If there had been no music I would have gone to the madhouse like Nijinsky. (It was just about this time that they discovered that Nijinsky was mad.) He had been found giving his money away to the poor - always a bad sign! My mind was filled with wonderful treasures, my taste was sharp and exigent, my muscles were in excellent condition, my appetite was strong, my wind sound. I had nothing to do except to improve myself, and I was going crazy with the improvements I made every day. Even if there were a job for me to fill I couldn't accept it, because what I needed was not work but a life more abundant. I couldn't waste time being a teacher, a lawyer, a physician, a politician or anything else that society had to offer. It was easier to accept menial jobs because it left my mind free. After I was fired from the garbage trucks I remember taking up with an Evangelist who seemed to have great confidence in me. I was a sort of usher17, collector and private secretary. He brought to my attention the whole world of Indian philosophy. Evenings when I was free I would meet with my friends at the home of Ed Bauries who lived in an aristocratic section of Brooklyn. Ed Bauries was an eccentric pianist who couldn't read a note. He had a bosom18 pal19 called George Neumiller with whom he often played duets. Of the dozen or so who congregated20 at Ed Bauries' home nearly every one of us could play the piano. We were all between twenty-one and twenty-five at the time; we never brought any women along and we hardly ever mentioned the subject of women during these sessions. We had plenty of beer to drink and a whole big house at our disposal, for it was in the Summer time, when his folks were away, that we held our gatherings21. Though there were a dozen other homes like this which I could speak of, I mention Ed Bauries' place because it was typical of something I have never encountered elsewhere in the world. Neither Ed Bauries himself nor any of his friends suspected the sort of books I was reading nor the things which were occupying my mind. When I blew in I was greeted enthusiastically - as a clown. It was expected, of me to start things going. There were about four pianos scattered22 throughout the big house to say nothing of the celesta, the organ, guitars, mandolins, fiddles23 and what not. Ed Bauries was a nut, a very affable, sympathetic and generous one too. The sandwiches were always of the best, the beer plentiful24, and if you wanted to stay the night he could fix you up on a divan25 just as pretty as you liked. Coming down the street - a big, wide street, somnolent26, luxurious27, a street altogether out of the world - I could hear the tinkle28 of the piano in the big parlour on the first floor. The windows were wide open and as I got into range I could see Al Burger or Connie Grimm sprawling29 in their big easy chairs, their feet on the window sill, and big beer mugs in their hands. Probably George Neumiller was at the piano, improvising30, his shirt peeled off and a big cigar in his mouth. They were talking and laughing while George fooled around, searching for an opening. Soon as he hit a theme he would call for Ed and Ed would sit beside him, studying it out in his unprofessional way, then suddenly pouncing31 on the keys and giving tit for tat. Maybe when I'd walk in somebody would be trying to stand on his hands in the next room - there were three big rooms on the first floor which opened one on to the other and back of them was a garden, an enormous garden, with flowers, fruit trees, grape vines, statues, fountains an f everything. Sometimes when it was too hot they brought the celesta or the little organ into the garden (and a keg of beer, naturally) and we'd sit around in the dark laughing and singing - until the neighbours forced us to stop. Sometimes the music was going on all through the house at once, on every floor. It was really crazy then, intoxicating32, and if there had been women around it would have spoiled it. Sometimes it was like watching an endurance contest - Ed Bauries and George Neumiller at the grand piano, each trying to wear the other out, changing places without stopping, crossing hands, sometimes felling away to plain chopsticks, sometimes going like a Wurlitzer. And always something to laugh about all the time. Nobody asked what you did, what you thought about, and so forth33. When you arrived at Ed Bauries' place you checked your identification marks. Nobody gave a fuck what size hat you wore or how much you paid for it. It was entertainment from the word go - and the sandwiches and the drinks were on the house. And when things got going, three or four pianos at once, the celesta, the organ, the mandolins, the guitars, beer running through the halls, the mantelpieces full of sandwiches and cigars, a breeze coming through from the garden, George Neumiller stripped to the waist and modulating34 like a fiend, it was better than any show I've ever seen put on and it didn't cost a cent. In fact, with the dressing35 and undressing that went on, I always came away with a little extra change and a pocketful of good cigars. I never saw any of them between time - only Monday nights throughout the Summer, when Ed held open house
