Recovery (8 page)

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Authors: John Berryman

BOOK: Recovery
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SEDUCTIVE—‘beautiful,' forcible but v. feminine (S's amazement), vanity (yet), self-pity (+ great courage, indomitable), frustrated despite her immense successes.
Good Lord I can't make head or tail of anything theres the bell
 
 
If life on the ward became
really
existential only from ten to noon five days a week, and in Mini-group three days, still high moments were possible during Eye-stare and even animal/vegetable/mineral on Saturday morning, while flamboyance featured the Reverend Hill Manson every Thursday evening and the chilling intellectual height of the week was Dr Marc Rome's Wednesday evening performance, or
demonstration
rather. Severance had heard many famous lecturers, knew himself not in the category, but neither Harold Nicolson in England nor Reinhold Niebuhr in this country seemed to him Rome's peer, the first deficient in sheer pressure and Dr Niebuhr unstable in his exordia, striding about flapping his arms and gibbering until he steadied, whereas Dr Rome began high with relentless control which he then, and menacingly, though with what Severance had to admit was actual charm, even increased until the subject was
wiped out.
He was flawless, non-rhetorical, only the terrible facts spoke. This week it was the Digestive Tract—the ulceration and/or hemorrhage
of the mucus membrane lining it from the mouth to the rectum.
Dr Rome was a little under average height, dark-blond hair immaculate, faultless grooming altogether, though often a sweater under his tweed jacket, nothing medical about him, large gentle eyes, a no-nonsense nose and chin, manner very very calm as he drew fearful diagrams on the blackboard and supplied them with horrifying statistics. His bulky attractive wife, dry three years, was in the row ahead of Severance's, to his right.
‘ … heavy vomiting of blood in an hour or so: acute hemorrhagic alcoholic gastritis. Forty to fifty percent die, of shock. Ulcers, same mortality rate, depending on age, length of condition, etc … . The alcoholic reacts to stress very badly, besides
having
more stress … . Cirrhosis of the liver accounts for one-seventh of all deaths from all causes in the United States. In San Francisco, for some reason, it is highest of all.' Severance knew he had no significant liver damage. Amazing. It was nearly all functional —Ruth often had to tie his shoe-laces before she rushed him off to lecture, wondering whether he would be able to negotiate the two flights of stairs—except the brain damage. He couldn't
feel
that himself—some cloudiness maybe—but Dr Rome's even more spectacular lecture on the CNS (next week) left no room for speculation. ‘It has seven hundred known functions, mostly vital, including detoxification: the liver is the body's
only
way of getting rid of alcohol. Under damage to it tolerance decreases. One drink will have the effect of ten formerly … . eighty-five to ninety percent of all you patients have fatty infibulation of the liver—a rare but bona fide cause of death.' Preliminary to the scarred-down, small, hard liver of the sinister slides in one morning lecture. Severance shuddered. Then Dr Rome went into pancreatitis.
 
