"You could just about say that, I suppose. It means fundamentally-which means this is the irreducible minimum of meaning-play between unitary and binary, that is to say: 1 dawn, 2 eyes, 2 nipples, 1 mouth. There's also colour play, of course-pink dawn in blue sky, two pink dawns in two blue eyes, two pink nipples, one pink mouth (also two pink lips), one blue heaven in pink nipples and pink mouth. You see? Well then, now we come to the autobiographical element or, if you like, the personal content. It's a childhood reminiscence. The woman in it is your mother. You're greedy for her breasts, you want two mouths. Why should there be two of everything else-even the manifestly single city and single dawn-and only one sucking mouth? There." He sat back in post-exegetical triumph that the twin simmering murder in Lloyd Utterage's eyes did something to qualify. Ms. Tietjens said, in counter-triumph:
"If you want to know the truth, it was me."
"You mean you wrote it? You mean he stole it? You mean-"
"I mean I'm the woman in the poem, complete with two nipples. As you can vouch for."
"Look," Enderby said.
"He wrote it about me."
"What I mean is that I didn't bloody well ask to see them. Here, by the way, is your poem back. With an A on it. And a lousy poem it is, if I may say so. Coming into my apartment," he told the class, "and stripping off. Something to do with Jesus Christ being a woman. And you," he accused, "pretending to be lesbian."
"I never said I was that. You make too many false assumptions."
"Look," Enderby said in great weariness and with crackling energy. "All of you. A poem isn't important because of the biographical truth of the content."
"Look," countersaid the sloppy Nordic, "it was one way of keeping her there, can't you see that? She's there in that fucking poem forever. Complete with pink nipples."
"I'm not a thing to be kept," Ms. Tietjens said hotly. "Can't you see that attitude makes some of us go the way we do?"
"The point is," Enderby said, "that there are certain terrible urgencies." Lloyd Utterage guffaw-sneered in a way that Enderby could only think of as niggerish. It was in the act of the formulation of the term that he realised with great exactitude the impossibility of his position. There was no communication; he was too old-fashioned; he had always been too old-fashioned. "The urgencies are not political or racial or social. They're, so to speak, semantic. Only the poetical enquiry can discover what language really is. And all you're doing is letting yourselves be ensnared into the irrelevancies of the slogan on the one hand and sanctified sensation on the other." So. Identity? Unimportant. Sensation? Unimportant. What the hell was left? "The urgent task is the task of conservation. To hold the complex totality of linguistic meaning within a shape you can isolate from the dirty world."
"The complex what?" Ms. Hermsprong asked. The rest of them looked at him as if he were, which he probably was, mad.
"Never mind," Enderby said. "You can't fight. You'll never prevail against the big bastards of computerised organisations that are kindly letting you enjoy the illusion of freedom. The people who write poems, even bad ones, are not the people who are going to rule. Sooner or later you're all going to go to jail. You have to learn to be alone-no sex, not even any books. All you'll have is language, the great conserver, and poetry, the great isolate shaper. Stock your minds with language, for Christ's sake. Learn how to write what's memorable. No, not write-compose in your head. The time will come when you won't even be allowed a stub of pencil and the back of an envelope." He paused, looking down. He looked up at their pity and wonder and the black man's hatred. "Try," he said lamely, "heroic couplets."
The cannibal Arnold said: "How long will you be staying?"
Enderby grinned citrously. "Not much longer, I suppose. I'm not doing any good, am I?" Nobody said anything. Hamsun did a slow and not ungraceful shrug. Chuck Szymanowski said:
"You're defeatist. You're anti-life. You're not helping any. The time will come later for all this artsy-shmartsy crap. But it's not now."
"If it's not now," Enderby said, "it's not ever." He didn't trouble to get angry at the designation of high and neutral art as crap. "You can't split life into diachronic segments." He would write a letter of resignation when he got back to the apartment. No, he wouldn't even do that. Today was what? Friday the twenty-sixth. There would be a salary cheque for him on Monday. Grab that and go. He was, by God, after all, despite everything, free. Ms. Cooper or Krugman said, kindly it seemed:
"What's your idea of a good pome?"
"Well," Enderby said. "Perhaps this:
"Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is gone to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep.
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright…"
"Jesus," Lloyd Utterage said with awe. "Playing your little games, man." And then, blood mixed somewhere down there in his larynx: "You bastard. You misleading reactionary evil bastard."
SIX
Enderby saw, in gloomy clarity, going back to 96th Street on the IRT, that the area of freedom was very small. Ein wenig frei was about right. He was not free, for instance, not to be messily beaten up by the black gang Lloyd Utterage had, in sincere and breathy confidence with much African vowel-lengthening, promised to unleash on him during the weekend. He was not free not to feel excruciating stabs in his calves, something probably to do with the silting up of the arteries, which had now come upon him as he embraced the metal monkey pole in the IRT train, all the seats having been taken by young black and brown thugs just out of school, who should by rights be forced to stand up for their elders. But he was free to leave America. A matter of booking on a plane to Madrid and then another to Tangier. Being free in this area, however, he decided not to make use of his freedom. Which meant he would not be free not to be messily beaten up etc. etc. Which meant he was choosing to be messily etc. They would bruise and rend his body, but there would be a thin clear as it were refrigerated self deep within, unbruisable and unrendable and, as it were, free. Augustine of Hippo, whom he now saw blanketed and shockhaired like Lloyd Utterage, was waiting for him back in the apartment to sort out other aspects of freedom for him. But, wait-he had to appear on a television talk show sometime this evening, didn't he? He must not forget that, he must keep track of the time. Ein wenig frei to speak out for Gerard Manley Hopkins, sufferer, mystic, artist, pre-Freudian.
As he let himself into the apartment, he was aware of the ghost of the cardiac attack, if that was what it was, earlier-not shooting but already shot, a sort of bruised line of trajectory. It was obvious that he was intended to be doing some urgent thinking about death. He gloomed at the mess of the kitchen, lusting for a pint of strong tea and a wedge of some creature of Sara Lee's. He gave way to the lust defiantly, grumbling round the sitting room while the water boiled, searching for his ALABAMA mug. He found it eventually, full of warmish water that had once been ice. Soon he was able to sit on a pouffe, gorging sponge and orange cream out of one fist, the other holding the handle of the mug of mahogany tea like a weapon against Death, what time he looked at a children's cartoon programme on television. It was all talking animals in reds, blues, and yellows, but you could see the chained wit and liberalism of the creators escaping from odd holes in the fabric: that legalistic pig there was surely the Vice-President? Might it be possible to get the story of Augustine and Pelagius across in cartoon form?