Standing36 in the garden listening to the din4 I could scarcely believe that it was the same city. And if I had ever opened my trap and exposed my guts37 it would have been all over. Not one of these bozos amounted to anything, as the world reckons. They were just good eggs, children, fellows who liked music and who liked a good time. They liked it so much that sometimes we had to call the ambulance. Like the night Al Burger twisted his knee while showing us one of his stunts38. Everybody so happy, so full of music, so lit up, that it took him an hour to persuade us he was really hurt. We try to carry him to a hospital but it's too far away and besides, it's such a good joke, that we drop him now and then and that makes him yell like a maniac39. So finally we telephone for help from a police box, and the ambulance comes and the patrol wagon40 too. They take Al to the hospital and the rest of us to the hoose-gow. And on the way we sing at the top of our lungs. And after we're bailed41 out we're still feeling good and the cops are feeling good too, and so we all adjourn42 to the basement where there's a cracked piano and we go on singing and playing. All this is like some period B.C. in history which ends not because there's a war but because even a joint43 like Ed Bauries' is not immune to the poison seeping44 in from the periphery45. Because every street is becoming Myrtle Avenue, because emptiness is filling the whole continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Because, after a certain time, you can't enter a single house throughout the length and breadth of the land and find a man standing on his hands singing. It just ain't done any more. And there ain't two pianos going at once anywhere, nor are there two men anywhere willing to play all night just for the fun of it. Two men who can play like Ed Bauries and George Neumiller are hired by the radio or the movies and only a thimbleful of their talent is used and the rest is thrown into the garbage can. Nobody knows, judging from public spectacles, what talent is disposable in the great American continent. Later on, and that's why I used to sit around on doorsteps in Tin Pan Alley46, I would while away the afternoons listening to the professionals mugging it out. That was good too, but it was different. There was no fun in it, it was a perpetual rehearsal47 to bring in dollars and cents. Any man in America who had an ounce of humour in him was saving it up to put himself across. There were some wonderful nuts among them too, men I'll never forget, men who left no name behind them, and they were the best we produced. I remember an anonymous48 performer on the Keith circuit who was probably the craziest man in America, and perhaps he got fifty dollars a week for it. Three times a day, every day in the week, he came out and held the audience spell-bound. He didn't have an act - he just improvised49. He never repeated his jokes or his stunts. He gave himself prodigally50, and I don't think he was a hot fiend either. He was one of those guys who are born in the corncrakes and the energy and the joy in him was so fierce that nothing could contain it. He could play any instrument and dance any step and he could invent a story on the spot and string it out till the bell rang. He was not only satisfied to do his own act but he would help the others out. He would stand in the wings and wait for the right moment to break into the other guy's act. He was the whole show and it was a show that contained more therapy than the whole arsenal51 of modem52 science. They ought to have paid a man like this the wages which the President of the United States receives. They ought to sack the President of the United States and the whole Supreme53 Court and set up a man like this as ruler. This man could cure any disease on the calendar. He was the kind of guy, moreover, as would do it for nothing, if you asked him to. This is the type of man which empties the insane asylums54. He doesn't propose a cure - he makes everybody crazy. Between this solution and a perpetual state of war, which is civilization, there is only one other way out - and that is the road we will all take eventually because everything else is doomed55 to failure. The type that represents this one and only way bears a head with six faces and eight eyes, the head is a revolving56 lighthouse, and instead of a triple crown at the top, as there might well be, there is a hole which ventilates what few brains there are. There is very little brain, as I say, because there is very little baggage to carry about, because living in full consciousness, the grey matter passes off into light. This is the only type of man one can place above the comedian57; he neither laughs nor weeps, he is beyond suffering. We don't recognize himyet because he is too dose to us, right under the skin, as a matter of fact. When the comedian catches us in the guts this man, whose name might be God, I suppose, if he had to use a name, speaks up. When the whole human race is rocking with laughter, laughing so hard that it hurts, I mean, everybody then has his foot on the path. In that moment everybody can just as well be God as anything else. In that moment you have the annihilation of dual58, triple, quadruple and multiple consciousness, which is what makes the grey matter coil up in dead folds at the top of the skull59. At that moment you can really feel the hole in the top of the head; you know that you once had an eye there and that this eye was capable of taking in everything at once. The eye is gone now, but when you laugh until the tears flow and your belly60 aches, you are really opening the skylight andventilating the brains. Nobody can persuade you at that moment to take a gun and kill your enemy; neither can anybody persuade you to open a fat tome containing the metaphysical truths of the world and read it. If you know what freedom means, absolute freedom and not a relative freedom, then you must recognize that this is the nearest to it you will ever get. If I am against the condition of the world it is not because I am a moralist - it is because I want to laugh more. I don't say that God is one grand laugh: I say that you've got to laugh hard before you can get anywhere near God. My whole aim in life is to get near to God, that is, to get nearer to myself. That's why it doesn't matter to me what road I take. But music is very important. Music is a tonic61 for the pineal gland62. Music isn't Bach or Beethoven; music is the can-opener of the soul. It makes you terribly quiet inside, makes you aware that there's a roof to your being.
