The Paris Review70 $2.25t3511F
William Gass InterviewPeter Handke, William S. Wilson Stories
Galvin, Sternberg, Kinnell PoemsPortfolio
William
Gass
Carola
Dibbell
C.W
.G
usew
elleP
eterH
andkeW
illiamS.
Wilson
Pau
léB
ártónD
avidB
ergman
James
Bertolino
Erica
Fu
nk
ho
user
Bren
dan
Galvin
Patricia
Goed
icke
Marjorie
Haw
ksworth
Joan
Moore
Philip
Murray
John
Ow
erD
eborahP
easeJo
hn
Pijew
skiV
ernR
utsala
David
Sch
loss
Okhee
and
Michael
Stev
ens
Ricardo
de
Silveira
Lobo
Stern
berg
Virginia
Terris
Fran
çois
Villon,
Gaiw
ayK
innell,tran
s.T
amara
Watson
John
C.
Witte
Interview
The
Art
ofF
ictionLX
V
Fiction
AM
isunderstan
din
gH
orstW
esselA
Mom
entof
True
Feeling
Co
nv
eyan
ce:“T
heS
tory
IW
ouldN
ever
Want
Bill
Wilson
toR
ead”
Portfolio
Maquillage
The
Mystery
ofthe
Lost
Sh
oes
The
White
Room
Four
Po
ems
Thum
b
Three
Po
ems
Tw
oP
oem
s
No
Advice
forthe
Lovelorn
Chasing
Ham
let
Notes
onC
ontributors
61
11414
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173
178
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17731413
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Deborah
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Dick
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Charlie
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Fro
ntisp
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William
Pèn
edu
Bois
Cover
paintingby
William
Copley,
“Untitled,”
19
77
.T
ableof
Contents
drawing
byW
illiamC
opley,“L
oveL
etterto
V,”
19
77
.
I
InM
emoriam
—S
ueM
arquand1
89
19
3
CO
NV
EY
AN
CE
49
Conveyance:
“The
storyI
would
neverwant
Dear
Bill, B
illWilson
toread”
William
S. Wilson
Iw
asgoing
tosay
thatthis
letteris
difficultto
write,
butthen
youw
ouldw
onderw
hyI
amw
ritingit,
soI
willnot
make
iteasy
form
eby
sayingthat
itis
difficult,but
simply
goahead,
ifIcan.
Evenas
Iwrite
toyou
now,
Isense
younot
onlyas
thereader
of thisletter,
Isense
youeavesdropping
onm
eas
Iw
riteit.
Iknow
thatyou
arew
earyof
beingtold
thatyou
intimidate
thevery
peoplew
homyou
encourage,and
Iknow
thatyou
cantell
yourselfthatw
hateveryou
didfor
me
incom
menting
onm
yw
ritingw
asfor
my
good,but
Ifelt
caughtin
some
circularityin
which
youcould
dono
wrong,
evenyour
mistaken
comm
entscould
beuseful,
ifonly
asobstacles
thatwould
strengthenm
eif Icould
overcome
them,
asI
triedto
explainto
youw
hatIhad
meant,
butIcan’thelp
thinkingthat
youw
ereoften
toointerested
instaking
outsom
eposition
foryourselfbeyond
criticismor
retaliation,that
youhave
oftenbeen
more
interestedin
therightness
ofyour
positionthan
inhelping
me,
admitting
thatI
askedfor
the
helpbut
thatyou
undertookto
readw
hatI
wrote
andto
comm
enton
itfor
purposesof
yourow
nw
hichI
havenot
questionedbut
which
must
haveserved
some
self-intereston
yourpart.
Iam
tryingnot
toseem
shrillfor
severalreasons
which
Iw
illspell
out.O
rperhaps
Isim
plydon’t
want
tobe
shrill.A
nyway
youknow
howscattered
my
educationw
as,but
youdon’t
knowthat
Iw
asnever
trainedin
beingcriti
cized,I
hadnot
learnedto
stoppretending
ignoranceor
incom
petence.A
comm
entsuch
asram
shacIeon
my
storyw
asnew
tom
e,and
Ithink
youunderestim
atedthe
handicapof
my
education,its
blandness,and
while
yourem
ainedbitter
andspoke
ofthe
acidbath
ofcriticism
orof
howyou
were
patronized,you
were
beingpatronized
insom
eof
thebest
placesw
hileI
was
beingeducated
forthe
suburbs,and
youare
tougherthan
youcredit
yourselfw
ithbeing
(which
encourages
me
tow
ritethis
letter),and
Iw
asm
orehurt
byyour
helpful suggestions—ifonly
becauseIneeded
som
uchhelp—
thanI
evertold
you.W
hichis
notto
saythat
Ialso
may
nothave
misunderstood
yourcom
ments.
