Текст книги "Wittgenstein's Mistress"

Автор книги: David Markson

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Although what I am more likely admitting by all this is that I may very well have been coincidentally aware of needing a bath, as well. Or at least on the first of those occasions.

Normally I bathe at the spring, of course. Well, or summers as now, in any case.

Oh. And I have finally stopped staining, incidentally, which had begun to look like forever.

And in either event it was actually an amusing diversion, soaping myself and then walking that way until I was rinsed.

Even if for a minute I believed I had lost my stick while I was at it.

When I looked back there it was, however, standing upright.

Which is to say that the stick was already not lost even before I had begun to worry that it might be.

So to speak.

Not that there would have been any point in trying to write anything with it in the rain to begin with, on the other hand.

Well, not that anything I ever write is still there when I go back in any case.

Then again, perhaps it might have been interesting to see one's messages beginning to deteriorate even before they were finished being written after all.

Like Leonardo da Vinci doing The Last Supper,one might have felt.

Well, one rather doubts that one would have felt quite like Leonardo.

Even by writing left-handed.

Or backwards, so that one would have needed a mirror to read it.

Meaning that the image of what one was writing would have been more real than the writing itself.

So to speak.

Have I ever mentioned that Michelangelo practically never took a bath in his life, by the way?

And even wore his boots to bed?

On my honor, it is a well known item in the history of art that Michelangelo was not somebody one would particularly wish to sit too close to.

Which on second thought could very well change one's view as to why all of those Medici kept telling him don't bother to get up, as a matter of fact.

Although come to think about it even William Shakespeare himself was terribly tiny, which is something I did once mention.

I mean so long as one would appear to be getting into this sort of thing.

Well, and for that matter Galileo would never even ever shake another person's hand, once he had discovered germs.

Not that a solitary other soul would believe that there were such things, of course. Even though Galileo kept insisting he had seen them.

In some water, I believe this was.

And they move, too, Galileo kept telling people.

Which became just as significant a moment in the history of science as Michelangelo not going near water at all became in the history of art, in fact.

I do not remember any longer if the water in which Galileo found the germs was the same water in which he had proved that the life of Lawrence of Arabia had to be put in first, on the other hand.

And on later thought it may have been Louis Pasteur who would never shake anybody's hand.

Or Leeuwenhoek.

What I find interesting about the possibility that it might have been Leeuwenhoek, actually, is that Leeuwenhoek was from Delft.

So that one of the people he would have refused to shake hands with would have almost assuredly been Jan Vermeer.

Unfortunately the same footnote that brought up Leeuwenhoek in connection with Delft gave no indication as to whether Vermeer might have taken this as a slight, however.

Well, or as to how Carel Fabritius may have felt about it, either.

Emily Brontë once painted a quite effective watercolor of Keeper which I have actually seen a reproduction of, incidentally, even if I have no idea what I have been saying that has now made me remember this.

Any more than I have any idea what has also now made me remember that Pascal invented the first adding machine.

Or how I even know that he did.

There goes my head again in that way that it sometimes does, doubtless being the only explanation here as usual.

Although one of my sunsets just before the rain was finally another Joseph Mallord William Turner, actually.

Even if what this next reminds me of is that one more thing that John Ruskin became famous for, besides the other thing I have already told about that he became famous for, was watching sunsets himself.

Although the real reason I remember this about John Ruskin is because he actually gave his butler instructions to remind him when it was time to look.

On my honor, John Ruskin once told his butler to announce the sunsets.

The sunset, Mr. Ruskin, being what the butler would say.

Even if something different that has just struck me is that I myself would appear to be saying on my honor extraordinarily frequently, of late.

Every single time I have said it it was only because what I had been talking about was the gospel truth, however.

Such as about Mrs. Ruskin not turning out to have had certain superfluous material taken away by somebody like Phidias, for instance.

Even if for the life of me I still cannot remember what I had been trying to get that monstrosity of a canvas up that stairway for, on the other hand.

Or whatever became of my pistol either, to tell the truth.

The pistol being the one with which I had shot holes into one of the skylights in the museum so that the smoke from my chimney would go out, obviously.

