Part 32 (1/2)

Margaret Atwood and Nadine Gordimer concurred, and gently chided Mailer. He responded, ”You are all middle-cla.s.s women, as I am a middle-cla.s.s man. And in the middle-cla.s.s, the center of activity is obligatory excellence.”

Whatever Mailer was trying to say-and his point was unclear-several of the women regarded his remark as an insult. He made things worse by insisting that not many women were ”intellectuals first, poets and novelists second,” and this meant there was a limited number of female panelists who could partic.i.p.ate.

Thus the week ended.

Karen Kennerly remains bitter at the thought of the women's protest. Like Doctorow, none of the critics helped to plan the International Congress. Before raising their voices, they did not seek to understand the organizing process. ”I was very angry over the charge that women were underrepresented at the conference,” Kennerly says. ”We had invited a lot of women, but many had turned us down for one reason or another. And you have to let delegates from the countries pick whom they want to represent them.

”Later, Margaret Atwood was at a P.E.N. event in Europe. She was the only only woman at that one, and she didn't say anything about it. And Betty Friedan-what did she ever have to do with PEN? At one point, in a crowd, she was trying to shout out a statement. She started, 'Now, now...' and a bunch of people said, 'No, Betty, it's not NOW, it's PEN, PEN!' ” woman at that one, and she didn't say anything about it. And Betty Friedan-what did she ever have to do with PEN? At one point, in a crowd, she was trying to shout out a statement. She started, 'Now, now...' and a bunch of people said, 'No, Betty, it's not NOW, it's PEN, PEN!' ”

Don and Paley's ”sad political parting,” as Paley put it, had begun early in the week, when she opposed George Shultz's appearance. Don was no fan of George Shultz, but he felt that his old pal had made too much of the issue. ”He considered his position long-term, overriding that year's key speaker,” Paley said. By week's end, when she had embarra.s.sed the conference organizers over their treatment of women, Don was furious with her. Like Kennerly, he felt that every effort had been made to include female panelists-it was simply the case that many women, citing other commitments, had turned them down. All Paley would have had to do was ask him, and he would have told her this. Instead, she had gone public, hastily, with a hue and cry. ”He thought me disloyal and was angry,” she said. ”I was never angry at him, partly because political opposition is more natural to me.”

For the next year, the two old friends barely spoke to each other.

56.

PARADISE....

In 1975, Don had claimed that writing The Dead Father The Dead Father taught him how to write his next novel. He was too optimistic. taught him how to write his next novel. He was too optimistic. Paradise Paradise didn't appear for another eleven years. But at least one failure along the way indicates that the secret of didn't appear for another eleven years. But at least one failure along the way indicates that the secret of how how was the extended-dialogue form. was the extended-dialogue form.

He once said that ”The Emerald,” a story published in 1980, was meant to be a novel, but he couldn't sustain it. ”The Emerald” begins: Hey buddy what's your name?My name is Tope. What's your name?My name is Sallywag. You after the emerald?Yeah I'm after the emerald you after the emerald too?I am. What are you going to do with it if you get it?Cut it up into little emeralds. What are you going to do with it?I was thinking of solid emerald armchairs. For the rich.

Eventually, the emerald is revealed to be a b.a.s.t.a.r.d child (it pees and talks) born of the moon's union with a witch named Moll. Moll and her jewel manage to evade the kidnappers and live in peace.

It's unclear why this material wound up as salvage for a story. Don's tendency to shave chips from bigger blocks of writing suggests that he didn't distinguish story form from that of the novel-except in one regard: ”The Emerald” and his subsequent novels indicate that he'd come to equate long fiction with almost pure dialogue.

In extended dialogue, Don-essentially a nonnarrative writer-had discovered a loose, playful structure, which was suitable for his interests and gifts. It also had a natural narrative drive. Surprising juxtapositions are possible-perhaps even inevitable-whenever characters speak, and the narrative flow is automatic. Further, dialogue is the form of Socratic give-and-take (uncertainty, investigation, open-endedness) and the questing, reflexive consciousness.