Your
lastnote
tom
ew
asnow
almost
two
yearsago.
I’vereread
it,and
Isee
boththat
youw
erecovering
yourself,w
antingto
beim
pressivein
ways
thatseem
tom
econtrary
tothe
ways
inw
hichI
dofind
youim
pressive—and
som
uchof
youram
bition(w
hichyou
didnot
admit
to)is
revenge(w
hichyou
would
notadm
itto)—
andalso
thatI
misunder
stoodyour
finalassignm
entor
suggestionto
me.
You
hadgiven
me,
notthe
motifs
forthe
stories,but
theim
pulse,the
energy,as
yousaid,
toovercom
ethe
intimidations,
andI had
written
asyou
hadsuggested,
“The
storyI
would
notw
antm
ym
otherand
fatherto
read,”“T
hestory
Iwould
not want
Ow
ento
read,”“T
hestory
Iw
ouldnot
want
my
daughtersto
read,”and
while
Ididn’t
usethose
titles,you
probablycould
tellw
hichw
asw
hich,and
yes,in
spiteof
some
negativism
inthe
technique(I
was
afraidof
revealingm
yself,but
Iw
asnot
onlyafraid),
writing
with
thatim
pulsedid
getm
e
RIo
Caliente
III;
50W
ILU
AM
S.W
ILSO
NI
CO
NV
EY
AN
CE
51
pastsom
eof
my
inhibitions,although
youseem
edby
thoseassignm
entsto
bepushing
me
toward
the“confessional”
poetseven
asin
yoursuggestions
forreading
yousteered
me
away
fromthem
,and
youcertainly
(outof
yourtheory,
Iknow
,and
Ido
believethat
youbelieve
init,
butI
neverquite
understoodit,
afterall
itw
asn’tm
ytheory,
andyou
hadtold
me
thatstyle
andm
eaninghad
reciprocalim
plications,
sothat
Icould
scarcelyhave
yourstyle
imposed
onm
ew
ithouthavingsom
ethingofyour
meanings
imposed
onm
e,and
evennow
ifIthink
interm
sofim
posedversus
imm
anentim
plicationsI
couldnot
tellw
herem
ythought
beganand
yoursended,
andyou
would
saythat
itdidn’t
matter,
thatit
was
justsomething
youpicked
upfrom
Whitehead
orsom
ebody,
andyou
would
referm
eto
yoursources,
butI
thinkyou
were
beingelusive,
notm
odest,and
itw
asyou
Iw
asinterested
in,not
Whitehead)—
andnow
Ihave
lostmy
ideaand
my
syntax.A
nyway
yourfinal
suggestionto
me,
tow
rite“T
hestory
Iw
ouldnot
want
Bill
Wilson
toread,”
Itook
asyour
attempt
toget
ridof
me,
andI
didnot
write
it,in
factI
stoppedw
riting,and
Ireturn
tothat
theme
nowonly
be
causeIhave
wanted
tow
riteyou
aletter
andhave
nothadthe
self-stylization(I
knowyou
enjoythose
Germ
anicphrases)
orthe
point-of-viewfrom
which
tow
ritea
letter,and
youdid
stresspoint-of-view
asthe
problemw
hichw
oulddissolve
cornplacencies
andyield
theunexpected
resolutionof
thestory.
SoI
neededan
excuseto
write
toyou,
andnow
lookingover
my
storiesand
yournotes,
tossingthem
intothe
fireplaceand
startinga
firew
iththem
inthe
evening—I
havecarried
outthe
trashfor
thelast
time
inm
ylife—
Isee
thatyou
may
nothave
meant
me
tostop
sendingstories,
youm
ayhave
meant
me
toreach
beyondthe
awareness
thatyou
would
bereading
whatI
hadbeen
writing,
meantfor
me
tow
ritethat
storybut
tosend
itto
youin
spiteof
theim
plicationsof
thetitle,
youw
eretrying
tohelp
me
stopbeing
afraidof
youbut
alsoto
transcendsom
epainful
self-limitation—
andyou
didnotw
antm
yfear
ofyou
tobe
yourfault,
butif
itw
eren’t,then
itw
asonly
anotherpainful
weakness
ofm
yow
n—anyw
ayI
think
thatyou
were
ambivalent
aboutreading
my
things,I
knowyou
feltput
uponby
som
anydem
andson
yourtim
e—w
hatyou
hadbeen
throughw
ithyour
marriage,
andthe
children—
andIw
asnot
usedto
courage,I
was
broughtup
notto
askfor
help,and
Iw
aslazy
enoughto
findit
easiest toread
thattitle
asan
attempt
tobe
ridofm
e.B
utnow
Ihave
foundthe
point-of-view,
theexcuse,
forthis
letter,w
hichw
illbe
my
last story,and
which
is,in
several sensesbut
inno
ambiguous
sense,the
storyI w
ouldnot w
ant Bill W
ilsonto
read——
Iknew
when
Isaw
youat
thatN
ewY
