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[...] I met dealers who were interested in my work. But I wasn’t very interested in my work. Around that time I painted three fake Picabias. They were perfect. I sold two and kept one. Painting the fakes, I saw a faint light, but it was a light, which is the important thing. With the money I made I bought a Kandinsky print and a batch of arte povera, possibly also forgeries. [...]
lol
When I went back to Paris, he stayed in Luanda and was planning to head for the interior, which still seethed with armed, lawless gangs. We had one final conversation before I left. His story didn’t really hang together. On the one hand, I got the sense that life meant nothing to him, that he’d taken the job so he could die a picturesque death, a death that was out of the ordinary, the usual bullshit. My generation all overdosed on Marx and Rimbaud. (I don’t mean this as an excuse, at least not the way you think, and I’m not here to judge anyone’s reading habits.) On the other hand, and this is what puzzled me, he took good care of himself. He took his little pills religiously each day. Once I went with him to a drugstore in Luanda in search of something resembling Ursochol, which is ursodeoxycholic acid, and which was more or less what kept his sclerotic bile duct functioning, as I understood it. When it came to these things, Belano behaved as if his health were extremely important to him. I watched him go into that drugstore speaking his abysmal Portuguese and scan the shelves, first in alphabetical order and then at random, and when we left, without the lousy ursodeoxycholic acid, I said to him che Belano, don’t worry (because he had such a dire look on his face), I’ll send you some as soon as I get to Paris, and then he said: you can’t without a prescription, and I started to laugh, and I thought this man wants to live, there’s no way he’s planning to die.
Sixteen years like living with a God damned invalid sixteen years every time you come in sitting there waiting just like you left him wave his stick at you, plump up his pillow cut a paragraph add a sentence hold his God damned hand [...] walk down the street God damned sunshine begin to think maybe you'll meet him maybe cleared things up got out by himself come back open the God damned door right there where you left him ...
epigraph, on writing a novel
[...] It employs none of the fictive habits, the prompts and crutches and connective tissue of narrative. Time slips around like an eel. Place is bulldozed. Characters have no identity save for the words they speak and they speak the speakable with tireless abandon. There is no communion, no closure. There are rants. Mad soliloquies. Offended ripostes, offensive parries. Almost everyone accounted for is indignant, baffled, enraged, duplicitous, misunderstood, or misunderstanding. [...]
[...] They are both so miserable and distracted in their marriage that they harbor a flatulent drifter in their home, both thinking he is the other's father. [...]
i didnt even notice this lmao but it's so funny (dicephalis couple)
We are ... swept along. Mr. Gaddis confessed that he wanted us to be, in this flow of unremitting talk -- "might miss a lot but that's what life is, after all? Missing something that's right before you?" His characters can't or won't communicate in any meaningful way. [...]
During all the years he worked on J R, he was dutifully laboring for a paycheck from the corporate machine -- Kodak, Ford, IBM, Pfizer ("an operation of international piracy") -- writing ad copy and position papers [...] He knew the cant of marketing well and was ever alert to systems of speech, of persuasion, of obfuscation, seeing and portraying the American way of waste -- the waste of nature, talent, energy, the waste that markets, systems, management demand for gtowth.
—My book! My book! That’s all we ever hear from you my book, well let me just tell you something that’s to don’t be surprised if somebody else has a book, that’s all. Just don’t be surprised! And she fixed unflinching on the passing gantlet of apartment house existences dismantled and laid out side by side on aprons of grass affording the embattled privacy of city stoops, sheltered by awnings of rippling yellow plastic blazoning heraldic initials in old world black letter, mounting names discreetly hidden a bare year since in the Brooklyn telephone directory on sentry carriage lamps, ships’ lanterns in authentic replica, a livid pastel wagon wheel swooning at a rustic angle, a demented wheelbarrow choked with stalked memories of flowers, a family of metal flamingoes, of ducks, of playful elves, till with a narrow miss for the cast iron potbellied stove painted pink and sporting a naked geranium stem from its lid the car left the pavement.—Just don’t act too surprised.
—Crawley here. What? No, I don’t know what the hell’s going on there nobody does . . . What? no, it’s not just two or three stocks, it’s the whole market . . . do what? Certainly not. If you want to quote me you can say the long overdue technical readjustments taking place in our present dynamic market situation offer no convincing evidence of the sort that has characterized long-term deterioration in past major business downturns. What might appear at this ah, this juncture as conflicting behavior, the conflicting behavior of prevailing economic forces . . . right. Expect a certain leveling off period when . . . right. Right. Any time . . . Shirley? any more papers call tell them I’m out, he finished handing back the phone, turning, —now. These young ladies and gentlemen are here to buy some stock are they?
—Governor Cates is one of the men who opened the frontiers of America as we know it today, Davidoff leaned knuckled under on the expanse of walnut stretched before him, pad, pencils, ashtray, pad, pencils, ashtray,—he . . .
—Him? He was this frontiersman?
—Not like Daniel Boone if that’s what you’re thinking of, no. He opened America’s industrial frontiers, her natural resources that make us the wealthiest country in the world. He’s a man presidents come to for advice, and you can be proud . . .
—Is he rich?
—Well after all, a man who has contributed so greatly to his country’s wealth and power would deserve . . .