971) and
The Demon (1976). Requiem for a Dream (1978) established Selby as a poet laureate of the dark side of the American Dream.
An established writer by the eighties, Selby began teaching younger writers at the University of Southern California. He saw Last Exit to Brooklyn made into a film in 1989, followed by Requiem for a Dream in 2000. He succumbed to lung disease in 2004, a consequence of his battle with tuberculosis in the 1940s. Selby is survived by his wife, four children, and twelve grandchildren.
Selby as a newborn in 1928. When asked to recount a defining moment in his life he mentioned the circumstances surrounding his birth: “I was in deep serious trouble. I was blue from cyanosis, my head was all twisted and out of shape, and a few kinds of brain damage. My mother, she almost died too, she had severe toxemia, and when she asked the doctor what she should do about feeding me, he said, ‘Well, just keep breastfeeding him and eventually he’ll suck out all the poison.’ They had to drag me screaming into the twentieth century . . . I have been defiant ever since.”
Selby as a toddler in the early 1930s. During this time the family lived across the street from what is now the New School for Liberal Arts, in a luxury apartment building where Selby’s father worked as a superintendent. They later settled in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. While growing up in Bay Ridge, Selby acquired the nickname ‘Cubby,’ which stuck with him for the rest of his life. “Anyone who knew Cubby, only called him Cubby,” said Selby’s friend and fellow novelist Gilbert Sorrentino.
A postwar portrait of Selby’s parents, Adalin and Hubert Sr. As multigenerational Americans of Anglo-Saxon Methodist heritage, the Selbys were an anomaly in Bay Ridge, where many Irish, Italian, and Norwegian families settled in the early twentieth century. “I was a member of the smallest minority in the country, for God’s sake!” Selby joked in an interview with Rain Taxi quarterly. Hubert Sr., a native of Island, Kentucky, lost both of his parents before he was thirteen. He spent much of his youth working as a coal miner and later served in the Merchant Marine. According to Selby, his parents were ill-matched. “My mother’s a very strong, powerful woman,” he explained. “And my father was a drunk.” He often felt torn between the two of them. “There was a lot of conflict. I wanted to please my mother, and I wanted to please my father. And so, it’s pretty hard to please them both when they were so opposite in personality.”
The Willow Tree: A Novel Page 30