ear’sEve
reception—
youlooked
aghastw
henyou
sawm
esitting
inthe
rowof
chairsarranged
soform
allyalong
thew
all,I
supposeto
make
spaceand
tom
akepeople
behavethem
selves—that
youhad
heardabout
theaccident
(Iam
tempted
todelay
here,but
thenI
remem
berthat
eachpart
ofa
story,each
word
ifpos
sible,w
asto
work
frontallyas
well
aslaterally,
soI
will
notm
erelysay
accident,I
will
attempt
something
ofthat
convexm
eniscus,to
useone
ofthe
images
youused
forw
ritingthat
youliked,
which
Iknow
yousaid
was
justsom
ethingyou
rem
embered
fromhigh
school chemistry,
anddidn’t reflectany
scientificexperience
orknow
ledge,but
Inever
seemed
torem
ember
images
likethat from
chemistry,
stillIgot the
pointthat surprise
endingsw
ereout,
thatexposition
was
difficultif
notim
possible,that
onehad
always
tobe
inm
ediasres),
I
knewthatyou
knewthat m
yhusband
andm
ydaughters
were
dead,and
howthey
haddied,
when
Isaw
youstanding
therew
itha
coatand
tieam
ongm
enin
tuxedosand
wom
enin
eveninggow
ns,and
Icould
retrievefrom
yourclothes
yourcalculations
asto
howclose
youcould
come
tothem
without
becoming
toodistant
fromyourself,
andI
sawthe
glassin
yourhand,
andI
don’tknow
what
youthought
Iw
asth
ink
ing,I
hadnot
respondedto
yourlast
noteor
toyour
lengthycriticism
s,m
ylife
hadbecom
ea
tragedybut
Ilacked
atragic
senseof
life,I
was
tryingto
lookneither
approachablenor
unapproachable,I
didnot
want
toattend
aN
ewY
ear’sEve
reception,of
course,but
inthe
easyparadoxes
andform
ulasw
hichm
akeit
sodifficult
tothink
aboutm
yexperience,
my
52W
ILL
IAM
S.W
ILSO
NC
ON
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YA
NC
E53
absencew
ouldhave
beena
presence,and
Ithought
thatI
would
make
iteasieron
everyoneby
puttingin
abriefappear
anceearly
inthe
evening:and
Iw
antedto
beunfaithful
tom
ygrief.
Looking
atyou—
andI
hadnot
heardthat
youhad
beenin
thehospital,
becausefriends
stoppedtelling
me
sador
disquietingnew
s,and
Ididnotknow
thatyou
hadenough
reasonsfor
yourow
nw
intrydesolations,
andI
don’tknow
whatw
ecould
havedone
foreach
otheranyw
ay,Idon’tknow
howw
em
ighthave
helpedeach
other,I
was
asyou
might
havenoticed
incapableof
eating,and
was
alreadydrinking,
andlooking
atyouIfocused
onthe
glassof ice
inyour
hand,probably
plainsoda-w
ater—if
youhave
beenw
aitingfor
my
chargeof
self-righteousness,here
itis,
Isaw
youstanding
therein
clothesw
hichlet
youlook
theeconom
icor
socialin
feriorofpeople
whom
youundoubtedly
feltsuperiorto,
afteryou
hadlectured
me
againstirony,
andyou
drinkingnothing
while
othersdrank
alcohol,or
youdrinking
white
wine
while
theydrank
Scotch,I
hadbeen
ableto
graspyour
self-righteousness
onthe
levelofthese
details—partly
becauseyou
triedto
trainm
ein
concreteness,although
my
concretedetails
oftenseem
edto
me
illustrationsof
yourgeneralizations
aboutcon
cretedetails,
andif
Icould
catch,on
thelevel
ofconcrete
details,thatyou
were
much
toom
uchoutto
get people,scan-
flingfor
errorsinstead
ofapplauding,
Ihad
more
troubleon
more
abstractlevelsbecause
youw
ereso
practicedatescaping,
were
ifnot
glibat
leastw
ellprepared,
Ithink
youconfused
beingcorrectw
ithbeing
good,so
thatI
couldnever
make
my
pointbecause
youseem
eddeterm
inedto
bein
theright
what
everthe
cost,you
were
aProteus
who
changedshape
ifanyone
triedto
touchyou,
orif
anyonedid
touchyou.
Iw
assaying
thatI
was
lookingat
theglass
inyour
handand
thinkingof
glassor
ofice—I
didnot
decidew
hich—as
thefailure
of light,a
lineofim
ageryI
knewyou
would
resist,although
Idid
notknow
,as
Ihavesaid,
howsick
youhad
been,and
perhapsyou
havechanged.
