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

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Three

Po

ems

Tw

oP

oem

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No

Advice

forthe

Lovelorn

Chasing

Ham

let

Notes

onC

ontributors

61

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173

178

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17731413

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William

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77

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I

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89

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3

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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

VE

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.