laughter, emerging in little snorts, seemed to escape during moments when his vigilance was slack.
— How is your wife going, old friend?
— Barbara?
Brian looked up astonished. He shook his head in amazement. Then doubts as to the validity of being amazed seized him. He shook his head glumly. Barbara fled out of the window and disappeared into some shrubs. We were both morose. We returned to the studio and inspected an angular collossus. Brian brought back two yellow pints. As he approached me he stepped into a puddle, shivered and remarked:
— Damn.
I never saw his Committee. The way he described them, I had the impression of gummy eyes pitched on abstract paintings. Surely they must be docile if Brian dominated them? He expounded the virtues of a painting:
— I think it’s worth the sixty-four pounds. It’s virtually certain to appreciate.
— But—ho! hee! ha!—is anyone virtually certain to appreciate it ?
Stiff nudges. Toothless smiles. Brian takes off his horn- rimmed glasses and bites his lip. He exclaims:
— Ha. Ha. I do think we should have it.
— How’s your car going, Brian?
— There’s something wrong with its central nervous system.
— Does it steer well?
— The steering is satisfactory. It barks in the morning.
— Do you sail these days?
— On a vast reservoir. My father has built a boat for me.
— How is your family?
— Mary is pubescent. She and her friends giggle about pubic hairs.
— What about God?
Brian shrugs irritably. God? Better to go to church than argue about it. Barbara makes him go.
— You never used to believe in God, Brian?
— Oh, I don’t believe in God. Perhaps I believe in—going to church. I don’t know.
— I wouldn’t mind fucking your wife, Brian.
— I wouldn’t mind fucking yours.
— Do you think people fuck more now than they used to?
— No.
Brian reflects, nibbling his finger-nails, then adds.
— Perhaps.
10
A Coil of Rooms
M ANY ROOMS.
I called round to see Conrad.
I have a composite image of the visit, doubtless assembled from several which I am unable to separate distinctly in memory. Conrad is standing up in his bedroom. Behind him is a small stone idol which I incorrectly identify as a Cycladic fertility goddess. Another small stone sculpture is on the chest of drawers. It is an alabaster worm. Conrad is standing up wearing nothing but a string vest. The dense black shag on his chest glistens through the coarse mesh. He comments enthusiastically on the hygienic properties of the garment.
— Haw! They’re very healthy. What?
This tall, dark man, whose mouth seemed always to be ejecting an ‘o’ of heavily-qualified interest, stands erect in his bath-tub. This image is doubtless imaginary for I seem to be standing beside him in the tub. I am fully-dressed and he is nude. Peeping through the curly fleece of his pubic and lower-abdominal hair shines the tiny dome of his circumcised prick.
— Do you think it’s too small? Haw! What?
Then, leaving insufficient pause for me to reply, he adds:
— Gets very much larger when it’s erect.
I nod politely. He continues:
— Leads a submerged existence. Haw? Tell me, what are the symptoms of cancer of the penis?
In the next frame, Conrad is dressed. The large living-room is ostentatiously bare. The rat-coloured sofa has tasted theurine of cats and children. Bright shards of toys litter the floor. The glaucomatous eye of the television set, gleaming with elaborate and alien purpose, picks out the milky morning.
Our encounter is geometrical.
This sense of formal structure, which I dimly perceive has always characterized my relations with Conrad, invites whimsy. Thus I might write:
When Conrad and I discussed politics, sex or the arts, the air became thick with conic sections. Spectral solids reared and reeled about us. Angles gaped or clapped their infinite limbs enthusiastically.
The nucleus of validity, without which metaphor is abhorrent, resides in the fact that
— How is your wife going, old friend?
— Barbara?
Brian looked up astonished. He shook his head in amazement. Then doubts as to the validity of being amazed seized him. He shook his head glumly. Barbara fled out of the window and disappeared into some shrubs. We were both morose. We returned to the studio and inspected an angular collossus. Brian brought back two yellow pints. As he approached me he stepped into a puddle, shivered and remarked:
— Damn.
I never saw his Committee. The way he described them, I had the impression of gummy eyes pitched on abstract paintings. Surely they must be docile if Brian dominated them? He expounded the virtues of a painting:
— I think it’s worth the sixty-four pounds. It’s virtually certain to appreciate.
— But—ho! hee! ha!—is anyone virtually certain to appreciate it ?
Stiff nudges. Toothless smiles. Brian takes off his horn- rimmed glasses and bites his lip. He exclaims:
— Ha. Ha. I do think we should have it.
— How’s your car going, Brian?
— There’s something wrong with its central nervous system.
— Does it steer well?
— The steering is satisfactory. It barks in the morning.
— Do you sail these days?
— On a vast reservoir. My father has built a boat for me.
— How is your family?
— Mary is pubescent. She and her friends giggle about pubic hairs.
— What about God?
Brian shrugs irritably. God? Better to go to church than argue about it. Barbara makes him go.
— You never used to believe in God, Brian?
— Oh, I don’t believe in God. Perhaps I believe in—going to church. I don’t know.
— I wouldn’t mind fucking your wife, Brian.
— I wouldn’t mind fucking yours.
— Do you think people fuck more now than they used to?
— No.
Brian reflects, nibbling his finger-nails, then adds.
— Perhaps.
10
A Coil of Rooms
M ANY ROOMS.
I called round to see Conrad.
I have a composite image of the visit, doubtless assembled from several which I am unable to separate distinctly in memory. Conrad is standing up in his bedroom. Behind him is a small stone idol which I incorrectly identify as a Cycladic fertility goddess. Another small stone sculpture is on the chest of drawers. It is an alabaster worm. Conrad is standing up wearing nothing but a string vest. The dense black shag on his chest glistens through the coarse mesh. He comments enthusiastically on the hygienic properties of the garment.
— Haw! They’re very healthy. What?
This tall, dark man, whose mouth seemed always to be ejecting an ‘o’ of heavily-qualified interest, stands erect in his bath-tub. This image is doubtless imaginary for I seem to be standing beside him in the tub. I am fully-dressed and he is nude. Peeping through the curly fleece of his pubic and lower-abdominal hair shines the tiny dome of his circumcised prick.
— Do you think it’s too small? Haw! What?
Then, leaving insufficient pause for me to reply, he adds:
— Gets very much larger when it’s erect.
I nod politely. He continues:
— Leads a submerged existence. Haw? Tell me, what are the symptoms of cancer of the penis?
In the next frame, Conrad is dressed. The large living-room is ostentatiously bare. The rat-coloured sofa has tasted theurine of cats and children. Bright shards of toys litter the floor. The glaucomatous eye of the television set, gleaming with elaborate and alien purpose, picks out the milky morning.
Our encounter is geometrical.
This sense of formal structure, which I dimly perceive has always characterized my relations with Conrad, invites whimsy. Thus I might write:
When Conrad and I discussed politics, sex or the arts, the air became thick with conic sections. Spectral solids reared and reeled about us. Angles gaped or clapped their infinite limbs enthusiastically.
The nucleus of validity, without which metaphor is abhorrent, resides in the fact that
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