(Ihear
my
assumption
inthat
sentence,that
sufferingchastens.
Sorry.)Y
ouw
eretrapped
besidethe
man
tiepieceby
thatman
who
producedethnic
records,Icould
see
j
thestruggle
onyour
facebetw
eenboredom
andsearching
for some
facttolethim
knowthatyou
knewsom
ethingabout
hissubject—
Isay
onlyw
hat yousaid
firstaboutyourself,
thatyou
knewm
ostof
what
youknew
frombook
reviews,
thoseself-accusations
which
forestalledaccusations,
deafeningyour
self tocriticism
,but
itw
astrue,
youw
ereoften
onlyas
inter
estingas
them
ostrecent
paperbackyou
hadread,
thoughyou
did(do)
havea
flairfor
what
youcall
yourcolloquial
undercut,and
Iw
as(am
)grateful
foryour
explanations,I
always
thoughtthat
youw
erea
goodteacher,
Inever
deniedyou
that.I don’t know
which
ofusleft the
partyfirst,
Ididn’t
seeyou
when
I saidm
ythank-yous
andgood-nights.
Iwas
notinterested
ina
poemabout
aglass
of iceand
thefrequencies
of light,I
knewin
advanceyour
comm
ent,that
ifI
hadto
work
with
suchan
image,
tocom
mit
myself
toits
implications
with
precision,and
Isat
thererem
otefrom
my
own
indictments
ofyour
self-protectiveand
self-servingtact,
yourendless
tact,I
hadgrow
n,not
compassionate,
butbe
yondcaring
much
aboutanything
oranyone,
Isuppose
oneof
“theindifferent
childrenof
theearth,”
toquote
asyou
would
quoteso
quicklya
linefrom
Ham
letthat
I would
recognize
butw
ouldn’thave
remem
beredaptly.
Iam
writing
nowsom
ewhere
ina
mood
ofindifferent
festivitybecause
deathis
ripeningand
isw
ithinm
yreach, justabout
my
deathof
choice,cirrhosis,
with
thecom
plicationof
hepatitisthat
Iknew
Icould
counton
Mexico
for,and
anoperation
bythe
local“doctor”
thatI
underwent
asI
would
undergoan
ulti
mate
poem,
andI
will
describethat
later,but
notto
hurtyou.
Iam
tryingnot
toterrorize
youfor
yourow
ngood.
Ithought that Iw
ouldbe
unableto
write
at allafterthe
operation,
forI
haven’t hadthe
energyeven
tothink,
butsom
ehowI
havethis
surgew
hichI
supposehas
some
chemical
base—I
haven’teven
beenable
todrink
forthe
lastfew
days—so
perhapsm
ybody
isconsum
ingitself,
Iam
saprozoic(at
leastI
haveour
dictionaryhere
with
me,
youm
ightbe
amused
toknow
)—and
Iguess
my
bodyis
releasingits
reservesof
cortisone,
ortapping
itsreservoir
ofadrenalin—
althoughthe
truest
54W
ILLIAM
S.W
ILSO
NC
ON
VE
YA
NC
E55
image
isfrom
thatW
.C.
Fieldsm
oview
eall
sawas
partof
thatsubscription
series,w
herehe
burnsup
thew
oodenparts
ofthe
steamboat
inits
own
steamengine
inorder
tow
inthe
race—for
beyondany
adrenergicsis
thetrue
sourceof energy,
my
nearnessto
my
own
death,I
supposeyou
would
saythe
energyof
my
positionin
relationto
aforce,
althoughyou
would
remind
me
hereto
thinkof
theverb,
dying,rather
thanthe
noun,death,
yousee
Ido
remem
ber,but
alsoI
do
mean
death,hitherto
my
most
abstractrelationship,
butone
thatis
becoming
quiteconcrete.
And
noone
cantell m
ew
hat
I amallow
edto
mean.
