Man is at bottom a dreadful wild animal. We know this wild animal only in the tamed state called civilization and we are therefore shocked by occasional outbreaks of its true nature. But if and when the bolts and bars of the legal order fall apart and anarchy supervenes it reveals itself for what it is. For enlightenment on this matter, though, you have no need to wait until that happens: there exist hundreds of reports, recent and less recent, which will suffice to convince you that man is in no way inferior to the tiger or the hyena in pitilessness and cruelty. A weighty contemporary example is provided by the reply received by the British Anti-Slavery Society from the American Anti-Slavery Society in answer to its inquiries about the treatment of slaves in the slave-owning states of the North American Union: Slavery and the Internal Slave Trade in the United States of North America. This book constitutes one of the heaviest of all indictments against mankind. No one can read it without horror, for whatever the reader of it may have heard or imagined or dreamed of the condition of slaves, indeed of human harshness and cruelty in general, will fade into insignificance when reading how these devils in human form, these bigoted, church-going, sabbath-keeping scoundrels, especially the anglican parsons among them, treat their innocent black brothers whom force and injustice have delivered into their devilish clutches. This book, which consists of dry but authentic and documented reports, rouses one’s human feelings to such a degree of indignation that one could preach a crusade for the subjugation and punishment of the slave-owning states North America. They are a blot on mankind.
Schopenhauer, Arthur. Essays and Aphorisms. trans. by R.J Hollingdale. Penguin Books, London, 1970: 138.
High shutter rate—a hundred replicas captured instantly. A hundred and one replicas. How many photos have you taken in your life? asked a voice. I couldn’t fathom. Even a non-photographer snaps a million photos. What would be more impressive is how many words I’ve read. * I woke on the floor in a janitor’s closet. I didn’t remember going into the closet or even the building. My artificial hip hurt from laying there. I had no idea what day or time it was. The place smelled of mop solution. I stood and pissed into the mop bucket. The door was heavy and I slipped out to the hallway beyond, shrinking from the fluorescent light. A school? White tile, cool air conditioning, darkness at the door windows down the hall. My camera smelled like disinfectant. It could be a dream, I thought. My reflection in the door windows defined and absolute as I approached. Total dark beyond. Heat and humidity outside like steam. I texted my desk editor and looked for my vehicle.
The road to enlightenment begins here, he said. It’s not your typical idea of a road but what occurs on roads. The purpose is to traverse, to move across or through. Without the ability to stall or stop, without the possibility of breaking down. Breaking is for cowards. Losers take breaks. Idiots break bones. There are no breaks for us any more than there are confinements. At the very least you’re going to learn a lot about yourself. At the most you’ll become something extraordinary. What have you got to lose but time and pain? The answer is nothing. Nothing. You’ve got nothing to lose and everything to absorb. Embracing this next choice is a momentous step in your progression. Breaking is not an option for people like me, for people like you. Roads don’t often break—they connect. Minds don’t often break—minds break molds. Minds create breaks in the space time continuum.
About the breaks, sir, she said. How many—
Breaking is for dancers, he said, not for folks like us. If we break anything, it’s the traditions that got us into this broken state. We don’t break circuits, we don’t break character. We are here to smash into fragments the clumsy efforts of previous generations. We’ll accelerate their dismantling but we will not rebuild, we won’t rebuild, breaking and pulverizing again and again until there is absolutely nothing, not even the salt we walk on, not even humanity’s ashen remains hanging toxic and airborne about us. We inhale the ruin and exhale tapestries in neon, colliding neon nuclei, with the force of two human groins impacting violently, rapidly and repeatedly, as if humanity was angry but sexualized its anger, brutalized it into the amorphous faux-shape we call love.
But sir, she said. What does this have to do with—
Retreat into our collective sanatorium, he said, we will not. Let us stand hurling rocks and bone fragments like David at his giant attacker. Don’t join me at your peril. But know this—there are a few boxes of girl scout cookies in the break room if you want some.
