Aula latina
Enunciator of Porphyrys Categories, P’s Lament; instigator of P’s Literary Schizophrenia. The Categories (1968) were an American literary achievement, and were three. (1) comprised 90% of the writers of the time. Their talent, as described by P, consisted of a middling facility in the manipulation of a minimal vocabulary rudimentary perceptions; unsullied ignorance of man’s history; disdain of reason; and a violent, probably psychotic, attachment to the sentimental. Writers of this group were barely distinguishable in style or attitude and naturally set great store by publicity, as only the public’s automatic responses (àPavlov, I.P.) maintained them. They accepted without question the prevalent mythos (then known as “reality”) and manufactured novel after novel in its support, almost all about hanky-panky (urban, suburban, rural), with animadversions on the “emotional” conflicts ofthe era, which were not truly emotional, but simple oppositions of childish egos or absurd fears. These writers were essentially masochistic and their technique was in the juvenile tradition: an uninterrupted series of insignificant events in the lives of unbelievable characters, reported in conscientiously pedestrian prose. This was called “the writer’s obligation to the reader,” or “narrative power,” the latter a phrase used often by reviewers, seldom by critics. First novels by any of this group were usually said either to have “catapulted him into the first rank of American novelists” or to “show an immense promise.” As I handed them to Ratlit there were fireworks, applause, a fanfare of brasses. "Oh, thats wonderful. Wonderful! Because guess what, Ratlit? Guess what, Vyme?" It was waiting for him when he came in from the barn carrying two pails full of milk. It followed him inside the house and stood around and he tried to talk to it. But he didnt have the heart to do much talking. He could not forget that it would be leaving, and the pleasure of its present company was lost in his terror of the loneliness to come. 4 I was speaking of the penny that never ends, that when it is spent is replaced in the pocket with another penny. It is the poor mans idea of great wealth, of all the riches of the world, to have a penny in his pocket that always gives birth to another penny— Such thoughts made him feel like a lovesick fool. Which he supposed he was, confound it. Love, by Godfrey, was not all joy and sweet yearning; it could be, and often was, a blasted nuisance. Yes, and bad for a mans digestion as well as his peace of mind. He banished the thoughts by opening the windows behind Sabina’s desk and banishing her lingering scent. Then he sighed and sat down to attack the remaining paperwork. J. G. was quite impressed. He asked Quimble what his Theory was. This is, if I may say so, not gaudy, the clerk said. And if the young man really wants it for his mother...” Selina still looked unconvinced when Hagan had finished speaking. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and I knew he had been using the wrong approach. Quite suddenly the pewter helmet of her hair was disturbed by a cool gust of wind, and huge clean tumbling drops of rain began to spang round us from an almost cloudless sky. I remembered the dash. It was an uneasy joke, a fill-in for that cough. Goldenwhat? People had already started to feel uncomfortable. Then it went past joking and back to just golden. At 400 fathoms, I knew that something was wrong. The bottom was coming into view on the vertical sounder, but it was approaching much too slowly. My rate of descent was far too low; I could increase it easily enough by flooding another buoyancy tank, but I, hesitated to do so. In my business, anything out of the ordinary needs an explanation; three times I have saved my life by waiting until I had one. Yes, Madam. There was no interrogation in Susans voice. She spoke calmly, as if she had always known this conversation would take place and had already guessed its outcome. She looked up at me with unsettled eyes. "Dont you people expect to take risks?" She gestured at the storm-nimbus that swirled over our heads. "For clouds like these I need a Michelangelo of the sky ... What about Nolan? Is he too frightened as well?" You were the one who brought in the Russians, he said. Theyre involved, sure—but only as contractors. The independent agency I’m working for is hiring their services.” Do you want some, too? the doctor asked. "True, my deal is with the Devil. But is that immoral? Morality is relative.My action,my way of life, has to be evaluated against the background ofyour action, andyour way of life. You think me immoral, if not insane. Yet you wrote this contract for me. Why? Because you want to keep me happy. And why do you want to keep me happy? So that Ill keep your patents coming. Therefore youve made your own contract— with your patents. You resolve all questions of sin, virtue, and morality in light of the effect on your patents. With you, nothing can be sinful — even an assignment to hell — if it helps your terpineol patents. Before you judge my contract, take a look at your own.".