I hopeyou
willnot
thinkm
ecruel
tow
ritethis
description:
theplane
hoppedsuch
shortdistances,
fromisland
toisland,
thatit should
havebeen
smalland
hadtw
oseats
ineach
row,
likea
streetcaror
atrain,
butit
hadthree
seats,so
Isat
atthe
window
seatbehind
therow
with
Ow
en,A
my
andElise
in
frontof
me,
thegirls
takingturns
attheir
window
seat,al
thoughthere
was
lessand
lessto
seeas
itgrew
darker,and
I
couldalm
ostsee
throughthe
backsof
theirseats
theexcite
ment
andpleasure,
andI
didsee
anoccasional
handreaching
between
theseats,
anoccasional
facepeeking
atm
eover
the
topof
theseat,
thegirls
sopale
andthin,
my
daughtersw
ho
would
neverbe
sturdy,the
aloofor
reservedlook
ofsickly
childrenunderlying
thenorm
aleagerness
ofarriving
inthe
nightat
aC
aribbeanisland,
andthe
planelanded
onthe
water,
afew
passengersdisem
barked,and
thenit
tookoff,
thelastof the
sunset,and
thenthe
lastof thepassengers
after
we
landedin
thedark
amidst sm
allwhite
boats,and
thenthe
anticipationas
Irem
embered
thisflight
with
Ow
enten
years
before,and
wondered
aboutthe
wisdom
ofreturning
tothe
islandw
iththe
children,w
henw
ehad
known
itonly
without
them,
but I occupiedm
yself thinkingabout the
threeof them
infront
ofme,
andhow
Im
adefour,
orhow
Am
y,Elise
and
I,three
females,
made
three,the
wom
enO
wen
wondered
aloudhow
hecould
make
happy,or
ashe
usedto
saysom
e
times,
howhe
couldshut
usup,
andA
my
andElise
were
two
together,daughters
andsisters,
sometim
esas
differentfrom
me
asboys,
girlsw
how
ereallow
edto
looklike
boyssom
etim
es,so
unlikem
ychildhood,
my
girlhood,for
which
Istill
wanted
reparations—I
hadhad
alayette
anda
bassinet,and
when
Iwas
atGoucherm
ym
otherw
asstillsending
me
lingeriefrom
Altm
an’s—although
atleast
nothingin
thatgirlhood
tempted
me
toprolong
it,so
Iamgratefulfor
that—and
Am
yand
Eliselooked
likeeach
other,although
Eliselooked
more
likeO
wen,
andA
my
lookedm
orelike
me,
especiallyafter
Ihad
toget
glassesfor
reading,so
thatI
couldsay
thatI
was
toA
my
asA
my
was
toFuse
asElise
was
toO
wen,
andthough
ourchildren
conveyedus
toeach
other,as
theirfrail
bodiesbodied
forththe
sensitivitiesw
ehad
bothdeliberately
pre
servedin
ourselves,although
notour
physicalstrength,
be
causethey,
inthat
uglyw
ordI
hateso
much,
hadthat
syndrom
e,although
inm
yrage
Inever
couldsee
theconnection
between
theirpoorvision,
thebrittle
bones,and
theallergies,
Icould
notthen
understandw
hatthe
doctorssaid
becauseI
knewthey
meantthatA
my
andElise
would
neverbe
healthy,never
eata
normal
meal,
andthat
my
complex
lovefor
my
daughtersw
ouldbe
complicated
bypity
andfear,
while
theattitude
ofourfriends
toward
theirsickness
was
toocorrect—
some
smell
ofliberalself-congratulation
was
inthe
airw
henthey
servedthe
rightfoods
without
callingattention
totheir
consideration—w
eren’tthey
angry,like
Iw
as?A
ren’tthey
angry,like
Iam
?I
wanted
tofile
acom
plaintsom
ewhere.
Severalcomplaints.
The
planecircled
toolong,
evenI
couldtell
that,now
thatw
ew
erethe
lastfourpassengers,thinking
tom
yselfonceupon
atim
ethere
was
aw
oman
andshe
hadtw
odaughters,
theyset
outw
ithher
husband,their
father,to
findthe
islandw
here.
..
,and
asthe
planetook
toolong
Irem
embered
thatmarvelous
medical
historian’sstory
aboutflying
overthe
Andes
andlooking
roundto
seethe
stewardess
stretchedout
onthe
floorin
theaisle
ofthe
planew
itha
rosaryheld
toher
breast—he
was
doingresearch
fora
historyof
medicine
inSouth
Am
erica—and
hisstories
seemed
soriotously
funnythatevening
inN
ewH
avenw
henhe
keptaccidentally
knock-
56W
ILLIAM
S.W
ILSO
NC
ON
VE
YA
NC
E57
ingthe
chairsand
ashtraysout
ofalignm
ent,until
thew
hole
hard-edgedapartm
entw
asin
subtledisarray,
andI
gavea
surreptitiousshove
tothe
wooden
trianglecontaining
the
antiquebilliard
ballsw
hichSihad
placedon
thecoffee
table
asan
objettrouvé
butconsistent
with
hisow
naesthetic
of
sharp-focusgeom
etry,I
thinkyou
saidthat
Si’sB
auhaus
managed
tosublate
Surrealism,
asyou
useda
word
Ihad
neverheard
anyonew
orkinto
aconversation,
Ithink
you
sublateda
littleSurrealism
yourself,m
orethan
youknew
,
andI
wanted
totell
thatevening
howI
usedto
shopin
stores
which
hadbeen
ahundred
feetor
more
beloww
