Saturday, May 16, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
On Being Blue
Author: William Gass
A Nonpareil Book published in 1991 by David R. Godine, Publisher
Copyright 1976 by William Gass
First published by Godine in 1976
First paragraph excerpted by permission of the publisher
“Blue pencils, blue noses, blue movies, laws, blue legs and stockings, the language of birds, bees and flowers as sung by longshoremen, that lead-like look the skin has when affected by cold, contusion, sickness, fear; the rotten rum or gin they call blue ruin and the blue devils of its delirium; Russian cats and oysters, a withheld or imprisoned breath, the blue they say that diamonds have, deep holes in the ocean and the blazers which English athletes earn that gentlemen may wear; afflictions of the spirit—dumps, mopes, Mondays—all that’s dismal—lowdown gloomy music, Nova Scotians, cyanosis, hair rinse, bluing, bleach; the rare blue dahlia like that blue moon shrewd things happen only once in, or the call for trumps in whist (but who remembers whist or what the death of unplayed games is like?), and correspondingly the flag, Blue Peter, which is our signal for getting under way; a swift pitch, Confederate money, the shaded slopes of clouds and mountains, and so the constantly increasing absentness of Heaven (ins Blaue hinein, the Germans say), consequently the color of everything that’s empty: blue bottles, bank accounts, and compliments, for instance, or, when the sky’s turned turtle, the blue-green bleat of ocean (both the same), and, when in Hell, its neatly landscaped rows of concrete huts and gas-blue flames; social registers, examination booklets, blue bloods, balls, and bonnets, beards, coats, collars, chips, and cheese. . . the pedantic, indecent and censorious. . . watered twilight, sour sea: through a scrambling of accidents, blue has become their color, just as it’s stood for fidelity. Blue laws took their hue from the paper they were printed on. Blue noses were named for a potato. E. Haldeman-Julius’ little library, where I first read Ellen Key’s Evolution of Love, vainly hoping for a cock stand, had such covers. In the same series, which sold for a dime in those days, were the love letters of that Portuguese nun, Mariana Alcoforado, an overwrought and burdensome lady, certainly, whose existence I callously forgot until I read of her again in Rilke.”
With prose and poetry scaling the heights in deep meditation, William Gass brings meaning and shades of meaning that light a low fire under indigo, cobalt and aquamarine; around every aspect beneath and above the sky.
A Nonpareil Book published in 1991 by David R. Godine, Publisher
Copyright 1976 by William Gass
First published by Godine in 1976
First paragraph excerpted by permission of the publisher
“Blue pencils, blue noses, blue movies, laws, blue legs and stockings, the language of birds, bees and flowers as sung by longshoremen, that lead-like look the skin has when affected by cold, contusion, sickness, fear; the rotten rum or gin they call blue ruin and the blue devils of its delirium; Russian cats and oysters, a withheld or imprisoned breath, the blue they say that diamonds have, deep holes in the ocean and the blazers which English athletes earn that gentlemen may wear; afflictions of the spirit—dumps, mopes, Mondays—all that’s dismal—lowdown gloomy music, Nova Scotians, cyanosis, hair rinse, bluing, bleach; the rare blue dahlia like that blue moon shrewd things happen only once in, or the call for trumps in whist (but who remembers whist or what the death of unplayed games is like?), and correspondingly the flag, Blue Peter, which is our signal for getting under way; a swift pitch, Confederate money, the shaded slopes of clouds and mountains, and so the constantly increasing absentness of Heaven (ins Blaue hinein, the Germans say), consequently the color of everything that’s empty: blue bottles, bank accounts, and compliments, for instance, or, when the sky’s turned turtle, the blue-green bleat of ocean (both the same), and, when in Hell, its neatly landscaped rows of concrete huts and gas-blue flames; social registers, examination booklets, blue bloods, balls, and bonnets, beards, coats, collars, chips, and cheese. . . the pedantic, indecent and censorious. . . watered twilight, sour sea: through a scrambling of accidents, blue has become their color, just as it’s stood for fidelity. Blue laws took their hue from the paper they were printed on. Blue noses were named for a potato. E. Haldeman-Julius’ little library, where I first read Ellen Key’s Evolution of Love, vainly hoping for a cock stand, had such covers. In the same series, which sold for a dime in those days, were the love letters of that Portuguese nun, Mariana Alcoforado, an overwrought and burdensome lady, certainly, whose existence I callously forgot until I read of her again in Rilke.”
With prose and poetry scaling the heights in deep meditation, William Gass brings meaning and shades of meaning that light a low fire under indigo, cobalt and aquamarine; around every aspect beneath and above the sky.
Arizona ghost town
“So where did ya come in from,?” Dan asks.
I told him I had come from Tucson by way of Tombstone, and he kidded that I was a city slicker. I didn't bother telling him about my home town Chicago. Tuffy reached for a lighter inside his jacket to strike up a camel dangling from his lip. He sat still, silent, with a wry smile.
I asked Dan about the photograph inside the bar of two dead animals dangling from a pole. He nodded toward Tuffy.
“Proudest day of my life,” Tuffy said. “Bagged a mountain lion and a deer on the same hunt.”
I sat there for an hour with the two gentleman, asking questions about the area, its history, and other people that lived there. Besides our conversation, the only sound you could hear were leaves rustling in the wind. When it died down, total silence.
Gleeson had once been a bustling mining town in the 1800s, with a population over 5000. A steady decline set in after the copper ore was depleted in the 50’s. Dan’s mother had taught school in the one room schoolhouse. Dan stayed on at the family ranch to raise cattle. Gleeson now has a population of 12, which swells by a few if anyone is staying in the trailer park.
I thanked Dan and Tuffy for their time, told them I had all I needed to write my article, and was on my way. They told me to come visit again. The 70 miles back to Tucson was filled with thoughts of a most extraordinary experience, one I knew I would always remember. And I have.
I told him I had come from Tucson by way of Tombstone, and he kidded that I was a city slicker. I didn't bother telling him about my home town Chicago. Tuffy reached for a lighter inside his jacket to strike up a camel dangling from his lip. He sat still, silent, with a wry smile.
I asked Dan about the photograph inside the bar of two dead animals dangling from a pole. He nodded toward Tuffy.
“Proudest day of my life,” Tuffy said. “Bagged a mountain lion and a deer on the same hunt.”
I sat there for an hour with the two gentleman, asking questions about the area, its history, and other people that lived there. Besides our conversation, the only sound you could hear were leaves rustling in the wind. When it died down, total silence.
Gleeson had once been a bustling mining town in the 1800s, with a population over 5000. A steady decline set in after the copper ore was depleted in the 50’s. Dan’s mother had taught school in the one room schoolhouse. Dan stayed on at the family ranch to raise cattle. Gleeson now has a population of 12, which swells by a few if anyone is staying in the trailer park.
I thanked Dan and Tuffy for their time, told them I had all I needed to write my article, and was on my way. They told me to come visit again. The 70 miles back to Tucson was filled with thoughts of a most extraordinary experience, one I knew I would always remember. And I have.
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