At bottom, all written dialogues are questionnaires. The questioner or dominant conversational partner sets the tone, subject, direction, and push; push; the responder adds counterweights, textures, incidentals. This inherent tension powers the prose. the responder adds counterweights, textures, incidentals. This inherent tension powers the prose.

Don's use of dialogue's push-pull is best displayed in his story ”Basil from Her Garden,” portions of which later appeared in Paradise Paradise. In the story, the characters, identified familiarly as Q and A, discuss A's adulterous affairs. Q (A's psychiatrist? his conscience?) is genteel, morally rigid, comfortable with his worldview (”Ethics has always been where my heart is”). A is anxious, ethically uncertain.

A's behavior shocks Q, but Q presses him for details. When A does does recount his affairs, Q recoils: ”I don't want to question you too closely on this. I don't want to strain your powers of-” recount his affairs, Q recoils: ”I don't want to question you too closely on this. I don't want to strain your powers of-”

”Well no,” A says. ”I don't mind talking about it.”

Eventually, Q's squeamishness tips the narrative in A's favor. Q becomes tentative, and no longer runs the conversation.

Don varies the story's pace to maintain rhythmic surprise, inserting monologues by Q and A. Q, vicariously stimulated by A's erotic adventures, admits that he is ”content with too little” in life. Once again, the narrative s.h.i.+fts, as the dominant character, the one who has controlled the give-and-take, falters.

By the end, Q's moral position (”Adultery is a sin”) feels weak-his ethics have not kept him from feeling depressed, buried in the mundane, while A's confusion, painful as it is, keeps him self-engaged and involved with others. ”Transcendence is possible,” Q says in one last attempt to a.s.sert his ideals. A agrees.

Q-Is it possible?A-Not out of the question.Q-Is it really possible?A-Yes. Believe me.

In this final exchange, the speakers have traded roles: A is confident, even if he is only pretending for Q's sake, and Q's faith has been shaken. Though Q is still the inquisitor, his tone is pleading. A leads the discussion now. He hasn't changed. Adultery is his chosen form of ”transcendence”-s.e.x as novelty to distract him from the humdrum of daily life.

By being aware of the power struggles within even the most casual conversations, Don managed to inject this brief comic piece with a forceful narrative drive.

Paradise is a series of ”shards and rag ends” that ”tend to adhere to the narrator,” said Peter Prescott in his warm review of the novel in is a series of ”shards and rag ends” that ”tend to adhere to the narrator,” said Peter Prescott in his warm review of the novel in Newsweek. Newsweek. The narrator is a middle-aged architect named Simon, on sabbatical in New York City. He comes to share his apartment with three young unemployed women, former fas.h.i.+on models. Textually, they are verbal abstractions-in their vagueness, reminiscent of Willem de Kooning's The narrator is a middle-aged architect named Simon, on sabbatical in New York City. He comes to share his apartment with three young unemployed women, former fas.h.i.+on models. Textually, they are verbal abstractions-in their vagueness, reminiscent of Willem de Kooning's Woman Woman series (Don dedicated the book to Willem's wife, Elaine). They provide the novel's most extended conversations, which, like the women's repartee in series (Don dedicated the book to Willem's wife, Elaine). They provide the novel's most extended conversations, which, like the women's repartee in The Dead Father, The Dead Father, serve as counterpoint to the main narrative: in this case, Simon's thoughts and fears. serve as counterpoint to the main narrative: in this case, Simon's thoughts and fears.

Paradise is no fairy tale. It's a mirror image of is no fairy tale. It's a mirror image of Snow White. Snow White. Instead of a woman living with a gang of men, we see a man sharing s.p.a.ce with several women. Don's first novel was pure fantasy; this one is distinguished by its brutal views of aging, s.e.x, and death. Instead of a woman living with a gang of men, we see a man sharing s.p.a.ce with several women. Don's first novel was pure fantasy; this one is distinguished by its brutal views of aging, s.e.x, and death.