Man is at bottom a dreadful wild animal. We know this wild animal only in the tamed state called civilization and we are therefore shocked by occasional outbreaks of its true nature. But if and when the bolts and bars of the legal order fall apart and anarchy supervenes it reveals itself for what it is. For enlightenment on this matter, though, you have no need to wait until that happens: there exist hundreds of reports, recent and less recent, which will suffice to convince you that man is in no way inferior to the tiger or the hyena in pitilessness and cruelty. A weighty contemporary example is provided by the reply received by the British Anti-Slavery Society from the American Anti-Slavery Society in answer to its inquiries about the treatment of slaves in the slave-owning states of the North American Union: Slavery and the Internal Slave Trade in the United States of North America. This book constitutes one of the heaviest of all indictments against mankind. No one can read it without horror, for whatever the reader of it may have heard or imagined or dreamed of the condition of slaves, indeed of human harshness and cruelty in general, will fade into insignificance when reading how these devils in human form, these bigoted, church-going, sabbath-keeping scoundrels, especially the anglican parsons among them, treat their innocent black brothers whom force and injustice have delivered into their devilish clutches. This book, which consists of dry but authentic and documented reports, rouses one’s human feelings to such a degree of indignation that one could preach a crusade for the subjugation and punishment of the slave-owning states North America. They are a blot on mankind.
Schopenhauer, Arthur, trans. by R.J Hollingdale, Essays and Aphorisms, Penguin Books, London, 1970: 138.
Harry lay in the hospital for two days waiting for his brother the attorney to visit. A young woman arrived instead, unannounced in the afternoon, rushed and terse.
My brother sent a lackey, Harry said.
Your brother is very busy and it’s Sunday, she said. I’m Elizabeth.
I remember you, Harry said. He invited me to your wedding a few years ago. I couldn’t make it.
Couldn’t or didn’t want to?
Didn’t want to.
She reached into her shoulder bag and ruffled papers, extracting one.
This is from your brother, she said.
Elizabeth read: The Premier Grande Hotel in New York City is in the process of filing a lawsuit against you for extensive damages to the property. They knew to notify me from your previous outburst there. I am currently trying to negotiate with them on your behalf.
My behalf!
Elizabeth read: The hotel states that you will no longer be welcome on its property. Two destructive incidents in the last two years have forced them into this position.
Fuck them! [cough]
Elizabeth read: To quote the hotel’s general manager, “For the safety of our guests and our staff, Mr. Gannett is no longer allowed on or near hotel grounds.”
Harry shifted his weight on the hospital bed and winced.
Elizabeth read: I am concerned for you, Harry. I’ve done everything I can for you up to this point. It’s time for you to pull yourself together and get the help you need.
Harry looked up at the ceiling. Checkered panels, air vents, fluorescent light tubes. Uninspiring and disgusting, all of it, he thought.
Elizabeth tucked the paper neatly into her bag and sighed, looking at Harry.
Your brother wants to know if you need anything, she said.
My brother wants to bury me, he said.
That’s not true.
We want to bury each other. It’s a race to the shovel.
Stop it, Harry.
Listen to me, dummy, he said.
How dare you.
I’ve known you just a few minutes and I already hate you.
Your brother wants you to call him.
Tell him to come make me.
Grow up, Harry.
I bet you’re already divorced.
What?
Thanks for stopping by, Amanda.
Fuck you, Harry.
Pardon me, said a nurse.
Elizabeth turned toward the doorway and looked at the nurse.
Please don’t speak like that to the patient, said the nurse.
Elizabeth stammered and reddened.
Are you related to this patient, ma’am? asked the nurse.
I’m out of here, Elizabeth said, and walked past the nurse out the door.
A detective novel is always good for the first twenty pages because that is where the author presents the world in which the intrigue will develop: for example, let’s say, the Japanese laundromats in Buenos Aires. […] One wonders why it is that the Japanese population in Buenos Aires opens laundromats. After that question is answered, a crime appears, and, from that point onward, the bad novels respond to the mystery with predictable schemes. Only the best writers are able to add something extra to the construction of the intrigue, going beyond simple suspense or simple solutions to the problem. A writer who is able to write something beyond the simple plot is one who achieves a novel that is worthy of translation.
Piglia, Ricardo, trans. by Robert Croll. The Diaries of Emilio Renzi: The Happy Years. Restless Books, New York, 2018: 185.
Strolling a city park at dusk amid adults waving flags. I absorb the gauntlet with the focus of their spectacle onstage behind me. I’m slapped and smacked by whipping fabric, then safely on the other side at an ornamental water fountain on a small lawn. I rinse my hands in the fountain, aware of people and birds. No interviewers with cameras ask how I was able to overcome the challenge.
