Remember this always:
“Nature contains nature, nature overcomes nature, and nature meeting with her nature exceedingly rejoices, and is changed into other natures. And in another place, every like rejoices in his like, for likeness is said to be the cause of friendship, whereof many philosophers have left a notable secret.”
Best wishes to a fellow lunatic! May fortune speed you toward your own opus magnum.
Regards,
Adrian welles
6 March 1958
Stanley knew this guy?
I don’t know how well he knew him. He tracked Welles down when he was living in California. Stanley never told you this story?
Curtis flips to the next page. Turn away, you spadefingered architects of denunciation! it begins.
Turn, you stern merchants of forgetfulness,
you mincing forgetters of consequence, turn!
Tend to your sad taxonomy, your numb ontology,
your proud happenstance of secular wheels!
Nothing thirsts after your pungent spray. Nothing yearns to dry its hands in your grim catalogues.
Cast your auditing stares elsewhere! Bold Crivano,
the Mirror Thief, skips quicksilver on your ancient stones,
trundles his dark burden through viscera of cloud,
swaddled in the damp folds of linden-scented night.
Harry him not with your snares of causality!
Spare him the gnashing of your mad abaci!
Grant him safe transit, you squat sundial kings
(all of you polishing gold to shame silver)
for the treasure he bears in his butterfly sack
is none other than that foremost reflector itself,
the genderless Moon!
Let him pass, and mark not
his passage,
save by sleep-talking
a quiet threnody
in your dreamvoided dark.
What in the hell is this, Curtis says.
Adrian Welles, Veronica says—sounding bored, automatic, like she’s spoken or heard this many times before—was a poet active in the 1950s and early ’60s, loosely associated with the Los Angeles Beats.
Curtis flips ahead, across pages of verse, some in neat columns, some sprawling on the yellowed paper. Toward the end, his eye alights on a line—his flute conjures a harvest of sleep from the little fields of the dead—that he can hear clearly in Stanley’s voice. He’s sure he’s heard Stanley quote it, though he can’t recall when, or why, and after a moment the memory is lost. Curtis riffles backward, as if to shake Stanley’s voice from the book again, until he’s at the beginning; then he shuts the covers, presses them between his palms. The old wraps smooth, like taut skin. He almost expects to feel a pulse.
Veronica is looking out the window. Her eyes are bright, full, like she’s on the verge of tears or panic, but her breath is steady. She’s pulled her legs into full lotus, and she’s absently waggling the big toe of her left foot between her thumb and her index finger. Its shadow appears and disappears on the cushion beside her. Its red nail glistens like a coral bead.
If you want to figure Stanley out, she says, which I do not recommend trying, then that book is probably as good a place to start as any.
This guy—Welles—he was some kind of beatnik?
More like a proto-beatnik. He was an older poet, sort of an also-ran, and he gave the bandwagon a push in the early days. He was on the scene, but not really of the scene.
Curtis shakes his head, sips his drink. The bourbon is sneaking up on him. It feels like he, the book, and Veronica’s eyes are the only motionless things in the room. Everything else is drifting, leaves on a pond.
And Stanley got this from Welles?
Veronica closes her eyes. He thinks for a moment that she’s gone to sleep. When she opens them again, they’re trained on Curtis’s face.
I can’t believe Stanley never told you this story, she says.
SEPARATIO
FEBRUARY 1958
Nothing out of place and yet everything was, because there existed between the mirror and myself the same distance, the same break in continuity which I have always felt to exist between acts which I committed yesterday and my present consciousness of them.
—ALEXANDER TROCCHI, Young Adam
14
Low clouds gather over the Pacific, cushioning the winter sun as it drops, and the beachcombers are coming in. For a moment the colonnades are unshadowed, and a rosy glow lights the winged lions on the frieze of the St. Mark’s Hotel.