Climbing up thestairs, as I said a moment ago, he had mentioned the fact
that Maupassantused to live here. The coincidence seems to have made an
impressionupon him. He would like to believe that it was in this very room
thatMaupassant gave birth to some of those gruesome tales on which his
reputationrests. "They lived like pigs, those poor bastards, " he says. We
aresitting at the round table in a pair of comfortable old armchairs
thathave been trussed up with thongs and braces; the bed is right besideus,
so close indeed that we can put our feet on it. The arnwirestands in a
corner behind us, also conveniently within reach. Van Nordenhas emptied his
dirty wash on the table; we sit there with our feetburied in his dirty socks
and shirts and smoke contentedly. The sor-didnessof the place seems to have
worked a spell on him: he is content here.When I get up to switch on the
light he suggests that we play a gameof cards before going out to eat. And
so we sit there by the window,with the dirty wash strewn over the floor and
the Sandow exerciser hangingfrom the chandelier, and we play a few rounds of
two-handed pinochle.Van Norden has put away his pipe and packed a wad of
snuff on the undersideof his lower lip. Now and then he spits out of the
window, big healthygobs of brown juice which resound with a smack on the
pavement below.He seems content now.
    "In America," he says, "you wouldn't dream of living in a joint like this.
Evenwhen I was on the bum I slept in better rooms than this. But here
itseems natural _ it's like the books you read. If I ever go back
thereforget all about this life, just like you forget a bad dream. Ill
probablytake up the old life again just where I left off. . . if I ever
getback. Sometimes I lie in bed dreaming about the past and it's so vividto
me that I have to shake myself in order to realize where I am.
Especiallywhen I have a woman beside me;
    a woman can setme off better than anything. That's all I want of them _
to forget myself.Sometimes I get so lost in my reveries that I can't
remember the nameof the cunt or where I picked her up. That's funny, eh?
It's good tohave a fresh warm body beside youwhen you wake up in the morning.
It gives you a clean feeling. You getspiritual like. . . until they start
pulling that mushy crap about loveet cetera. Why do all these cunts talk
about love so much. can you tellme that? A good lay isn't enough for them
apparently. . . they wantyour soul too. ..."
    Now this wordsoul, which pops up frequently in Van Norden's soliloquies,
used tohave a droll effect upon me at first. Whenever heard the word soul
fromhis lips I would get hysterical; somehow it seemed like a falsecoin,
more particularly because it was usually accompanied by a gobof brown juice
which left a trickle down the corner of his mouth. Andas I never hesitated
to laugh in his face it happened invariably thatwhen this little word bobbed
up Van Nor-den would pause just long enoughfor me to burst into a cackle and
then, as if nothing had happened,he would resume his monologue, repeating
the word more and more frequentlyand each time with a more caressing emphasis.
It was the soul of himthat women were trying to possess _ that he made clear
to me. He hasexplained it over and over again, but he comes back to it
afresh eachtime like a paranoiac to his obsession. In a sense Van Norden is
mad,of that I'm convinced. His one fear is to be left alone, and this fearis
so deep and so persistent that even when he is on top of a woman,even when
he has welded himself to her. he cannot escape the prisonwhich he has
created for himself. "I try all sorts of things. " he explainsto me. "I even
count sometimes, or I begin to think of a problem inphilosophy, but it
doesn't work. It's like I'm two people, and one ofthem is watching me all
the time. I get so goddamned mad at myself thatI could kill myself. . . and
in a way. that's what I do every time Ihave an orgasm. For one second like I
obliterate myself. There's noteven one me then. . . there's nothing. . . not
even the cunt. It's likereceiving communion. Honest, I mean that. For a few
seconds afterwardI have a fine spiritual glow. . . and maybe it would
continue that wayindefinitely _ how can you tell? _ if it weren't for the
fact that there'sa woman beside you and then the douche bag and the water
running. .. all those little details that make you desperately
selfconscious.desperately lonely. And for that one moment of freedom you
have to listento all that love crap. . . it drives me nuts sometimes. . . I
want tokick them out immediately. . . I do now and then. But that doesn't
keepthem away. They like it,in fact. The less you notice them the more they
chase after you. There'ssomething perverse about women. . . they're all
masochists at heart."
