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: It's a pornographic magazine of truly comic book proportions!
: It's a philosophy. A poetics. A politics, if you will. A literature of protest. A novel of ideas. A pornographic magazine of truly comic book proportions. It is, in the end, whatever the hell I want it to be. And when I'm through with it it's going to blow a hole this wide straight through the world's own idea of itself.
] Henry Fool
: They're throwing bottles at your house. Come on. Let's go break their arms.
: I've been bad. Repeatedly.
: You can't go to work! You have to stay home and write!
: Look, Simon, I made love to your mother about half an hour ago, and now I'm beginning to think that maybe it wasn't such a good idea.
: We gotta talk. What the hell were you trying to do when you wrote this thing? Simon
: Nothing. Henry Fool
: Well, you know, you wrote it in a kind of iambic pentameter. Simon
: Iambic what? Henry Fool
: Verse. Look. In my opinion, this is pretty powerful stuff. Though your spelling is Neanderthal and your reasoning a little naive, your instincts are profound. But the whole thing needs to be given a more cohesive shape. It can be expanded, followed through, unified. Do you see what I'm getting at? Are you willing to commit yourself to this? To really work on it? To give it its due in the face of adversity and discouragement? To rise to the challenge you yourself have set? And don't give me that wonderstruck "I'm only a humble garbage man" bullshit, either. Simon
: It hurts to breathe. Henry Fool
: Of course it does.
: I worked, while you sat back and comfortably dismissed the outside world as too shallow, stupid and mean to appreciate your ideas. Henry Fool
: Is that such a priority? Is that some sort of measure of a man's worth? To drag what's best in him out into the street so every average slob with some pretense to taste can poke it with a stick? Simon Grim
: Maybe. Maybe it is.
: Perhaps I wasn't made to walk through shit.
: An honest man is always in trouble, remember that Simon.
: Opportunity will move out of the way to let a man pass it by.
: We know we have fallen, for we know who we are.
: You can't argue about taste.
[reading porn magazines
] Henry Fool
: I learn so much from these magazines Mr. Dang, and I refuse to discriminate between modes of knowing.
: The world is full of shit indeed.
: A prophet is seldom heeded in his own land.
: [very calmly
] Once - I forget where I was. Central America, maybe. Somewhere hot. Stupid job, bad pay, dangerous location, and water so foul the natives wouldn't even piss in it - this crowd of drunken motherfuckers hired by the local drug cartel showed up at my hotel room and threatened to tear me limb from limb. And I say, "Listen hombres, OK, you got me outnumbered here four to one and you're gonna kill me here tonight and not a soul in this dimly lit world is gonna notice I'm gone. But one of you, one of you, one of you is gonna have his eye torn out. Period." Silence. "I repeat myself: One of you poor, underpaid jerks is gonna have an eye ripped out of its socket. I promise. It's a small thing perhaps, all things considered, but I will succeed, because it's the only thing I have left to do in this world. So why don't you just take a good look at one another one last time, and think it over a few minutes more." Simon
] And then what happened? Henry Fool
: Well. Here I am, still, after all.
: Certain work needs to be experienced all at once in order for one to appreciate the full force of it's character.
: [Glaring at Henry, while taking their 5 year old son, Ned, from the bar where Henry took him
] Ned, have you been drinking? Henry Fool
: His throat hurt from smoking.
[Fay punches Henry in the gut, hard
: I don't discriminate between different ways of knowing.
: She was an ugly and mean-spirited kid, but she knew how to play upon my weaknesses, which, I admit, are deep and many.
: You can't put a fence around a man's soul, we think and feel where and when we think and feel. We are servants of our muse and we toil where she commands.
: I can't work for a living, Simon, it's impossible. I've tried once. My genius will be wasted trying to make ends meet. This is how great men topple, Simon.
: How old do you think I am? Henry Fool
: You look young. Fay Grim
: How young? Henry Fool
: I don't know. Young. Fay Grim
: But how? I mean, do I look more like 20 or, y'know, 30. Henry Fool
: [thinks hard
: Can you sit there, look me straight in the eye and tell me that you don't think this poem is great? That it is not at once a poem of great lyrical beauty and ethical depth; that it is not a genuine, highly profound meditation on the miracle of existence? Simon
: I... Henry Fool
: *Can* you? Simon
: No. I can't. Henry Fool
: So you see you have no choice.
: Only someone who really cares doubts.
: You see Simon, there's three kinds of "there". There's "there", t-h-e-r-e: "There are the donuts." Then there's "their", t-h-e-i-r, which is the possessive: "It is their donut." Then finally, there's "they're", t-h-e-y-apostrophe-r-e. A contraction meaning: "They're... they're the donut people." Got it?
: The greats all say the same thing: little. And what little there is to be said is immense. Or, in other words, follow your own genius to where it leads without regard for the apparent needs of the world at large, which, in fact, has no needs as such, but, rather, moments of exhaustion in which it is incapable of prejudice. We can only hope to collide with these moments of unselfconsciousness. This divine fatigue. This... Fay Grim
: Push over. Henry Fool
: As I tried to make plain in Paris: 'Nous savons que nous avons chuté parce que nous savons qui nous sommes.' 'We know we have fallen because we know who we are. Fay Grim
] When were you in Paris? Henry Fool
: That's beside the point. But did they listen to me? Of course not!
: The good of free will must entail real choices for sin.
: They thought I was crazy because I was in love with you. Henry Fool
: Well, they were right, I was the janitor at your junior high school. Susan Weber
: You turned me on to Lautréamont. Henry Fool
: Did I? Susan Weber
: And Verlaine, Rimbaud. Henry Fool
: Really. Susan Weber
: All the French symbolists. Of course I out-grew them, but they were formative. Henry Fool
: Yeah, well, but still there are limits. I mean, there are laws even.
] Henry Fool
: Run. Ned Rifle
: You see? They have to bludgeon a man into obscurity before they'll acknowledge his genius.
: If anything happens to Fay, Jallal, I'll torture your wives, your family, your children and their children. There'll be a disease upon this Earth with your name on it. The only thing anyone will inherit from Jallal Said Khan is a long lifetime of intolerable pain. Sorry. That's just the kinda guy I am.