8 (i.e., carefully arranging her morning schedule to permit the twenty minutes the therapist had long suggested for quiet centering and getting in touch with feelings and owning them and journaling about them, looking inside herself with a compassionate, unjudging, almost clinical detachment)
1(B)(optional) Explain whether and how receipt of the additional information that the lady had herself grown up in an environment of unbelievably desperate poverty would affect your response to (A).
1 (i.e., the father-in-law’s)
2 See abortive PQ6 above.
3 (The way Y says things like ‘Show Up’ and ‘Be There’ makes X somehow conceive the clichés as capitalized, not unlike the way he hears his wife’s family talk about the insufferable annual ‘Get-Togethers’ at the Ramada C.C.)
4 (This was according to one of X’s brothers-in-law, a Big Six junior associate who hadn’t cherished the old man any more than X had, and was right there bedside with his serotonin-flooded wife when it occurred.)
1 (Right from the start you’d imagined the series as an octet or octocycle, though best of British luck explaining to anyone why.)
2 (Though it all gets a little complicated, because part of what you want these little Pop Quizzes to do is to break the textual fourth wall and kind of address (or ‘interrogate’) the reader directly, which desire is somehow related to the old ‘meta’-device desire to puncture some sort of fourth wall of realist pretense, although it seems like the latter is less a puncturing of any sort of real wall and more a puncturing of the veil of impersonality or effacement around the writer himself, i.e. with the now-tired S.O.P. ‘meta’-stuff it’s more the dramatist himself coming onstage from the wings and reminding you that what’s going on is artificial and that the artificer is him (the dramatist) and but that he’s at least respectful enough of you as reader/audience to be honest about the fact that he’s back there pulling the strings, an ‘honesty’ which personally you’ve always had the feeling is actually a highly rhetorical sham-honesty that’s designed to get you to like him and approve of him (i.e., of the ‘meta’-type writer) and feel flattered that he apparently thinks you’re enough of a grownup to handle being reminded that what you’re in the middle of is artificial (like you didn’t know that already, like you needed to be reminded of it over and over again as if you were a myopic child who couldn’t see what was right in front of you), which more than anything seems to resemble the type of real-world person who tries to manipulate you into liking him by making a big deal of how open and honest and unmanipulative he’s being all the time, a type who’s even more irritating than the sort of person who tries to manipulate you by just flat-out lying to you, since at least the latter isn’t constantly congratulating himself for not doing precisely what the self-congratulation itself ends up doing, viz. not interrogating you or have any sort of interchange or even really talking to you but rather just performing* in some highly self-conscious and manipulative way.
None of that was very clearly put and might well ought to get cut. It may be that none of this real-narrative-honesty-v.-sham-narrative-honesty stuff can even be talked about up front.)
* [Kundera here would say ‘dancing,’ and actually he’s a perfect example of a belletrist whose intermural honesty is both formally unimpeachable and wholly self-serving: a classic postmodern rhetorician.]
3 Note — in the spirit of 100 % candor — that it’s not like it’s any kind of Olympianly high aesthetic standards that have caused you to toss out 63 % of the original octet. The five unworkable pieces just plain didn’t work. One, e.g., had to do with this brilliant psychopharmacologist who’d patented an incredibly effective post-Prozac and — Zoloft type of antidepressant so efficacious that it completely wiped out every last trace of dysphoria/anhedonia/agoraphobia/OCD/existential despair in patients and replaced their affective maladjustments with an enormous sense of personal confidence and joie de vivre, a limitless capacity for vibrant interpersonal relations, and an almost mystical conviction of their elemental synecdochic union with the universe and everything therein, as well as an overwhelming and ebullient gratitude for all the above feelings; plus the new antidepressant had absolutely no side effects or contraindications or dangerous interactions with any other pharmaceuticals and practically flew through FDA approval hearings; plus the stuff was easy and inexpensive enough to synthesize and manufacture that the psychopharmacologist could make it himself in his little home laboratory in his basement and sell it at cost via direct mail to licensed psychiatric professionals, bypassing the rapacious markups of the large pharmaceutical companies; and the antidepressant meant a literal new lease on life for untold thousands of cyclothymic Americans, many of whom had been the most endogenous and obstinately miserable patients their psychiatrists had had, and now were positively bubbling over with
joie de vivre and productive energy and a warm humble sense of their great good fortune for same, and had found out the brilliant psychopharmacologist’s home address (i.e., some of the patients had, which turned out to be pretty easy, given that the psychopharmacologist direct-mailed the antidepressant and all anybody had to do was look at the return address on the cheap padded mailers he used to ship the stuff), and they began showing up at his house, first one at a time, then in small groups, and then after a while converging in greater and greater numbers on the psychopharmacologist’s modest private home, wanting just to look the great man meaningfully in the eye and to shake his hand and to thank him from the bottom of their spiritually jump-started hearts; and the crowds of grateful patients outside the psychopharmacologist’s home get steadily bigger and bigger, and some of the more determinedly grateful people in the crowd have set up tents and mobile homes whose sewage hoses have to be fed down into the curb’s storm drain, and the psychopharmacologist’s doorbell and phone ring constantly, and his neighbor’s yards get trampled and parked on, and untold dozens of municipal health ordinances are broken; and the psychopharmacologist inside the house eventually has to phone-order and install special extra-opaque shades across his front windows and