    "But what isit you want of a woman, then?" I demand. He begins to mold
his hands; his lower lip droops. He looks completely frustrated. When
eventuallyhe succeeds in stammering out a few broken phrases it's with the
convictionthat behind his words lies an overwhelming futility. "I want to be
ableto surrender myself to a woman, " he blurts out. "I want her to takeme
out of myself. But to do that. she's got to be better than I am; she's got
to have a mind, not just a cunt. She's got to make me believethat I need her.
that I can't live without her. Find me a cunt likethat, will you? If you
could do that I'd give you my job. I wouldn'tcare then what happened to me:
I wouldn't need a job or friends or booksor anything. If she could only make
me believe that there was somethingmore important on earth than myself. Jesus,
I hate myself! But I hatethese bastardly cunts even more _ because they're
none of them any good.
    "You think Ilike myself. " he continues. "That shows how little you know
about me.I know I'm a great guy. ... I wouldn't have these problems if
thereweren't something to me. But what eats me up is that I can't
expressmyself. People think I'm a cunt-chaser. That's how shallow they
are.these high brows who sit on the terrasse all day chewing thepsychologic
cud. . . . That's not so bad, eh _ psychologic cud? Writeit down for me. Ill
use it in my column next week. ... By the way. didyou ever read Stekel? Is
he any good? It looks like nothing but casehistories to me. I wish to Christ
I could get up enough nerve to visitan analyst. . . a good one, I mean. I
don't want to see these littleshysters with goatees and frock coats, like
your friend Boris. How doyou manage to tolerate those guys? Don't they bore
you stiff? You talkto anybody. I notice. You don't give a goddamn. Maybe
you're right.I wish I weren't so damned critical. But these dirty little
Jews whohang around the Dome, Jesus, they give me the creeps. They sound
justlike textbooks. If I could talk to you every day maybe I could get
thingsoff my chest. You're a good listener. I know you don't give a damn
aboutme, but you're patient. And you don't have any theories to exploit.I
suppose you put it all down afterward in that note-

    book of yours.Listen, I don't mind what you say about me, but don't make
me out tobe a cunt-chaser _ it's too simple. Some day I'll write a book
aboutmyself, about my thoughts. I don't mean just a piece of
introspectiveanalysis. . . I mean that lay myself down on the operating
table andI'll expose my whole guts. . . every goddamned thing. Has anybody
everdone that before? _ What the hell are you smiling at? Does it
soundnaif?"
    I'm smiling becausewhenever we touch on the subject of this book which
he is going to writesome day things assume an incongruous aspect. He has
only to say "mybook" and immediately the world shrinks to the private
dimensions ofVan Norden and Co. The book must be absolutely original,
absolutelyperfect. That is why, among other things, it is impossible for him
toget started on it. As soon as he gets an idea he begins to questionit. He
remembers that Dostoevski used it, or Hamsun, or somebody else."I'm not
saying that I want to be better than them, but I want to bedifferent, " he
explains. And so, instead of tackling his book, he readsone author after
another in order to make absolutely certain that heis not going to tread on
their private property. And the more he readsthe more disdainful he becomes.
None of them are satisfying;
    none of themarrive at that degree of perfection which he has imposed on
himself.And forgetting completely that he has not written as much as a
chapterhe talks about them condescendingly, quite as though there existed
ashelf of books bearing his name, books which everyone is familiar withand
the titles of which it is therefore superfluous to mention. Thoughhe has
never overtly lied about this fact, nevertheless it is obviousthat the
people whom he buttonholes in order to air his private philosophy,his
criticism, and his grievances, take it for granted that behind hisloose
remarks there stands a solid body of work. Especially the youngand foolish
virgins whom he lures to his room on the pretext of readingto them his poems,
or on the still better pretext of asking their advice.Without the least
feeling of guilt or selfconsciousness he will handthem a piece of soiled
paper on which he has scribbled a few lines _the basis of a new poem, as he
puts it _ and with absolute seriousnessdemand of them an honest expression
of opinion. As they usually havenothing to give by way of comment, wholly
bewildered as they are bythe utter senselessness of the lines. Van Norden
seizes

    the occasionto expound to them his view of art, a view, needless to say,
which isspontaneously created to suit the event. So expert has he become
inthis role that the transition from Ezra Pound's cantos to the bed ismade
as simply and naturally as a modulation from one key to anotherjin fact, if
it were not made there would be a discord. which is whathappens now and then
when he makes a mistake as regards those nitwitswhom he refers to as
"push-overs. " Naturally, constituted as he is,it is with reluctance that he
refers to these fatal errors of judgment.But when he does bring himself to
confess to an error of this kind itis with absolute frankness; in fact. he
seems to derive a perverse pleasurein dwelling upon his inaptitude. There is
one woman, for example, whomhe has been trying to make for almost ten years
now _ first in America,and finally here in Paris. It is the only person of
the opposite sexwith whom he has a cordial, friendly relationship. They seem
not onlyto like each other, but to understand each other. At first it
seemedto me that it he could really make this creature his problem might
besolved. All the elements for a successful union were there _ exceptthe
fundamental one. Bessie was almost as unusual in her way as himself.She had
as little concern about giving herself to a man as she has aboutthe dessert
which follows the meal. Usually she singled out the objectof her choice and
made the proposition herself. She was not bad-looking,nor could one say that
she was good-looking either. She had a fine body.that was the chief thing _
and she liked it, as they say.