Well, I have just mentioned this. Or perhaps it was only certain additional broken windows that I mentioned.

Nonetheless the last place I would seem to remember still carrying the pistol in was Rome, for some reason.

Well, on the afternoon when I ran into that alley, in fact, which was actually a cul-de-sac. On a street full of taverns below the Borghese Gallery, at the intersection of Calpurnia Avenue and Herodotus Road.

After seeing my own reflection, highlighted against a small stretched canvas coated with gesso in the window of a shop selling artists' supplies, as I had passed.

Still, how I nearly felt, in the midst of all that looking.

Looking in desperation, as I have said.

But too, never knowing just whom one might find, as well.

Although as a matter of fact it may very well have been Cassandra I had intended to paint, on those forty-five square feet.

Or should I have spelled that Kassandra, perhaps?

Even if a part I have always liked is when Orestes finally comes back, after so many years, and Electra does not recognize her own brother.

What do you want, strange man? I believe this is what Electra says to him.

Although it is the back of the jacket on a recording of the opera that I am thinking about now, I suspect.

Well, or because of imagining that somebody may have actually called one's own name, do I possibly mean?

You?Can that be you? And here, of all places?

It was only the Piazza Navona, I am quite certain, so beautiful in the afternoon sun, that had touched a chord.

Still, not until dusk did I emerge from the cul-de-sac.

In Italy, no less, from where all painting came.

So why would I now suddenly be thinking about certain murals by David Alfaro Siqueiros, of all people?

And to tell the truth I also have no idea whatever became of my thirty silent radios either, actually, that I once listened to and listened to.

Poor Electra. To wish to murder one's own mother.

Yet everybody, in those stories. Wrist deep in it, the lot of them.

Doubtless the radios are still in my old loft in SoHo, as a matter of fact.

Still. So where are my seventeen wristwatches, then?

It did run on, that madness.

Walking in the rain I have not gone much farther than to where one can see the toilet fastened to pipes on the second floor in the house where I knocked over the kerosene lamp, incidentally.

Even if there is no second floor.

Although what I am really remembering about that ankle now is how astonishingly adept I became at maneuvering my wheelchair, once I had located one.

Skittering from one end of the main floor to the other, in fact, when the mood took me.

From the Buddhist and Hindu antiquities to the Byzantine, or whoosh! and here we go round the icons of Andrei Roublev.

But which in turn now makes me wonder that if I am presently hurting in two places at once, as I undeniably am, would this then mean that I am actually hurting in four?

Except that I have now completely forgotten what the other two places are that I might have meant, unfortunately.

Andrei Roublev was a pupil of Theophanes the Greek, by the way. In fact he was also a sort of Russian Giotto.

Well, perhaps he was not a Giotto. Being the first great Russian painter nonetheless, having perhaps been all one meant.

And Herodotus was almost always spoken about as having been the first person ever to write down any real history, incidentally.

Even if I am not especially overjoyed at being the last.

As a matter of fact I am quite sorry I said that.

Such thoughts again being exactly the sort one would have wished to believe one had gotten rid of with the rest of one's baggage, naturally.

Oh, well. One can be thankful that they have been coming up only rarely these days, at least.

Have I ever said that Turner once actually had himself lashed to the mast of a ship, to be able to later do a painting of a storm?

Which has never failed to remind me of the scene in which Odysseus does the identical thing, of course, so that he can listen to the Sirens singing but will stay put.

But now good heavens.

Here I sit, and it is only after all this time that I have remembered the most significant thing I had meant to say about the basement once I had started to say anything at all about the basement.

The person who wrote that book about baseball did not make any sort of ridiculous error in its title after all, as it turns out.

On my honor, there is a separate carton in the basement which contains absolutely nothing except grass that is not real.

Artificial grass being something I had never even heard of before, I would swear. So that doubtless I would have scarcely been able to imagine what it was down there at all, if the carton had not had a label.

Then again, if the carton had not had a label, unquestionably I still would have been struck by the manner in which what was inside of it certainly did look like grass.

The things one tardily becomes aware of.

