HARDBOILED

(Nathanael West)

"In the street again, Miss Lonelyhearts wondered what to do next. He was too excited to eat and afraid to go home. He felt as though his heart were a bomb, a complicated bomb that would result in a simple explosion, wrecking the world without rocking it."




(Samuel Beckett)

"Impassive, still and mute, Malone revolves, a stranger forever to my infirmities: one who is not as I can never not be. I am motionless in vain, he is the god. And the other? I have assigned him eyes that implore me, offerings for me, need of succour. He does not look at me, does not know of me, wants for nothing. I alone am man and all the rest divine. Air. The air. Is there anything to be squeezed from that old chestnut? Close to me it is grey, dimly transparent, and beyond that charmed circle deepens and spreads its fine impenetrable veils. Is it I who cast the faint light that enables me to see what goes on under my nose? There is nothing to be gained, for the moment, by supposing so. There is no night so deep (so I have heard tell) that it may not be pierced in the end, with the help of no other light than that of the blackened sky, or of the earth itself."
-- The Unnameables




(Hubert Selby)

"You scum bag muthafuckas I got ya fuckin strawberry douche ya douche bag pricks, and he raised his right hand and aimed the old .22 target pistol he was holding at the set, you aint fuckin with me any more ya rotten pricks, cockteasin me along with ya goddamn shows an then shove it up my ass wit that fuckin bullshit when Im waitin ta see what happened; and everyone had a popper up their nose and were rolling and scratching and sweating and laughing and Tony peered even harder at the set, Ya been fuckin wit me long enough with ya fuckin dog food, and douche bags, and under fuckin arms an no smell shit paper, he was yelling louder and louder, his face as red as the others who were sweating behind the poppers, and they watched and listened to him as they stared through sweat stung eyes, hysterical with laughter, YA HEAR ME? EH? IVE HAD YA BULLSHIT YA FUCKIN PRICKS, and he squeezed the trigger and the first slug hit the tube dead center and there was a mild explosion that momentarily covered the hysterical laughter and Tonys screaming and sparks and flames burst out at an angle and huge hunks of thick glass assailed the room as smoke drifted up and around the set and Tony stood up screaming hysterically, I GOT YA NOW YA MUTHAS CUNT, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA-HAHAHAHA, and he fired another shot into the dying television set, YA GONNA GET EVERYTHINS THATS COMMIN TO YA, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, and another shot went into the crumbling body, HOW DO YA LIKE IT? EH? HOW DO YA LIKE IT YA PUNK ASSED MUTHA FUCKA, and he kept edging toward the set and fired another shot into the smoking remains of the once noble set, YA THOUGHT YA COULD GET AWAY WIT IT, EH? DIDN YA? EH? and the others continued to watch and laugh and shake as he put one more slug into the body as he continued walking toward it and then he stood over it, savoring the last slug, glaring, grinning, and gloating at the shattered and smoldering remains, watching the spastic sparks leap and crawl then shoot along the electrical cord and burst and fizz as they reached the socket and smoke curled from the burned wire and plug, and Tony started to drool slightly as he watched the set tremble under his gaze, as it shook and begged for mercy, for one more chance, I/ll never do it again Tony, I swear on my mudders head, Tony, pleeze, pleeze, give me anotha chance, Tony, I/ll make it right, I swear, I swear on my mudders head I/ll make it right for ya Tony, and Tony sneered at the set as it begged and pleaded, Tonys whole being filled with contempt for the sniveling sonofa-bitch, CHANCE??? CHANCE???? I GOT YA FUCKIN CHANCE, SWINGIN, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, YA CANT EVEN DIE LIKE A MAN YA PUNK SON OF A BITCH, pleeze, Tony, pleeze . . . dont shoot, pi— SHAT UP, PUNK, and Tonys expression was bulging with contempt as he twisted and looked the set right in the eye and told it in a soft, vicious voice, Suck on this, and fired the last shot into the trembling and still pleading body of the television set and it shivered slightly from the coup de grace and one last spark jumped across a foot of burned space and fizzled away into eternity as the final wisp of smoke whirled into the atmosphere and commingled with the smoke from the pot and hash and cigarettes and the popper scented air and sought freedom from various and sundry cracks and crevices to disperse itself in the atmosphere. Tony shrugged and jammed the gun into his waist, I toldya not ta fuck wit me, and he shrugged again, nobody fucks wit Tony Balls, eh? and he joined the others and took the popper offered him and did it in and fell on the floor laughing with the others as somebody offered up a prayer for the deceased, between giggles..."
-- Requiem For a Dream




(Charles Bukowski)

The History of One Tough Motherfucker

he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,"not much
chance...give him these pills...his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he'll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he's been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there...also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off..."
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn't eat, he
wouldn't touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn't go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn't work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I'd had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
"you can make it," I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn't want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he's better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left...
and now sometimes I'm interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,"look, look
at this!"
but they don't understand, they say something like,"you
say you've been influenced by Celine?"
"no," I hold the cat up,"by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!"
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he's relaxed he knows...
it's then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it's bullshit but that somehow it all helps.




(William S. Burroughs)




(Denis Johnson)