contain his rage and humiliation. He would have succeeded, too, if his father hadnât heard her screams, come into the room and beat him senseless with a fire poker.
Aesculapius. A former residence. He had been back once, interrupting his studies at the Cambridge medical school to take the train down for the reading of his fatherâs will. A pastoral setting for a funeral. A place where he had told the vicar and his brothers that he thought it fitting that the cancer which had consumed the old man
had made his death slow and painful. He had inherited nothing. His sister had not returned and no one knew where she was. The day he left, his brothers committed his mother, for she was found in the kennels groveling with the hounds.
He had nothing left but himself, his dog-eared volumes of the Sturm und Drang, his scholarship and his rare talent for surgical inquiry.
He would succeed and prosper.
Suddenly he hurled the glass into the sky. It sailed a good hundred and fifty feet before shattering on a building across the street. He left the balcony, went into the bedroom and turned on the color television, the first device that had truly captured his imagination and fascination in 1979. He eased into an overstuffed chair, put his feet up on the ottoman and watched the midafternoon news break.
The broadcaster matter-of-factly reported on guerrilla warfare in Africa, a famine in Asia, striking workers in the Northeast and increased crime rates in major urban centers. The weather continued cool and overcast.
The newscaster disappeared and was replaced by a blonde selling cosmetics. She was followed by a pitch for Preparation H, a plea for the Heart Association and, finally, someone offering âgreat deals and slashed prices on new and used cars.â
Stephenson was amazed by the quick succession of visual images. There was no continuity, and unlike the printed page, this form of communication did not allow for reflection. Then again, perhaps one wasnât supposed to ponder over what he saw; maybe that was done for the viewer at the source of the images. If so, that was good, and he decided to let himself be saturated.
The Pride of the Marines returned to the Friday afternoon matinee, and Stephenson was transported to the war for the Pacific. Two U.S. Marines smoked cigarettes and whispered as they sat behind
what looked like a refinement of the Gatling gun. Suddenly a grenade exploded in their faces. One was killed, and the other rendered blind. Then hordes of Japanese soldiers emerged from the jungle and attacked. Whimpering with fright and panic, the sightless Marine began firing his machine gun, swinging it back and forth in a wide arc before him, guided only by his ears.
Stephenson bounced in the chair with joy, eyes wide with excitement as the hordes of Japanese were cut down by the bursts of machine-gun fire. He imagined the weapon in his own hands on the meadow at Aesculapius. His father and friends were coming for him, their horses at full gallop, their red coats and white riding breeches glistening in the sun. He fired. Men and horses were cut down instantly. But his father was up again, running for him, waving a fire poker high over his head. Another long burst of fire, and his father went down permanently, his form held together only by his clothes.
When he returned to reality, Stephenson felt relaxed and elated. He watched the maudlin ending to the war story, then turned off the television. He was extremely satisfied, for he had just seen images and affirmations to the only part of the human psyche that he truly admired and respected. Then he thought furiously. Queen Victoria (that pompous, horse-faced bitch) would never have allowed any of what he had just seen to be staged in England. So, societies must have changed drastically, allowing a man to express himself more freely, hence more violently. He chuckled. If this thing called television reflected the current state of the human beast, then he was
Aesculapius. A former residence. He had been back once, interrupting his studies at the Cambridge medical school to take the train down for the reading of his fatherâs will. A pastoral setting for a funeral. A place where he had told the vicar and his brothers that he thought it fitting that the cancer which had consumed the old man
had made his death slow and painful. He had inherited nothing. His sister had not returned and no one knew where she was. The day he left, his brothers committed his mother, for she was found in the kennels groveling with the hounds.
He had nothing left but himself, his dog-eared volumes of the Sturm und Drang, his scholarship and his rare talent for surgical inquiry.
He would succeed and prosper.
Suddenly he hurled the glass into the sky. It sailed a good hundred and fifty feet before shattering on a building across the street. He left the balcony, went into the bedroom and turned on the color television, the first device that had truly captured his imagination and fascination in 1979. He eased into an overstuffed chair, put his feet up on the ottoman and watched the midafternoon news break.
The broadcaster matter-of-factly reported on guerrilla warfare in Africa, a famine in Asia, striking workers in the Northeast and increased crime rates in major urban centers. The weather continued cool and overcast.
The newscaster disappeared and was replaced by a blonde selling cosmetics. She was followed by a pitch for Preparation H, a plea for the Heart Association and, finally, someone offering âgreat deals and slashed prices on new and used cars.â
Stephenson was amazed by the quick succession of visual images. There was no continuity, and unlike the printed page, this form of communication did not allow for reflection. Then again, perhaps one wasnât supposed to ponder over what he saw; maybe that was done for the viewer at the source of the images. If so, that was good, and he decided to let himself be saturated.
The Pride of the Marines returned to the Friday afternoon matinee, and Stephenson was transported to the war for the Pacific. Two U.S. Marines smoked cigarettes and whispered as they sat behind
what looked like a refinement of the Gatling gun. Suddenly a grenade exploded in their faces. One was killed, and the other rendered blind. Then hordes of Japanese soldiers emerged from the jungle and attacked. Whimpering with fright and panic, the sightless Marine began firing his machine gun, swinging it back and forth in a wide arc before him, guided only by his ears.
Stephenson bounced in the chair with joy, eyes wide with excitement as the hordes of Japanese were cut down by the bursts of machine-gun fire. He imagined the weapon in his own hands on the meadow at Aesculapius. His father and friends were coming for him, their horses at full gallop, their red coats and white riding breeches glistening in the sun. He fired. Men and horses were cut down instantly. But his father was up again, running for him, waving a fire poker high over his head. Another long burst of fire, and his father went down permanently, his form held together only by his clothes.
When he returned to reality, Stephenson felt relaxed and elated. He watched the maudlin ending to the war story, then turned off the television. He was extremely satisfied, for he had just seen images and affirmations to the only part of the human psyche that he truly admired and respected. Then he thought furiously. Queen Victoria (that pompous, horse-faced bitch) would never have allowed any of what he had just seen to be staged in England. So, societies must have changed drastically, allowing a man to express himself more freely, hence more violently. He chuckled. If this thing called television reflected the current state of the human beast, then he was
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