Even if the whole notion actually saddens me now that I do know about it, to tell the truth.

Grass being simply supposed to be grass, is all.

Well, or quite possibly the book itself is a sad book, and for this identical reason, which would have been a point that I missed until now completely, of course.

In fact quite possibly even those people Campy or Stan Usual may have been sad too, if somebody once told them they would have to stop playing their game on real grass.

Although surely even people who played baseball must have had more important things than that to worry about, or one would certainly wish to imagine that they did.

Certainly the one they named the disease after must have had more important things to worry about.

The instrument that Ludwig Wittgenstein used to play was a clarinet, by the way.

Which for some curious reason he carried in an old sock, rather than in a case.

So that anybody seeing him walk down the street with it might have thought, there goes that person carrying an old sock.

Having no idea whatsoever that Mozart could come out of it.

Doubtless A. E. Housman thought he was just somebody carrying an old sock, in fact, on the afternoon when Wittgenstein found himself with diarrhea and asked if he could use the toilet, and A. E. Housman said no.

On my honor, Wittgenstein once needed a toilet in a considerable hurry, near some rooms at Cambridge that were Housman's, and Housman would not let him in.

Actually the composer who most often came out of the sock would have probably been Franz Schubert, having been Wittgenstein's favorite.

Even if I have no idea why this reminds me that Brahms's friends were frequently embarrassed because prostitutes would call hello to him when they passed.

Or, for heaven's sake, that Gauguin was once arrested for urinating in public.

Or that Abraham Lincoln and Walt Whitman often used to nod to each other while walking the streets in Washington, D.C., during the Civil War.

Presumably this last will at least make it seem less improbable that people like El Greco and Spinoza did exactly the same thing, at any rate.

If hardly in Washington, D.C.

Clara Schumann actually visited the Wittgenstein home in Vienna with Brahms on occasion also, incidentally, if I have not made that clear.

And which was perhaps an additional reason for Brahms wishing that children would go away.

Whereas Schubert was one more person who had syphilis, unfortunately. This being an explanation for why he never finished the Unfinished Symphony,as a matter of fact, having died at thirty-one.

And Handel can be put on the list of people who went blind, I think.

But who was somebody named Karen Silkwood, whom I suddenly also feel I would like to tell that you can now kneel and drink at the Danube, or the Potomac, or the Allegheny?

And why do I only at this instant realize that Leningrad was still called St. Petersburg when Shostakovich was born there?

I have just wrapped my head into a towel.

Having gone out for some greens, for a wet salad, this would be because of.

And in the meantime the more I have thought about it, the more sorry I have gotten about what I said.

I mean about Michelangelo, not about Herodotus.

Certainly I would have found it more than agreeable to shake Michelangelo's hand, no matter how the pope or Louis Pasteur might have felt about this.

In fact I would have been excited just to seethe hand that had taken away superfluous material in the way that Michelangelo had taken it away.

Actually, I would have been pleased to tell Michelangelo how fond I am of his sentence that I once underlined, too.

Perhaps I have not mentioned having once underlined a sentence by Michelangelo.

I once underlined a sentence by Michelangelo.

This was a sentence that Michelangelo once wrote in a letter, when he had lived almost seventy-five years.

You will say that I am old and mad, was what Michelangelo wrote, but I answer that there is no better way of being sane and free from anxiety than by being mad.

On my honor, Michelangelo once wrote that.

As a matter of fact I am next to positive I would have liked Michelangelo.

I am still feeling the typewriter, naturally. And hearing the keys.

Hm. I would seem to have left something out, just then.

Oh. All I had meant to write was that I had just closed my eyes, obviously.

There is an explanation for my having decided to do that.

The explanation being that I would appear to be more upset about that carton of grass that is not real than I had realized.

By which I imagine what I mean is that if the grass that is not real is real, as it undoubtedly is, what would be the difference between the way grass that is not real is real and the way real grass is real, then?

For that matter what city was Dmitri Shostakovitch born in?

A certain amount of this sort of thing can actually sometimes almost begin to worry me, to tell the truth.

Even if there would appear to be no record as to what name Wittgenstein ever did pick out for that seagull, on the other hand.