Onto sidewalks soiled and grimy, down darkened alleys. Dripping pipes and huddled itinerants. Postcards still find this place. The mayor holds a candle and greets me. I’m just making the rounds, he says. I trade my iPhone for his candle, which I struggle to keep aflame as we walk. The bridge is a marvel and we cross it, gaining a retinue of locals in our aligned pursuit to conquer land and water.
Outdoor museums by moonlight on the tongues of ghosts. Traffic exhaust in our clothes. The cemeteries in this city vary widely by style. Buried dead in the east salvage no rest from the highway noise. Out west everyone’s dead and nothing can be done. Only away from here can one sleep peacefully, as with all places.
Dogs run wild at night. The people wish they were dogs. Bats dart soundlessly about tree canopies, disappearing into the moon. Somewhere the dead regain form and slither atop fallen autumn leaves toward fates unknown.
The young woman who found him in the bath would later be identified in the news as Rosalea Montero, 20, of Monterrey, Mexico. She waited one hour after check-out and knocked four times on the hotel room door, as always, each knock twenty seconds apart, before slowly entering and announcing herself. The suite was bright from window light and she wheeled her cart of supplies in to notice a chaotic mess.
It was the worst thing I’ve ever seen, she said to a reporter via translator.
Visibly distraught in the hotel lobby, trembling and hugging herself, she described room 3210 as littered with broken glass and furniture with blood on the walls and tile and blood on the hotel’s trademark white fur rugs. Instinct urged her to run before something terrible happened but instead she followed the blood trail tiptoeing into the sprawling bathroom where she found the man unmoving and unresponsive and almost fully submerged in a giant stone tub filled with pink-red water.
She screamed and notified hotel security, then sprinted from the room. Security confirmed what Rosalea told them and they contacted the police, who confirmed what security told them. The police requested paramedics, one of whom reached out a gloved hand to check the soaking man’s pulse at his neck, waking him. A moment of stunned silence hung about the room before the man screamed, wide-eyed and delirious, thrashing water at the group gathered in his hotel bathroom, all of them startled, the gloved paramedic slipping backward on the wet tile, injuring herself.
The authorities quickly identified the man as Harry Gannett, 33, of Middletown, New York. He’d been attacked with a knife and badly beaten, sustaining two broken ribs and a shattered left shoulder. Bruises covered his body. He slept deeply behind thin hospital curtains as police waited to speak to him.
*
Harry believed it all to be a dream. He last remembered lunging head-first over the second-floor railing onto the tile below and then crawling concussed and bleeding to the nearby elevator up to his suite on the 32nd floor.
How far back must be this instinct of survival to slither wormlike unto the next stupid moment, he thought.
*
Orange County — A local man is in serious condition after falling from an escalator at the Premier Grande Hotel in Manhattan’s Midtown yesterday afternoon, according to police.
Harry Gannett, son of the late media magnate Michael Gannett, was rushed to Mount Sinai Beth Israel Hospital on East 34th Street after police were called to investigate an unresponsive male in an upper-floor room.
“Officers were dispatched to the hotel where they found the patient in immediate distress,” said Sergeant Nathan Kapler, NYPD, Station 54.
“The patient had been injured and was transported to the hospital without any further harm or impact to the hotel guests or employees.”
Mr. Gannett, said a voice. Mr. Gannett. Mr. Gannett.
No name on this Earth matters or has mattered, he thought. No name will matter.
He wondered if he was dead and hoped he was. It didn’t seem like death but what is to seem? He hated what it meant to seem.
Mr. Gannett, can you hear me? Mr. Gannett?
No longer is any voice on this Earth recognizable, he thought. I’ve buried them all. I’ve buried the living and the dead and I’ve buried their gods and I will bury myself.
Mr. Gannett. Mr. Gannett.
He inhaled and said: Curse all of you in this room.
An audible gasp.
Oh, boy, said a voice.
[cough]
Mr. Gannett? Shit. Mr. Gannett. Mr. Gannett.
Curse your bodies and your morals.
[cough]
Mr. Gannett? Sir? Sir. Can you hear me?
[cough]
[1] Caffen, Willa. “Local Heir Plunges at Premier Grande, Will Survive.” New York Herald, Nov. 11, 2023, p. 1.
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