    They were sochummy, these two. that sometimes, in order to gratify her
curiosity(and also in the vain hope of inspiring her by his prowess). Van
Nordenwould arrange to hide her in his closet during one of his seances.
Afteris was over Bessie would emerge from her hiding place and they
woulddiscuss the matter casually, that is to say, with an almost total
indifferenceto everything except "technique". Technique was one of her
favoriteterms, at least in those discussions which I was privileged to
enjoy."What's wrong with my technique?" he would say. And Bessie would answer;
    "You're too crude.If you ever expect to make me you've got to become
more subtle. "
    There was sucha perfect understanding between them. as I say. that often
when I calledfor Van Norden at one-thirty, I would

    find Bessie sittingon the bed. the covers thrown back and Van Norden
inviting her to strokehis penis... " just a few silken strokes, " he would
say, "so as havethe courage to get up. " Or else he would urge her to blow
on it, orfailing that, he would grab hold of himself and shake it like a
dinnerbell. the two of them laughing fit to die. "Ill never make this
bitch," he would say. "She has no respect for me. That's what I get for
takingher into my confidence. " And then abruptly he might add: "What do
youmake of that blonde I showed you yesterday? " Talking to Bessie, ofcourse.
And Bessie would jeer at him, telling him he had no taste. "Aw.don't give me
that line, " he would say. And then playfully, perhapsfor the thousandth time.
because by now it had become a standing jokebetween them _ "Listen, Bessie,
what about a quick lay? Just one littlelay. . . no. " And when this had
passed off in the usual manner he wouldadd. in the same tone: "Well, what
about him? Why don't you givehim a lay?"
    The whole pointabout Bessie was that she couldn't, or just wouldn't,
regard herselfas a lay. She talked about passion, as if it were a brand new
word.She was passionate about things, even a little thing like a lay. Shehad
to put her soul into it.
    "I get passionatetoo sometimes, " Van Norden would say.
    "Oh. you," says Bessie. "You're just a worn-out satyr. You don't know
themeaning of passion. When you get an erection you think you're
passionate."
    "All right, maybeit's not passion. . . but you can't get passionate
without having anerection, that's true isn't it?"
    All this aboutBessie. and the other women whom he drags to his room day
in and out,occupies my thoughts as we walk to the restaurant. I have
adjusted myselfso well to his monologues that without interrupting my own
reveriesI make whatever comment is required automatically, the moment I
hearhis voice die out. It is a duet. and like most duets moreover in thatone
listens attentively only for the signal which announces the adventof one's
own voice. As it is his night off, and as I have promised tokeep him company.
I have already dulled myself to his queries. I knowthat before the evening
is over I shall be thoroughly exhausted; ifI am lucky, that is. if I can
worm a few francs out of him on some pretextor other. I will duck him the
moment he goes to the toilet. But he knowsmy  f
    propensity'ifor'slippingaway, alid, -'instead' of'being: insulted, hie
simply provides; againstthe' possibility by guardirtg his *oub. If-task him
for niaaey tCP fcuycigarette*- tiei insists on 'going'-with' hie
to-pur-cirtase'tfceni.'He will Botifce teft alone,-' not
fPa-tee(_ad^'Ewn^when he "has;succeeded in'grabbirig off a'womani even-'then
tie is terrified We left'_alone -with her. if it wet-- possible he: would
have mesit in t＆e roam white 'h＆pUts'on the perfetttiance. It wbiildbe
like asking meltowait'wMkhietookashavft.- ! : ;: '.