Well, my reason for bringing this up again being because it was a seagull that brought me to this very beach, as it happens.

High, high, against the clouds, little more than a speck, but then swooping in the direction of the sea.

Except that the seagull was in no way a real seagull either, of course, being only ash.

Have I mentioned looking in Savona, New York, ever? Or in Cambridge, Massachusetts?

And that in Florence I did not let myself into the Uffizi immediately, but lived for a period in a hotel they had named after Fra Filippo Lippi, instead?

What I write with my stick are not necessarily always messages, by the way.

Once I wrote Helen of Troy, in Greek.

Well, or in what looked like Greek, although I was actually only inventing that.

Even if Helen of Troy would have been only an invented name in real Greek too, come to think about it, since it is assuredly doubtful that anybody would have been calling her that at the time.

I have decided to hide among some women so that I do not have to go and fight over Helen of Troy. That hardly being the manner in which one imagines that Achilles would have thought about such things, for instance.

Or, I have decided to make believe I am mad and sow salt into my fields so that I do not have to go and fight over Helen of Troy. That hardly being the manner in which one imagines that Odysseus would have thought about them, either.

Moreover everybody would have doubtless been too accustomed to calling her of Sparta to have troubled with changing in any event.

Even after they had sailed to Troy in the one thousand, one hundred and eighty-six ships.

Which is how many ships it says in Homer that the Greeks sailed to Troy in, incidentally.

Even if one is personally next to positive that there would have been no way in the world that the Greeks could have sailed in one thousand, one hundred and eighty-six ships.

Doubtless the Greeks had twenty or thirty ships.

Well, as I believe I have mentioned, the whole of Troy being like little more than your ordinary city block and a few stories in height, practically.

No matter how extraordinary one may find it that young men died there in a war that long ago and then died in the same place three thousand years after that.

Although what one doubts even more sincerely is that Helen would have been the cause of that war to begin with, of course.

After all, a single Spartan girl, as Walt Whitman once called her.

Even if in The Trojan WomenEuripides does let everybody be furious at Helen.

In the Odyssey,where she has a splendid radiant dignity, nothing of that sort is hinted at at all.

And even in the Iliad,when the war is still going on, she is generally treated with respect.

So unquestionably it was only later that people decided it had been Helen's fault.

Well, Euripides of course coming much later than Homer on his own part, for instance.

I do not remember how much later, but much later.

As a matter of fact it was as much later as twice the time between now and when Bertrand Russell's grandfather met George Washington, approximately.

And certainly any number of things can be lost track of, in that many years.

So that once he had gotten the idea to write a play about the war, certainly it would have been necessary for Euripides to think up an interesting reason for the war.

Not knowing that the real reason must surely have been to see who would pay tariff to whom, so as to be able to make use of a channel of water, as I have indicated.

Although on the other hand it is also quite possible that Euripides just lied.

Quite possibly Euripides knew perfectly well about the real reason for the war, but decided that in a play Helen would be a more interesting reason.

Certainly writers must have now and again done this sort of thing, one would imagine.

So that when one comes right down to it, it is equally possible that Homer just lied, too.

Quite possibly Homer knew perfectly well himself about the real number of ships, but decided that in a poem one thousand, one hundred and eighty-six would be a more interesting number, as well.

Well, as it undeniably is, as is verified by the very fact that I remember it.

Doubtless if I had underlined only twenty or thirty ships when I was tearing pages out of the Iliadand dropping them into a fire I would not have remembered that at all.

In fact if Homer had said there were only twenty or thirty ships doubtless I would not have underlined any numbers to begin with.

Which is to say that perhaps certain writers are sometimes smarter than one thinks.

Then again, Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote a novel called The Recognitions,about a man who wears an alarm clock around his neck, which seems less like a lie than just a foolish subject for a book altogether.

Except that in this instance I remember it without even having ever read The Recognitions.

And which furthermore now makes me realize that if Euripides had not blamed Helen for the war very possibly I would not remember Helen, either.

So that doubtless it was quite hasty of me, to criticize Rainer Maria Rilke or Euripides.