The stabbing horror of life is not contained in calamities63 and disasters, because these things wake one up and one gets very familiar and intimate with them and finally they become tame again ... no, it is more like being in a hotel room in Hoboken let us say, and just enough money in one's pocket for another meal. You are in a city that you never expect to be in again and you have only to pass the night in your hotel room, but it takes all the courage and pluck you possess to stay in that room. There must be a good reason why certain cities, certain places, inspire such loathing64 and dread65. There must be some kind of perpetual murder going on in these places. The people are of the same race as you, they go about their business as people do anywhere, they build the same sort of house, no better, no worse, they have the same system of education, the same currency, the same newspapers - and yet they are absolutely different from the other people you know, and the whole atmosphere is different, and the rhythm is different and the tension is different. It's almost like looking at yourself in another incarnation. You know, with a most disturbing certitude, that what governs life is not money, not politics, not religion, not training, not race, not language, not customs, but something else, something you're trying to throtde all the time and which is really throttling66 you, because otherwise you wouldn't be terrified all of a sudden and wonder how you were going to escape. Some cities you don't even have to pass a night in - just an hour or two is enough to unnerve you. I think of Bayonne that way. I came on it in the night with a few addresses that had been given me. I had a briefcase67 under my arm with a prospectus68 of the Encyclopaedia69 Britannica. I was supposed to go under cover of dark and sell the bloody70 encyclopaedia to some poor devils who wanted to improve themselves. If I had been dropped off at Helsingfors I couldn't have felt more ill at ease than walking the streets of Bayonne. It wasn't an American city to me. It wasn't a city at all, but a huge octopus71 wriggling72 in the dark. The first door I came to looked so forbidding I didn't even bother to knock; I went like that to several addresses before I could summon the courage to knock. The first face I took a look at frightened the shit out of me. I don't mean timidity or embarrassment73 - I mean fear. It was the face of a hod-carrier, an ignorant mick who would as lief fell you with an axe74 as spit in your eye. I pretended I had the wrong name and hurried on to the next address. Each time the door opened I saw another monster. And then I came at last to a poor simp who really wanted to improve himself and that broke me down. I felt truly ashamed of myself, of my country, my race, my epoch75. I had a devil of a time persuading him not to buy the damned encyclopaedia. He asked me innocently what then had brought me to his home - and without a minute's hesitation76 I told him an astounding77 lie, a lie which was later to prove a great truth. I told him I was only pretending to sell the encyclopaedia in order to meet people and write about them. That interested him enormously, even more than the encyclopaedia. He wanted to know what I would write about him, if I could say. It's taken me twenty years to answer that question, but here it is. If you would still like to know, John Doe of the City of Bayonne, this is it... I owe you a great deal because after that lie I told you I left your house and I tore up the prospectus furnished me by the Encyclopaedia Britannica and I threw it in the gutter78. I said to myself I will never again go to people under false pretences79 even if it is to give them the Holy Bible. I will never again sell anything, even if I have to starve. I am going home now and I will sit down and really write about people. And if anybody knocks at my door to sell me something I will invite him in and say "why are you doing this?" And if he says it is because he has to make a living I will oner him what money I have and beg him once again to think what he is doing. I want to prevent as many men as possible from pretending that they have to do this or that because they must earn a living. It is not true.One can starve to death - it is much better. Every man who voluntarily starves to death throws another cog into the automatic process. I would rather see a man take a gun and kill his neighbour, in order to get the food he needs, than keep up the automatic process by pretending that he has to cam a living. That's what I want to say, Mr. John Doe.
I pass on. Not the stabbing horror of disaster and calamity80, I say, but the automatic throwback, the stark81 panorama82 of the soul's atavistic struggle. A bridge in North Carolina, near the Tennessee border. Coming out of lush tobacco fields, low cabins everywhere and the smell of fresh wood burning. The day passed in a thick lake of waving green. Hardly a soul in sight. Then suddenly a clearing and I'm over a big gulch83 spanned by a rickety wooden bridge. This is the end of the world! How in God's name I got here and why I'm here I don't know. How am I going to eat?
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1
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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compensate
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| vt.补偿，赔偿；酬报 vi.弥补；补偿；抵消 | |
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navigated
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的过去式和过去分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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cuff
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| n.袖口；手铐；护腕；vt.用手铐铐；上袖口 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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frescoes
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| n.壁画( fresco的名词复数 )；温壁画技法，湿壁画 | |
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usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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somnolent
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| adj.想睡的，催眠的；adv.瞌睡地；昏昏欲睡地；使人瞌睡地 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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improvising
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| 即兴创作（improvise的现在分词形式） | |
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pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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modulating
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| 调整( modulate的现在分词 )； （对波幅、频率的）调制； 转调； 调整或改变（嗓音）的音调 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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stunts
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| n.惊人的表演( stunt的名词复数 )；（广告中）引人注目的花招；愚蠢行为；危险举动v.阻碍…发育[生长]，抑制，妨碍( stunt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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bailed
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| 保释，帮助脱离困境( bail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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seeping
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| v.（液体）渗( seep的现在分词 )；渗透；渗出；漏出 | |
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periphery
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| n.(圆体的)外面；周围 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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prodigally
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| adv.浪费地，丰饶地 | |
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arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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modem
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| n.调制解调器 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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asylums
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| n.避难所( asylum的名词复数 )；庇护；政治避难；精神病院 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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dual
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| adj.双的；二重的，二元的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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64
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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65
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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66
throttling
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| v.扼杀( throttle的现在分词 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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67
briefcase
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| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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68
prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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encyclopaedia
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| n.百科全书 | |
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70
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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71
octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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72
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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73
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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77
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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78
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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81
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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82
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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gulch
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| n.深谷，峡谷 | |
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