thing, hoping rather that he would have been so upset by it, confused by it, that he would have just stood in front of the three hundred thousand, speechless and dumb, but instead they received his dream speech, the world heard it.
Charlton came upon me as I folded the pages and shoved them into my jacket pocket.
What’s in your pocket?
Nothing, I said. Have you ever met Mr. Hoover?
Yes, I have.
He has a gun?
I suppose he does. He should have one. He’s America’s top cop. Americans, every one of us, should have a gun.
He is a giant, I am told. But not of fixed height. I understand that from time to time there is a nation dwelling inside his mouth, around his teeth.
What are you talking about?
Why, the Abbey of Thélème, Charlton. Can’t you just see the gate? Can’t you just see it? Grace, honor, praise, delight. And one clause to live by, Do what thou wilt. Do what thou wilt.
Dad, you say, Dad, shaking your head, why all this about civil rights? Ranches? Civil rights?
What civil rights? I’m telling you a story. I’m not talking about civil rights. I’m an American; I take my civil rights for granted, just the way I’m supposed to, and then when the government tries to take them away, I go out and buy something, make a purchase, to save the economy, and then I forget about what they’re stealing from me. What I am telling you is a story about Nat Turner and William Styron. This is my way of giving you my history, on this the eve of my visit to the gallows, and much of your understanding of my history, and therefore yours, relies on your acknowledgment that I am a prophet of sorts.
Like Nat Turner.
No, not like Nat Turner. Turner was a slave. Don’t take that from him. Did I ever tell you the way I had you circumcised when you were a baby?
We never got into that.
Well, anyway, I want to reassure you about my health. I’m actually quite well. I was eating with such gusto this morning that I surprised myself. I think I am even up a pound or two. Even with my limited exercise, I seem to have more energy. This is either proof of the value of what little exercise I perform or an argument that exercise at all is purely superfluous. I feel no stiffness or discomfort. My bowels appear quite normal, though I must say I do not look too closely. All this to say, my life goes on the same, monotonously. Even reading is tedious now, words go in one eye and out the other. This is often frustrating because the words land back on the page in the same order that they held before. Remember when I promised to write you a page a day to keep my mind quick and fluid, well, fluid at any rate? Fuck that. I haven’t been doing it. I can’t wait for senility. Bring it on. At least trying to find my way back out of it will give me something to do. By the way, thank you for the chocolates. And, about the current goings-on, if I cared any more than I do, I’d be apathetic.
You’re referring to politics.
Who cares? See what I mean? Why August 1963? Because even though Kennedy didn’t give a shit, because even though his brother allowed the cross-dresser to tap King’s phones, because even though compromise came to mean an under-the-table ass-fuck, somebody cared about something other than money or winning. On the other hand, I never thought I’d see this day.
Dad, you say, Dad.
And I tell you or you remind me that I have told you that nothing irritates me more than when wishful thinking takes the place of sound reason. Remember what I used to say to you when you were a boy, food for thought is no substitute for the real thing. It don’t take a possum in a swamp to figure that one out. And yet my cries are shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools—I could go on, but, lord, why? See what you get for visiting your old man?
At least you’re moderately amusing.
Could a duck swim? I raise my pint to you.
Oh, woe is me? Woe is me. I am practicing my woes. Nat put a
Charlton came upon me as I folded the pages and shoved them into my jacket pocket.
What’s in your pocket?
Nothing, I said. Have you ever met Mr. Hoover?
Yes, I have.
He has a gun?
I suppose he does. He should have one. He’s America’s top cop. Americans, every one of us, should have a gun.
He is a giant, I am told. But not of fixed height. I understand that from time to time there is a nation dwelling inside his mouth, around his teeth.
What are you talking about?
Why, the Abbey of Thélème, Charlton. Can’t you just see the gate? Can’t you just see it? Grace, honor, praise, delight. And one clause to live by, Do what thou wilt. Do what thou wilt.
Dad, you say, Dad, shaking your head, why all this about civil rights? Ranches? Civil rights?
What civil rights? I’m telling you a story. I’m not talking about civil rights. I’m an American; I take my civil rights for granted, just the way I’m supposed to, and then when the government tries to take them away, I go out and buy something, make a purchase, to save the economy, and then I forget about what they’re stealing from me. What I am telling you is a story about Nat Turner and William Styron. This is my way of giving you my history, on this the eve of my visit to the gallows, and much of your understanding of my history, and therefore yours, relies on your acknowledgment that I am a prophet of sorts.
Like Nat Turner.
No, not like Nat Turner. Turner was a slave. Don’t take that from him. Did I ever tell you the way I had you circumcised when you were a baby?
We never got into that.
Well, anyway, I want to reassure you about my health. I’m actually quite well. I was eating with such gusto this morning that I surprised myself. I think I am even up a pound or two. Even with my limited exercise, I seem to have more energy. This is either proof of the value of what little exercise I perform or an argument that exercise at all is purely superfluous. I feel no stiffness or discomfort. My bowels appear quite normal, though I must say I do not look too closely. All this to say, my life goes on the same, monotonously. Even reading is tedious now, words go in one eye and out the other. This is often frustrating because the words land back on the page in the same order that they held before. Remember when I promised to write you a page a day to keep my mind quick and fluid, well, fluid at any rate? Fuck that. I haven’t been doing it. I can’t wait for senility. Bring it on. At least trying to find my way back out of it will give me something to do. By the way, thank you for the chocolates. And, about the current goings-on, if I cared any more than I do, I’d be apathetic.
You’re referring to politics.
Who cares? See what I mean? Why August 1963? Because even though Kennedy didn’t give a shit, because even though his brother allowed the cross-dresser to tap King’s phones, because even though compromise came to mean an under-the-table ass-fuck, somebody cared about something other than money or winning. On the other hand, I never thought I’d see this day.
Dad, you say, Dad.
And I tell you or you remind me that I have told you that nothing irritates me more than when wishful thinking takes the place of sound reason. Remember what I used to say to you when you were a boy, food for thought is no substitute for the real thing. It don’t take a possum in a swamp to figure that one out. And yet my cries are shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools—I could go on, but, lord, why? See what you get for visiting your old man?
At least you’re moderately amusing.
Could a duck swim? I raise my pint to you.
Oh, woe is me? Woe is me. I am practicing my woes. Nat put a
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