herew
ew
ere
thensitting,
beforethe
urbanrenew
alhad
torndow
nthat
market
streetand
putup
thatbuilding
with
thefirst
several
storeysa
parkinggarage,
butI
nevergot
todescribe
myself
asa
goodFulbrightw
ifeshopping
inthe
littlem
arketsinstead
ofthe
supermarket
forthe
ingredientsof
apeasant
casserole
Ihad
learnedto
make
thatyear
abroad,I
nevergot
totell
my
storythen
oreven
latergoing
down
inthe
elevatorpaststreet-
levelto
theunderground
parkinglot,
andin
some
nervous
nessI
admiringly
tookthe
lidoff
aprim
itivebasket
thatSi
with
hisincredible
eyehad
boughtin
Brazil—
something
functionalw
hichhad
perfectclassical
linesand
echoedhis
own
printsor
rhymed
with
theB
arcelonachairs—
butIdidn’t
tell my
story,I w
asfeeling
dowdy
graduate-studentw
ife,and
remem
beringthat
yourw
ife—you
seemed
lessto
havegotten
married
thanto
havejoined
thecircus—
hadsaid
thatthe
wives
ofbehaviorist
psychologistslook
likelaboratory
mice
beforeshe
askedO
wen
what
hestudied,
andhe
was
embar
rassedfor
herand
form
e,but
theyforgot
herrem
arkabout
mice
becauseshe
was
offon
hism
id-westernism
,and
how
men
fromthe
Am
ericanm
id-westw
erethe
lastmen
who
knew
howto
walk
likem
enw
ithoutknow
ingthat
theyw
eredoing
so—and
inthe
hand-woven
basketwere
Si’sdirty
clothes,he
was
furiousthat
Ihad
discoveredthat
theobject
soperfectly
deployedin
anapartm
entwhich
was
more
astill-life
painting
thana
home
was functional,
andI
thoughtonly
thathe
was
cleverto
thinkof using
itfor
alaundry
basketand
tokeep
it
inthe
livingroom
,and
Isank
backin
my
chair,I
shrank,know
ingthatm
yposture
was
notm
akingthe
chairlook
good—
aplum
p-facedw
oman
who
lookedas
thoughif
shew
ereto
losetw
entypounds
shew
ouldbe
beautifulor
atleastpretty,but
Ihave
losttw
icethat
much
now.
Soit
was
oneof
thoseevenings,
asthough
Sigavea
partylike
thatto
provehis
theoryofpeople
tohim
selfalloveragain—
andthe
planew
astaking
toolong
toland,
we
were
offourschedule,
andIw
asrem
embering
nonsense,and
why
couldn’tI havebeen
likeC
harlottew
henW
arrenupset
hercoffee
tablebreaking
allthose
cupsand
shesaid
withouta
traceofirony,
Oh
that’sallright,
theyw
erevery
oldanyw
ay,and
Idon’t
thinkW
arrenever
realized—
andIcam
eback
fromthose
mem
oriesto
therow
ofseatsin
frontofm
e,to
thethree,
oneofw
homm
adem
ea
wife,
two
ofw
homm
adem
ea
mother,
threeof
whom
made
me
aw
oman
inm
yow
neyes,
thoughI
knowthat
nowthat
would
bea
counter-revolutionarythoughtand
Iwouldn’thave
wanted
Am
yand
Eliseto
thinklike
thatw
henthey
grewup,
andifI
couldm
akem
yselfintoa
writer Idon’tknow
whatthatw
ouldm
akem
e,differentfrom
whatIw
asyetm
orem
yselfIhoped,but
theam
bitionw
asim
portant,and
theplane
was
circlingtoo
long,the
lonestew
ardesscam
eback
tosay
thatthe
fogw
asthick
andthat
we
were
runninglow
onfuel
andw
ouldland
inthe
darkon
calmseas,
andofcourse
we
coulddepend
uponourselves
tobehave
well,
Ihad
grown
upw
ithm
onogram
son
everything,I
heardthe
clicksof
theother
threeseatbelts,
thelights
inthe
planedim
med
andw
entout,
andw
esatw
aitingin
thevivid
darkness.W
henthe
planetouched
I feltthe
smack
oftheim
pactandheard
screams
asthe
planeripped
alongthe
seams,
andlights
came
onin
theforw
ardsection
asit
torefree
andsank
while
Iwas
beinglifted
inm
yseat high
intothe
airand
leanedover
lookingdow
nonto
Ow
en,A
my
andElise
reachingup,
itwas
likelooking
down
ontopeople
onthe
seatbelow
oneon
aferris
wheel
asone
heldon
fordear
life,and
thenthe
lights,the
fronthalfof
theplane,
andtheir
facesdisappeared,
andIsattilted
upin
my
endofthe
planeas
itgraduallysubsided,
58W
IUJA
MS.W
ILSO
NC
ON
VE
YA
NC
E59
andI
waited,
silentand
alone,trapped
inm
ylifeboat,
untilthe
skybruised
with
lightin
theeast,
andI
canquote
theB
iblew
ithoutw
orryingabout
allof
theim
plications:“A
ndthe
heavendeparted
asa
scroll when
it isrolled
together;and
everym
ountainand
islandw
erem
ovedout
oftheir
place.”N
ice,isn’t
it?A
ndm
orningcam
esooner
thanI
couldthink,
andm
yperplexed
rescue,bobbing
upand
down
inthat
truncated
airplane,not
feelinglost,
knowing
thatI
was
25,000m
ilesto
theeastof m
yself,25,000
miles
tothe
westof m
yself,I could
findm
yselfanytime
I decidedto
look.I
flew,
was
flown,
backto
New
York.