Even if on third thought what one is only now forced to suspect is that there could have been still a different reason entirely, for the wrong number of ships in the Iliad.

Which is to say that since Homer did not know how to write, very possibly he did not know how to add, either.

Especially since Pascal had not even been born, yet.

But be all that as it may, what it also occurs to me to mention here is that I am frequently just as annoyed at how Clytemnestra is blamed for certain things as I am about Helen, to tell the truth.

This would be in regard to when Clytemnestra stabs Agamemnon in his bath once he comes home from the same war, of course.

Needing some assistance. But nonetheless.

Although what I am really saying is why in heaven's name wouldn't she have?

Well, after the way Agamemnon had sacrificed their own daughter to raise wind for those identical ships, I naturally mean.

God, the things men used to do.

Kings and generals especially, even if that is hardly any excuse.

But what also just so happens is that I have sailed from Greece to Troy myself, actually.

Well, or vice versa. But the point being that even with a page torn out of an atlas, instead of maritime charts, the entire trip took me only two unhurried days.

In spite of having been frightened half to death by that ketch, near Lesbos, with its spinnaker taking noisy wind, even.

But which in either case still scarcely comes close to making it a distance that calls for the sacrifice of anybody over, obviously.

Let alone one's own child.

And which is additionally not even to bring up the question as to what possible difference a day or two's extra sailing might make in any event, if your silly war is about to last for ten full years.

But then to top it off there stands the man with a concubine in tow when he finally gets back too, no less.

And yet the way the plays are written, even Electra and Orestes somehow manage to get furious at Clytemnestra for finding the sum of this a bit much.

Again one may be foolhardy for criticizing famous writers, but certainly it does seem that somebody ought to draw the line someplace.

Daddy murdered our sister to raise wind for his silly ships, being what any person in her right mind must surely imagine that Electra and Orestes would have thought.

Mommy murdered our daddy, being all that they think in the plays instead.

Moreover in this case there are plays by Aeschylus and Sophocles as well, even before Euripides.

Nonetheless one is still categorically forced to believe that Electra and Orestes would have never felt that way in the least.

In fact what I have more than once suspected is that the whole story about the two of them taking their own revenge on Clytemnestra was another lie altogether. More than likely all three of them together would have felt nothing except good riddance.

Or certainly once the bathroom had been cleaned up.

And then lived happily together ever after, even.

So that as a matter of fact what I have furthermore even suspected is that Clytemnestra would have hardly been that much upset about the notion of the concubine after all, or at least once she had gotten the more basic matters off her chest.

Well, or after she had also found out that the concubine happened to be only poor Cassandra, assuredly.

In one of the plays, Clytemnestra kills Cassandra at the same time that she kills Agamemnon.

Surely in real life she would have immediately understood that Cassandra was mad, however, and so would have doubtless had second thoughts on this basis alone.

How she would have immediately understood that would have been the minute Cassandra went into the house and started lurking at windows, naturally.

Although when I say house, I should really be saying palace, of course.

Oh, dear, the way in which that poor child keeps lurking at our palace windows, surely being what Clytemnestra would have had to think.

So that very possibly her next decision would have even been to allow Cassandra to stay on, as a sort of boarder, after the funeral.

Certainly the poor child has no more palace windows back home in what is left of Troy to go lurk at, being another thing she would have obviously had to realize.

For that matter Clytemnestra would have almost certainly learned that Cassandra had been raped, as well, which would unquestionably strengthen this entire probability.

As a matter of fact what I would now be perfectly willing to wager is not only that Clytemnestra and Electra and Orestes lived happily together ever after, but that Cassandra eventually even came to be thought of as one of the family herself.

Moreover I can even further imagine all four of them happily traipsing off now and again to visit Helen, once all of this had been settled.

Surely Clytemnestra would have wished to see her own sister after that same ten years in any event. But what I am only now also remembering is that here is Cassandra being an old friend of Helen's on her own part.

Well, Cassandra having been Paris's sister, of course.

Which is to say that once Helen had gotten to Troy the two of them would have become sisters-in-law, practically.