to keep them drawn at all times because whenever the crowd outside catches any glance of any part of him moving around inside the house an enormous ebullient cheer of gratitude and praise rises from the massed thousands and there’s an almost menacing-looking mass charge for the modest little house’s porch and doorbell as the newly whole patients en masse are overwhelmed with a sincere desire just to shake the psychopharmacologist’s hand with both of theirs and to tell him what a great and brilliant and selfless living saint he is and to say that if there’s anything at all they can do to in any way even partly start to repay him for what he’s done for them and their families and humanity as a whole, why, to just say the word, anything at all; so that of course the psychopharmacologist basically ends up a prisoner in his own home, with his special shades drawn and phone off the hook and doorbell unplugged and multiple expanding-foam earplugs crammed in his ears all the time to drown out the crowd-noise, unable to leave the house and already down to the last of the very most unappetizing canned food from the very back of his pantry and getting closer and closer to either slitting his radial arteries or else shimmying up the inside of the chimney to his roof with a megaphone and telling the maddeningly ebullient and grateful crowd of newly whole citizens to go fuck themselves and leave him the fuck alone for the love of fucking Christ he can’t take it anymore… and then true to the cycle’s Pop Quiz format there are some fairly predictable queries about whether and why the psychopharmacologist might deserve what’s happened to him and whether it’s true that any marked shift in the total joy/misery ratio in the world must always be compensated for by some equally radical shift on the other side of the relevant equation, etc…. and the whole thing just goes on too long and is at once too obvious and too obscure (e.g., the second part of the ‘Q’ part of the Quiz spends five lines constructing a possible analogy between the world’s joy/misery ratio and the seminal double-entry ‘A = L + E’ equation of modern accountancy, as if more than one person out of a thousand could possibly give a shit), plus the whole mise en scène is too cartoonish, such that it looks as if it’s trying to be just grotesquely funny instead of both grotesquely funny and grotesquely serious at the same time, such that any real human urgency in the Quiz’s scenario and palpations is obscured by what appears to be just more of the cynical, amusing-ourselves-to-death-type commercial comedy that’s already sucked so much felt urgency out of contemporary life in the first place, a defect that in an ironic way is almost the opposite of what compels the deletion of another of the original eight little pieces, this one a PQ about a group of early-20th-century immigrants from an exotic part of E. Europe who land and get processed through Ellis Island and after passing their TB exam have the misfortune to draw this one certain Ellis Island Intake Processing Official who’s psychotically jingoistic and sadistic and on their Intake documents transforms each immigrant’s exotic native surname into whatever sort of disgusting ridiculous undignified English-language term it in any remote way resembles — Pavel Shitlick, Milorad Fucksalot, Djerdap Snott, doubtless you get the idea — which of course the immigrants’ ignorance of their new country’s tongue keeps them from objecting to or even noticing, but which of course soon becomes and remains over the balance of their U.S. lives a hellish source of ridicule and shame and discrimination and the source of a gnawing E.-European-vendetta-type resentment that lasts all the way into the nursing home in Brooklyn NY where a fair number of the nomologically afflicted immigrants end up in their old age; and then one day a ravaged but eerily familiar old face suddenly appears at the nursing home as the face’s owner is processed and admitted and wheeled with his portable oxygen tank into the old immigrants’ midst in the TV room, and first sharp-eyed old Ephrosin Mydickislittle and then gradually all the rest of them suddenly recognize the new guy as the enfeebled senescent husk of the malignant Ellis Island I.P.O., who’s now paralyzed and mute and emphysematic and totally helpless; and the group of a dozen or so of the victimized immigrants who’ve borne ridicule and indignity and resentment almost every day for the last five decades have to decide whether they’re going to exploit this now perfect chance at exacting their revenge, and thereupon there’s a long debate about whether cutting the paralyzed old guy’s O2-cord or something is justified and whether it could be any accident that a just and merciful E.-European God caused this particular nursing home to be the one that the sadistic old former I.P.O. was wheeled into versus whether avenging their ridiculous names by torturing/killing an incapacitated old person would transform the immigrants into living embodiments of the very indignity and disgust their English names connoted, i.e. whether in avenging the insult of their names they would come, finally, to deserve those names… all of which is actually (in your opinion) kind of cool, and the scenario and debate do have traces of the odd sort of grotesque/redemptive urgency you’d wanted the octet to convey; but the problem is that the same spiritual/moral/human issues this piece’s ‘Quiz-questions’ ((A), (B), and so on and so forth) would interrogate the reader on are already hashed out at enormous but narratively necessary length in the piece’s climactic twelve-angry-immigrant-men-type debate, here rendering the post-scenario ‘Q’ little more than a Y/N referendum; plus it also turned out that this piece didn’t fit with the octet’s other, more ‘workable’ pieces to form the sort of plicated-yet-still-urgently-unified whole that’d make the cycle a real piece of belletristic art instead of just a trendy wink-nudge pseudo-avant-garde exercise; and so, as gravid with import and urgency as you find the story’s issues of ‘names’ and of names ‘fitting’ instead of just denoting or connoting, you bite your lip and toss the piece out of the octet… which actually probably means that it turns out you do have standards, maybe not Olympian ones but standards and convictions just the same, which no matter how big a time-wasting fiasco the whole octet’s become ought to be a source of at least some small comfort.