You
hadnot
heardfrom
me
fora
year,I
sawno
reasonto
getin
touch.I
drankquietly
andconscientiously,
thinkingof
my
liverturning
asorange
asa
life-jacket.I
will
notrepress
theseim
ages,now
that I amcapsizing,
thoughIcan
hearyou
complaining
aboutw
omen
confessionalpoets
dredgingtheir
hearts,and
Icould
quoteyou
onhow
comparisons
depletethe
actualityof
thethings
compared.
But
Iam
nowm
istressof
my
own
depletions.
Idrank,
butI
underestimated
my
strength.G
odI
was
robust.I
stayedin
thecity,
sellingthe
house,arranging
everydetail, finally
achievingan
orderso
that everythingis
asitw
illbe
afterI have
died,and
hereI have
nothingthat Idon’tneed
forthe
next fewdays,
them
aiddoes
everything,and
asIread
throughyour
lettersand
my
poems
andstories
Itoss
themonto
thiscom
fortablefire.
Icould
beout
ofthis
placein
fivem
inutesif I had
tobe.
Iflewhere,
notbecause
youhad
mentioned
Rio
Caliente
ina
story,because
afterallyoulearned
thenam
efrom
me,
thoughyou
leftoff theaccent:
Rio.
Everyone
hasbeen
pleasant,Ifeel
thatI
amalm
osta
typethey
knowhow
tohandle
me
sow
ell,they
seemfam
iliarw
ithm
e(unless
itis
my
familiarity
with
deaththat
theysense;
againI alm
ostdidn’t say
that—w
edis
cussedLaw
rence,B
ill,The
Plum
edSerpent,
andyou
scoredthe
points,but
alsoyou
neverheard
me
out).In
anyevent
(forgivem
ym
ischief—I
knowyou
hatethe
phrase)the
stateof
medicine
hereis
complicated—
Icould
tellyou
ofsom
eacquaintances
Idrank
with
inthe
eveningw
hohad
hadin-
curablecancer
inthe
Statesand
herehave
beencured
with
Laetrile—
theycom
eback
everyyear
fortrium
phantvacations—
andthis
isn’tvoodoo,but
realdoctors,
trainedin
theStates,
who
usedm
edicinesthat
weren’t
approvedthere,
perhapsthey
arenow
,but
anyway
thesepeople
tellm
eabout
beingexam
ined—a
sigmoidoscopy,
noless—
andabout
growths
asbig
asgrapefruits
ororanges
thathave
shrunkto
thesize
ofgrapes—
Ilove
theirgratitude
asthey
talkabout
theiropera
tioris,their
Laetrileenem
as,their
“Wobe-M
ugos”enzym
es,and
theytold
me
howw
ell Ilooked
anddiscouraged
me
fromdrinking
thew
ater.I
amso
tirednow
Im
ustget
tothe
inter
estingpart
ofmy
operation.I
wanted
nothingto
dow
iththe
antisepticyoung
doctorsat
theone-storey
hospitalthey’re
allso
proudof,
butthe
maid
toldm
eabout
alocal
man
who
performs
miraculous
operations,and
Iagreed
tosee
himfor
theentertainm
ent.I
underestimated
him,
however,
forhe
isim
pressive,and
ifanyonew
antedto
becured,
hecould
pro
bably
doit,
althoughhe
hasenough
senseto
sendsom
epatients
tothe
hospital,part
ofan
understandingw
iththe
healthyyoung
doctorsthat
isbeyond
me.
They
justdon’t
drawthe
linebetw
eenappearance
andreality
atthe
same
placeyou
andI
do,and
perhapsboth
ofusunderestim
atedthe
amount
of illusionin
ourperceptions.
Iam
notgoing
todescribe
theoperation
Ilet
himperform
form
yliver.
He
gavem
em
arre
lou
sstuff—
Ifelt
nopain,
butif
Iw
antedto
beaw
areI
couldbe,
andif
Ididn’t
want
tobe,
Icould
driftoff,
which
Im
ostlydid.