    " "Oil his night'offVan Norden generally manages to'ha've at least fifty
franes in his pocket,a circumstance which dbes not prevent hiHii froBfi
Alafeing a touchwhenever he encounters a prospect. "Hello, "he says. "give
me twentyfrancs... I need it. " He has a way of looking panic-stricken at
thesame'time. And if he meets with a rebuff he becomes insulting. "Well,you
can buy a drink at least. " And when'he gets his drink he says
moregraciously _ "Listen give me five francs then. . . give me twofrancs.
..." We go from bar to bar looking for a little excitement andalways
accumulating a few more francs.
    At the Coupolewe stumble into a drunk from the newspaper. One of the
upstairs guys.There's just been an accident at the office, he informs us.
One of theproofreaders fell down the elevator shaft. Not expected to live.
    At first VanNorden is shocked, deeply shocked. But when he learns that
it was Peckover,the Englishman, he looks relieved. "The poor bastard, " he
says. "he'sbetter off dead than alive. He just got his false teeth the other
daytoo. ..."
    The allusionto the false teeth moves the man upstairs to tears. He
relates in aslobbery way a little incident connected with the accident. He
is upsetabout it, more upset about this little incident than about the
catastropheitself. It seems that Peckover, when he hit the bottom of the
shaft,regained consciousness before anyone could reach him. Despite the
factthat his legs were broken and his ribs busted, he had managed to riseto
all fours and grope about tor his false teeth. In the ambulance hewas crying
out in his delirium for the teeth he had lost. The incidentwas pathetic and
ludicrous at the same time. The guy from upstairs hardlyknew whether to
laugh or to weep as he related it. It was a delicatemoment because with a
drunk like that, one false move and he'd crasha bottle over

    your skull. Hehad never been particularly friendly with Peck-civer_as a
matter offact, hp had scarcely ever set foot in the (ttOofreading
department:there was an invisible wall Uke between the guys upstairs and the
guysdown below. But now, since he had feh the touch of death, he wantedto
display his comradeship. He wanted to weep, if possible, to showthat he was
a regular guy. And Joe'and I, who knew Peckover well andwho knew also that
he wasn't worth a good goddamn, even a few tears,we felt annoyed with this
drunken sentimentality. We wanted to tellhim so too. but with a guy like
that you can't afford to be honest; you have to buy a wreath and go to the
funeral and pretend that you'remiserable. And you have to congratulate him
too for the delicate obituaryhe's written. Hell be carrying his delicate
little obituary around withhim for months, praising the shit out of himself
for the way he handledthe situation. We felt all that. Joe and I, without
saying a word toeach other. We just stood there and listened with a murderous,
silentcontempt. And as soon as we could break away we did so_ we left
himthere at the bar blubbering to himself over his Pern-od.
    Once out of hissight we began to laugh hysterically. The false teeth! No
matter whatwe said about the poor devil, and we said some good things about
himtoo, we always came back to the false teeth. There are people in
thisworld who cut such a grotesque figure that even death renders them
ridiculous.And the more horrible the death the more ridiculous they seem.
It'sno use trying to invest the end with a little dignity _ you have tobe a
liar and a hypocrite to discover anything tragic in their going.And since we
didn't have to put on a false front we could laugh aboutthe incident to our
heart's content. We laughed all night about it,and in between times we
vented our scorn and disgust for the guys upstairs,the fatheads who were
trying to persuade themselves, no doubt, thatPeckover was a fine fellow and
that his death was a catastrophe. Allsorts of funny recollections came to
our minds _ the semicolons thathe overlooked and for which they bawled the
piss out of him. They madehis life miserable with their fucking little
semicolons and the fractionswhich he always got wrong. They were even going
to fire him once becausehe came to work with a boozy breath. They despised
him because he alwayslooked so miserable and because he hadeczema and
dandruff. He was just a nobody, as far as they were concerned,but, now that
he was dead, they would all chip in lustily and buy hima huge wreath and
they'd put his name in big type in the obituary column.Anything to throw a
little reflection on themselves) they'd make himout to be a big shit if they
could. But unfortunately, with Peckover,there was little they could invent
about him. He was a zero, and eventhe fact that he was dead wouldn't add a
cipher to his name.