One says practically because of Helen still having been rather more officially married to Menelaus, naturally.

But still, ten years being ten years in this case, too. So that undeniably Cassandra would have been delighted to renew the relationship.

Good morning, children and Cassandra. Guess what I have been thinking about. How would everybody like to take a little trip to Sparta, to visit Aunt Helen?

Oh let's, indeed! What an agreeable idea, Clytemnestra!

Will Uncle Menelaus be there too, Mommy?

Oops.

One had been forgetting that part, obviously.

Which is to say that after having fought an entire war to get his wife back, doubtless Menelaus would have been less than overjoyed at a sister of the man she had run off with turning up as a house guest.

When I say house, I should again be saying palace, of course.

Then again, what one next imagines is that doubtless Helen would have nagged a little, if necessary.

Oh, now darling, what possible harm can there be in letting her have a window or two, to lurk at?

Well, and most probably Cassandra would have brought gifts also, to smooth things over.

Trojans having been known for bearing gifts whenever they went anyplace in either case.

Actually, a cat would have been thoughtful. Even if a cat would have perhaps been more appropriate as a gift for Helen, rather than for Menelaus.

I cannot remember if there is anything in the Odysseyabout Helen having a cat, however.

I say the Odysseyrather than the Iliadbecause of the Iliadhaving been over before Cassandra would have brought the animal, naturally.

But which again incidentally verifies that Gustave Flaubert was wrong about a woman having written that book, since surely a woman writing it would have thought to put Helen's cat in.

In fact what does happen to be put in is a dog, belonging to Odysseus.

Actually, the part about the dog is sad, it being the dog who is the first to recognize Odysseus when he returns to Ithaca after having been gone for ten extra years after Troy but then dies.

Ah, me. At least it would appear to have been some pages since the last time I did that.

Or at least noticed that I did.

What I meant was hardly that it is Odysseus who dies after returning to Ithaca, obviously. Obviously it is the dog who dies after recognizing him.

On the other hand Penelope does not recognize Odysseus at all, incidentally.

And which is surely additional proof about a woman not having written that part, either.

Well, surely if a wife had been dutifully avoiding any number of suitors for twenty full years while waiting for her husband to come home she ought to have recognized the husband when he got there.

Although it is the reverse of that statement which is more likely true, actually.

Which is to say that if a woman had written that part one sincerely doubts that the wife would have been avoiding the suitors for all of the twenty years to begin with.

I believe I have voiced such doubts about Penelope before, as a matter of fact.

After all.

Although come to think about it Penelope may very well have not spent the entire twenty years at Ithaca in either case.

Or surely would have at least gone so far as to visit Helen in Sparta herself, being a cousin.

This again being once that everybody had gotten home, naturally.

So that her own visit would have been basically to pick up some news, really.

Yes, yes, it is agreeable to see you again, too, Cousin Helen. But what I am more truthfully curious about is if anybody has heard anything of that husband of mine?

In fact it is this identical visit that her son Telemachus makes in the Odysseyitself, come to think about it, asking about his father.

And which is moreover the very scene in which Helen is shown to have that splendid radiant dignity.

But be that as it may, and even if she had no news whatsoever about Odysseus, Helen would have nonetheless had all sorts of other interesting items to report, unquestionably.

Well, and with Ithaca being an island, especially, so that anybody coming from there would have frequently been out of touch altogether.

Heavens above, Penelope. Do you honestly mean to tell me you have not even heard about my brother-in-law and the bathtub, yet?

Then again, for all one knows Penelope's visit might very well have coincided with Clytemnestra's own. Or certainly if Helen had ever invited the whole family at once, say, for some holiday or other, this could have easily been the case.

And in which instance most likely it would have been Clytemnestra who told Penelope about all that herself, then.

Even if she would have doubtless been discreet enough to leave out certain parts until Electra and Orestes had left the table, one imagines.

You don't meanit? And with a net,first? Now three cheers for you, Cousin Cly.

Oops.

One had been forgetting something here too, obviously.

Which is to say that doubtless Clytemnestra would not have uttered one solitary word until Menelaus had left the table, likewise.