The women's talk coheres more fully than the exchanges between Julie and Emma in The Dead Father, The Dead Father, but there are enough gaps between statements to allow humor, confusion, discovery, and surprise. Here, the group discovers that Simon is sleeping with a fourth woman, a poet. but there are enough gaps between statements to allow humor, confusion, discovery, and surprise. Here, the group discovers that Simon is sleeping with a fourth woman, a poet.

”Well it's just what I thought would happen what I thought would happen and it happened.””He's a free human individual not bound to us.””Maybe we're too much for him maybe he needs more of a one-on-one thing see what I'm saying?””It may be just a temporary aberration that won't last very long like when suddenly you see somebody in a crowded Pizza Hut or something and you think, I could abide that.””But if she's a poet she won't keep him poets burn their candles down to nubs. And then find new candles. That's what they do.”

Not only are the lines unimpeded by identifying tags or physical descriptions; the sentences run together for urgency: brevity at length.

The book's other extended dialogues involve Q and A from ”Basil from Her Garden,” here more clearly identified as Simon and his doctor. Q and A's discussions (or is it one long discussion, interrupted by memories of the women?) occur after Dore, Anne, and Veronica have said good-bye to Simon. The exchanges establish a poignant tension between past and present in the narrative. The past (Simon's life with the women) is conveyed through present-tense verbs, while the present (”After the women had gone”) unfolds in the past tense: Simon's life is all but over. His most vivid and immediate moments remain locked in his past. ”Today” feels already lived.

Simon calls his time with the women a ”series of conversations.” This is also an apt description of The Divine Comedy, The Divine Comedy, and it points us to the novel's subtext. and it points us to the novel's subtext.

Every night, Simon has nightmares-bad dreams sparked by the guilt he feels over the mess he has made of his life (or so his doctor says). He dreams of being trapped in a leper colony. He envisions six-foot boll weevils flirting with one another ”with little squirts of Opium behind their ears.”

These Inferno Inferno-like horrors are offset by the calm, even the pleasure, Simon experiences on his sabbatical. ”I felt blessed,” he tells his doctor, remembering the women, his erotic trinity. In limbo, he has an opportunity to reevaluate his life.

Together, the women also review their pasts. One night, they conduct a raucous purifying ritual. ”Hit me,” Veronica says to her friends when they accuse her of being ”bad.” In the end (the novel concludes around Easter), the women leave to find work. Simon finds new personal and professional directions for his life.

Early in the book, his estranged wife accuses him of wallowing in triviality. ”You worry about the way [people] say things but you don't worry about what [they] mean,” she says. ”That's not so,” Simon replies. His actions bear him out. In his work, he fusses over gel coats and fibergla.s.s (details that might appear appear to be trivial), but his projects have a rigorous consistency: a school in a ”rundown area,” a church in a ”not-good area.” ”The more time you put into a job, the less money you make,” Simon says. It's no surprise he can't stay solvent. to be trivial), but his projects have a rigorous consistency: a school in a ”rundown area,” a church in a ”not-good area.” ”The more time you put into a job, the less money you make,” Simon says. It's no surprise he can't stay solvent.

Ultimately, he rejects standard American business practices and their shoddy shortcuts. He branches out on his own, taking as much time as he needs to design office s.p.a.ce for a charity organization. When he is not speaking to the women, he helps a cop on the street, an injured drunk in the vestibule of his apartment building, and a homeless man in his neighborhood.

As Simon's life unfolds, from his dreams of punishment to his expurgation to his recommitment to his art and rebirth as an independent man, we see that, like Dante, he ”loves righteousness,” however secularly and unsentimentally he defines it in Manhattan, in 1986.