    "There's onlyone good aspect to it, " says Joe. "You may get his job.
And if youhave any luck, maybe you'll fall down the elevator shaft and break
yourneck too. We'll buy you a nice wreath. I promise you that. "
    Toward dawn we'resitting on the terrasse of the Dome. We've forgotten
about poorPeckover long ago. We've had a little excitement at the Bal Negre
andJoe's mind has slipped back to the eternal preoccupation: cunt. It'sat
this hour, when his night off is almost concluded, that his
restlessnessmounts to a fever pitch. He thinks of the women he passed up
earlierin the evening and of the steady ones he might have had for the
asking,if it weren't that he was fed up with them. He is reminded
inevitablyof his Georgia cunt _ she's been hounding him lately, begging him
totake her in, at least until she can find herself a job. "I don't
mindgiving her a feed once in a while, " he says, "but I couldn't take heron
as a steady thing... she'd ruin it for my other cunts. " What gripeshim most
about her is that she doesn't put on any flesh. "It's liketaking a skeleton
to bed with you, " he says. "The other night I tookher on _ out of pity _
and what do you think the crazy bitch had doneto herself? She had shaved it
clean... not a speck of hair on it. Didyou ever have a woman who shaved her
twat? It's repulsive, ain't it?And it's funny, too. Sort of mad like. It
doesn't look like a twat anymore: it's like a dead clam or something. " He
describes to me how,his curiosity aroused, he got out of bed and searched
for his flashlight."I made her hold it open and I trained the flashlight on
it. You shouldhave seen me... it was comical. I got so worked up about it
that I forgotall about her. I never in my life looked at a cunt so seriously.
You'dimagine I'd never seen one before. And the more I looked at it the
lessinteresting it became. It only goes to  Ill

    show you there'snothing to it after all, especially when it's shaved.
It's the hairthat makes it mysterious. That's why a statue leaves you cold.
Onlyonce I saw a real cunt -on a statue _ that was by Rodin. You ought tosee
it some time. . . she has her legs spread wide apart. ... I don'tthink there
was any head on it. Just a cunt you might say. Jesus, itlooked ghastly. The
thing is this _ they all look alike. When you lookat them with their clothes
on you imagine all sorts of things: you givethem an individuality like,
which they haven't got, of course. There'sjust a crack there between the
legs and you get all steamed up aboutit _ you don't even look at it half the
time. You know it's there andall you think about is getting your ramrod
inside; it's as though yourpenis did the thinking for you. It's an illusion!
You get all burnedup about nothing. . . about a crack with hair on it, or
without hair.It's so absolutely meaningless that it fascinated me to look at
it.I must have studied it for ten minutes or more. When you look at itthat
way, sort of detached like, you get funny notions in your head.All that
mystery about sex and then you discover that it's nothing _just a blank.
Wouldn't it be funny if you found a harmonica inside.. . or a calendar?-But
there's nothing there. . . nothing at all. It'sdisgusting. It almost drove
me mad. . . . Listen, do you know what Idid afterwards? I gave her a quick
lay and then I turned my back onher. Yeah, I picked up a book and I read.
You can get something outof a book, even a bad book. . . but a cunt, it's
just sheer loss of
    It just so happenedthat as he was concluding his speech a whore gave us
the eye. Withoutthe slightest transition he says to me abruptly: "Would you
like togive her a tumble? It won't cost much. . . she'll take the two of uson.
" And without waiting for a reply he staggers to his feet and goesover to her.
In a few minutes he comes back. "It's all fixed, " he says."Finish your beer.
She's hungry. There's nothing doing any more at thishour. . . she'll take
the both of us for fifteen francs. Well go tomy room. . . it'll be cheaper.