Ayoung
boystood
bythroughout,
allexpres
sionlessintelligence,
butw
henthe
doctor,m
ysham
an,w
asready
tosew
me
up,the
boystepped
forward
openingthe
boxhe
heldin
frontof
hisheart,
andw
hilem
yw
itchdoctorap
;posedthe
edgesof
theincision,
theboy
would
takeout
anenorm
ousblack
ant,and
when
theant
hadseized
theedges
with
itsm
andibles,he
would
cutthe
thoraxfrom
theant
head,thus
making
onestitch.
And
soI
was
suturedw
ith:
eighteenants,
adozen
miles
froma
hospitalthat
isthe
prideofthe
Indians.A
ndiftruth
were
tobe
told,I
havefelt
better—
weak,
butclear—
sincethe
operation,and
Ilook
atm
y
WILLIA
MS.
WILSO
Nincision
with
admiration,
itseems
tom
ean
image
ofunquestionable
beauty,an
actofpoetic
truth,although
Iwould
notw
anttohave
todefine
my
terms.
Iwas
goingto
gothrough
yourcom
ments
andansw
ersome
ofthem
,quote
themback
toyou:
“theproblem
with
thestory
isthat
youset
upthe
situationso
laboriouslythat
itis
obviouslya
set-up.Try
toget
closerto
them
agicthan
this:som
ethingshould
appearw
ithoutapparentcause,
orbe
setup
beforeyour
eyesand
yoube
disbelievingyetincapable
ofdisbelief.
You
will
thinkthat
Imerely
lacka
senseofhum
or..
ButI
don’tw
antto
estrangeyou.
You
willthink
thatIlack
asense
ofhumor.
Ihavetw
ofinalpoints.
First,I
haverealized,
while
writing
thisletter
andreading
yourcom
ments,
thatyou
hadexpected
tolearn
fromm
e,and
thatpart
ofyour
disappointm
entin
me
was
notyou
asteacher
disappointedin
me
asstudent,
butyouas
studentdisappointed
inm
eas
teacher,and
Iam
willing
tosee
nowthat
yoursaving
gracehas
beenthat
youalw
aysexpected
tolearn.
Naïve
ofyou,
Bill,
butI
forgiveyou.
Ifw
hatI
havejust
written
istrue,
andif
youhave
notknow
nit,
thenyou
havelearned
something
fromm
e,and
perhapsI
havenot
disappointedyou
entirely.A
ndso
my
secondpoint
ifI
amthe
teacher.Y
ouhave
beenso
articulatethat
yourattem
ptsto
liftm
ebeyond
intimidations
were
themselves
intimidating,
thoughw
ediscussed
ourfearsaboutw
riting,
andIknew
thatIhurt
youby
beingafraid
ofyou.N
owI
havetold
youm
ystory,
orenough
ofit,I
feelm
oregood
will
thanyou
mightperhaps
creditme
with,
andyou
might
sayas
youtirelessly
saidofm
ystories,
atleastofm
yadjectives,
thatIshould
renderthe
evidence,notrender
theverdict,
butany
way
Iamquite
livelynow
,a
wom
anw
hosuccessfully
abscondedto
Mexico
inorder
toabandon
herlife,
andI
want
youto
dosom
ethingfor
me
thatm
aydo
something
foryou,
andthat
isto
acceptfromm
ethe
sortofassignmentthatI
usedto
acceptfrom
you.N
owthat
youhave
readm
yletter,
write
thestory
thatyou
would
want
me
toread.
Goodbye,
Bill.
I’mgoing
therestofthe
way
onm
yow
n.
1—
’
N\
/
SELf portrait
William
Gass
The
Ait
ofFiction
IXV
Inthe
bookb0I
alcoveoff
thebare
roomw
hereh
wtes
when
athom
e,W
illiamG
assgave
thisinterview
in
Julyof
1976.Sitting
incut-offi
andT-shirt,
sippingon
abottle
of Ballan
tiale,
Gass
resembles
aboyish
headmaster
at hisSunday
ease.W
henhe
talksthe
small shifts
of hiscom
pactbody,
thevoice
‘sin
flection5
andthe
mind’s
arting5
reve
aw
terharsh
onhim
self andhis
work,
thoughgen
erousin
hisresponses.
Now
53,G
assis
professorof
philosophYat
shin
gt0
nU
niversitYin
St.Louis.
His
booksare:
Om
eflSettC
Luck,
anovel
(1966);In
theH
eartof
theH
eartof
theC
ountry,stoe5
(1968);Fictiofl
andthe
Figuresof
Life,essays
(1970);
Willie
Masters’
Lonesom
eW
ife,a
fictional essay(1971)
andO
nB
eingB
lue,cticiS
m(1976).
Partsof
The
Tunnel,
his0e1
inprogre5S
havebeen
appeafln
gsinC
e1969.
Bestregards,
C.