I am infinitely grateful to my Wise Children
Am I a ruthless mother? Can I claim to be one, as I look over books that I have loved and cared for and tended tenderly buttons.
I look at all the books I am selling and feel sadness but great joy, for each one has been regarded with some form of passion of new eve. I am a personality of literary references, I am more than a tale of two titties, and I feel as if Burning my Boats was a Parable of the Sower. Perhaps it is a Moral Disorder? Or maybe it is merely The Crystal World shattering on the ground and I am left in Possession of Mythologies, maybe this Brave new World is not a world where I am brave but as is The Nature of Monsters I must look into The Tiger’s eye and build a new Babel Tower of Books. Maybe a Room of One’s own isn’t enough, maybe I should travel to The Island of The Colour Blind and from The Holy Mountain see The Anatomy of the Artist.
But it is The Curious Room, where I can find Portable Kristevas and Portraits of the Artist as a Young man, there I might find solace in the Nightingale and the Rose and cry loudly and wish I could write to make you cry. I will take Chekhov for a walk to get him away from his family enough to buy him a drink and a good meal, I will convince Angela Carter to come to Nights at the Circus with me and hopefully there we will listen to the Bell Jar whilst we drink in the Gospels of Mary. My wise children you make me wiser and brighter. My loyal friends who I have clutched when friends were merciless in their forgetfulness and when two dollars couldn’t get me a bus ride anywhere as good as through the streets of Bleak House. It was Bleak but not nearly so bleak as a world where I never met you, never felt your rustling limbs, never took those journeys far into the night beyond the urge to pee and drink water.
My wise children, I hitchhiked a ride to galaxies you can’t find on the net, I’ve laid down next to the syphilitic form of Charles Baudelaire going on and on about beautiful spanish women who die–you’re such a smelly bastard. I’ve read Rimbaud–you liar, you treacherous nasty fucker who killed wild things in Africa because you killed your own wild thing way too young. But I read you and let you fall to the floor, a pile of books about me, unkempt hair that only friends know how to brush and they are far away. Joanna Russ who showed me the other world of fabulous gender-bending women who were wild hat eand free and complicated. All the confusion that came with a god damn Speculum of the Other Woman, all the anthologies of forgotten poets, all the fierce words of Millet, Butler, Firestone. And when I fell down the Rabbit Hole, it was Brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
But like Farenheit 451, I take the books into me. They are inside me, easily more than a thousand novels. They have become silver threads that extend beyond me, like lightning, like cities of the red night, like Ozone itself.
To all the writers I am letting go of, I will find you again. To all the stories, some of you are such bastardly horrible things that circumvented and sabotaged my mind in gloriously unpredictable ways, and some of you made me inclined to believe I had discovered new vistas of being, of knowing the world, my flesh, and yours. I soaked up thousands of years, thousands of stories and sometimes when I am not so down and sad I feel like I ride a Chariot and I am blue like Krishna, or I ride a sand worm and bring forth rains from the sky. All the rooms I visited in Perec, Oh Mr Perec thank you!! All the lives and all the chairs and footprints and all the babies born and all those people dying and the wallpaper fading and the streets beneath. Ahh glory to the book. For literature is my temple. I am simply so grateful to all those courageous/spoilt/rich/poor/bastardly/mean/egocentric/kindly/far-seeing/visionary writers who wrote, some work not even getting published in their life times. Thank you.