"
    On the way tothe hotel the girl is shivering so that we have to stop and
buy hera coffee. She's a rather gentle sort of creature and not at all badto
look at. She evidently knows Van Norden, knows

    there's nothingto expect from him but the fifteen francs. "You haven't
got any dough," he says, mumbling to me under his breath. As I haven't a
centime inmy pocket I don't quite see the point of this, until he bursts
out:"For Christ's sake, remember that we're broke. Don't get
tenderheartedwhen we get upstairs. She's going to ask you for a little extra
_ Iknow this cunt! I could get her for ten francs, if I wanted to. There'sno
use spoiling them...."
    "// est mechant,celui-la, " she says to me, gathering the drift of his
remarks inher dull way.
    "Non, il n'est pas mechant,il est tres gentii. "
    She shakes herhead laughingly. "Je Ie connais bien. ce type. " And then
shecommences a hard luck story, about the hospital and the back rent andthe
baby in the country. But she doesn't overdo it. She knows that ourears are
stopped; but the misery is there inside her, like a stone,and there's no
room for any other thoughts. She isn't trying to makean appeal to our
sympathies _ she's just shifting this big weight insideher from one place to
another. I rather like her. I hope to Christ shehasn't got a disease.. ..
    In the room shegoes about her preparations mechanically. "There isn't a
crust of breadabout by any chance? " she inquires, as she squats over the
bidet.Van Norden laughs at this. "Here, take a drink, " he says. shoving
abottle at her. She doesn't want anything to drink; her stomach's alreadyon
the bum, she complains.
    "That's justa line with her, " says Van Norden. "Don't let her work on
your sympathies.Just the same, I wish she'd talk about something else. How
the hellcan you get up any passion when you've got a starving cunt on your
hands?"
    Precisely! Wehaven't any passion either of us. And as for her, one might
as wellexpect her to produce a diamond necklace as to show a spark of
passion.But there's the fifteen francs and something has to be done about
it.It's like a state of war: the moment the condition is precipated
nobodythinks about anything but peace. about getting it over with. And
yetnobody has the courage to lay down his arms, to say, "I'm fed up withit. .
. I'm through. " No. there's fifteen francs somewhere, which nobodygives a
damn about any more and which nobody is going to get in theend anyhow, but
the fifteen francs is like the primal cause of thingsand rather than

    listen to one'sown voice, rather than walk out on the primal cause. one
surrendersto the situation, one goes on butchering and butchering and the
morecowardly one feels the more heroically does he behave, until a day
whenthe bottom drops out and suddenly all the guns are silenced and
thestretcher-bearers pick up the maimed and bleeding heroes and pin medalson
their chest. Then one has the rest of his life to think about thefifteen
francs. One hasn't any eyes or arms or legs, but he has theconsolation of
dreaming for the rest of his days about the fifteen francswhich everybody
has forgotten.
    It's exactlylike a state of'war __ I can't get it out of my head. The
way she worksover me. to blow a spark of passion into me, makes me think
what a damnedpoor soldier I'd be if I was ever silly enough to be trapped
like thisand dragged to the front. I know for my part that I'd surrender
everything,honor included, in order to get out of the mess. I haven't any
stomachfor it. and that's all there is to it. But she's got her mind set
onthe fifteen francs and if I don't want to fight about it she's goingto
make me fight. But you can't put fight into a man's guts if he hasn'tany
fight in him. There are some of us so cowardly that you can't evermake
heroes of us, not even if you frighten us to death. We know toomuch, maybe.
There are some of us who don't live in the moment, wholive a little ahead,
or a little behind. My mind is on the peace treatyall the time. I can't
forget that it was the fifteen francs which startedall the trouble. Fifteen
francs! What does fifteen francs mean to me.particularly since it's not my
fifteen francs?
    Van Norden seemsto have a more normal attitude about it. He doesn't care
a rap aboutthe fifteen francs either now; it's the situation itself which
intrigueshim. It seems to call for a show of mettle _ his manhood is
involved.The fifteen francs are lost, whether we succeed or not. There's
somethingmore involved _ not just manhood perhaps, but will. It's like a
manin the trenches again: he doesn't know any more why he should go onliving,
because if he escapes now hell only be caught later, but hegoes on just the
same, and even though he has the soul of a cockroachand has admitted as much
to himself, give him a gun or a knife or evenjust his bare nails, and hell
go on slaughtering and slaughtering, he'dslaughter a million men rather than
stop and ask himself why.