 
He had cut his toenails that morning after showering (softened the things, a little). This always made him feel old—made of horn—‘cut'? hacked at, rather, slabs off. The right big toe was worse than the left big toe. He mentioned these facts of life to the poet as they sat morose in the Snack Room later that evening. ‘Your time will come, Bucko.'
‘They say we have weak wills. Do you know about the two drunks who went to the film of
The Lost Weekend.
Came staggering out. “My God I'll never take another drink,” said the first. “My God I'll never go to another movie.” How's that for commitment? one-track all-powerful, same energy do the
Critique of Practical Reason.
Protecting his habit. Plink.'
‘What do you do for a living, Jasper?'
The poet considered, smiling in his beard. Attractive son-of-a-bitch. Doesn't look his forty-is-it. Very bad reputation, women, so Ruth had said. ‘Well, I sell, you know. My books sell. Christ, my last royalty cheque from New York was nearly eight thousand. I nearly fainted. Also I give readings. Teach around the place.'
‘What place?'
‘U.S. How do you make out? I expect you're fat.'
‘I support a good many people,' Severance said awkwardly, very nervous about being, indeed, ‘fat.' Sounded awful. Was awful. ‘Good many books in print still but only the Harvey sold really well, and my last book.'
What was he doing in a literary conversation. Give it ten minutes.
‘I bought it one time,' Jasper confided, ‘secondhand paperback. Hope you're not miffed. Haven't read it yet. I stock-in biographies for my old age. Some title:
The Secret's t Man of Blood,
eh? Scientist deep in medieval Scots gore worked up for James First. What turned you on to the guy?'
‘Not the circulation-of-the-blood business, though I
was
angry about a great man almost utterly neglected. I got interested in his later work, on generation. Related to my own work then, now, all the time, on cancer-growth. Besides, there hadn't been a biography for fifty years. Flood now, since mine. France mostly, California, Germany.'
‘You opened the field. I do too. Make things possible for other people. Screw my own stuff.'
Severance was moved. It was how he felt too, but he never thought of artists that way. He looked at the poet with brandnew almost loving eyes, very touched. ‘My wife used to read me some of
The Screams
when it came out. She keeps up. Three four years ago?'
‘Six. Plink. Turn you on? Or off?'
‘Frankly—'
‘Don't
tell me anything frankly, you lab-hound.' The poet was grinning however. ‘Just report gently your wonder consternation rapture grief exaltation and crucifixion.'
Severance really laughed. He did not mind being had by a pro. ‘How about the Harrowing and the Resurrection?'
‘Settle for those. Tell me, were you interested, at all, in that very weird stuff?' He looked as if he cared.
‘Yes. Not as much as Ruth, but I read some myself afterward. You sound better aloud. Good deal of authentic mania there, black and blue wit, pain—the fellow going on to fresh defeats, flappable, flappable. Surviving however. I bought a lot of the little I could understand. Do you write when you're drunk?'
‘Not necessarily. You know, I prefer your capsule to most of my American reviews of that book. Not all, but you
heard
my little man. I'm touched, Alan.'
‘Well,' Severance swallowed, ‘you touched me just now.' He felt as if they were suddenly locked in a death-grip of amity. Neither man was smiling. ‘The going-on bit. Groundwork. Hacking entry-points to the sensitivity Group.'
‘Quite so. It's real. Plink. On the other hand, I am a raging
egoist. Tell you a story about Bertrand Russell. Back home in his castle or whatever, year or so before the end, some strangers were shown in when he was looking at an article about him in some shitass American newspaper. “You will simply have to
wait,”
Bertie said to them. “I am
reading about myself.”
Marvellous. That's me, pal.'
The scientist was overwhelmed with admiration and envy. ‘I really wish and wish and wish and wish and wish I could make it. I'm probably even vainer than you are, but I'm
impeded.'
He had never confessed this before. ‘My
vision
jumps when I find myself reading a complimentary sentence. I can go back, I can read doggedly through. Then memory takes over: five minutes later I've forgotten who wrote the article, I can't even remember, except vaguely, whether it was favourable or not. A phrase may stick; that's all. Same for speeches. I
don't hear
remarks as soon as I smell genuine praise underweigh.
My
ears skip. Not that I wouldn't
love
to hear: I just don't. And go back and ask? say “Would you mind repeating that extravagance, so that I may not only savour it to the full and recall it forever but repeat it to my wife the next time she shoots me to pieces or treats me like somebody met at the corner of 4th and Broad?” Not bloody likely.'
They were laughing together and the spell was broken. But Severance felt that he had made a deep ally in a most unexpected quarter and it was with sorrow as well as pleasure that he reflected Jasper was taking his Fifth tomorrow and would probably go home by the weekend, wherever home might be for that bird of passage. He pressed the younger man's shoulder hard, warm, as he left to get back to it.
 
 
Severance sat in his grey Japanese kimono with his knees wide and his big scratchpad on his left thigh and his cigarette burning in his left hand and wrote: ‘Tu. nt.
‘First Step (5th version?)
‘I see absolutely no hope unless I can learn to accept the First Step (and then keep in daily contact, both meditative and behavioural, with it and Steps 2 and 3, and 12). But with my infinite self-cons and mental distortions, many recognized in the last ten days but how many recognized and
going strong?
how can I know whether I do or not? All I can say is that I finally
seem
to believe as
solid facts
that I am
powerless
over alcohol and that my life is
unmanageable,
out of all control, insane, has been for many years. For Christ's sake tell me whether this belief of mine is real, and whether I can depend on at least
it.
I
am
a dependent man, I need something besides God.'
Here he broke off and leaned back. Suddenly he hacked. He read it over. No Style: good. Still, it didn't sound too good, exactly. But it was only a beginning. Deciding that he wasn't up to the thing itself tonight, he left the rest of the page blank, turned up the next, wrote ‘3' up in the corner (hoping that would do—it meant to keep this last one short, so that nothing could go wrong) and then:
‘Now,
I
am satisfied with what I have said. Where
you
are not, shoot me to pieces. I am deluded. It is not wrong to be deluded. What is tragic (
and unnecessary,
given divine and human help) is to be a drinking alcoholic. Wherever, in whatever points you can discover, my delusions
right now
may lead me back to drinking, I desire to be rid of them. If my many character defects can also be crippled, good; but that seems to me to be secondary.'
He read the two sheets over, and over again, very slowly, and then very slowly detached them and ripped them across and across and dropped them in the wastebasket beside his right arm.
 
From Severance's journal
 
Levelling is so hard because it opens you to confrontation: it gives your address and telephone number.
Maybe if you report puzzlement
when
confronted, and you reply ‘sincerely' and are shot down,
without feeling anger:
you're levelling! You're open! You don't know (yet) where you stand—perhaps you are outside the window hanging on by your toenails facing toward Jerusalem; but at least
somebody
does, in fact
they
do, and can tell you,
reaching
you, and you can then (POSSIBLY) accept it, and you're in business—advancing, recovering—one delusion
dead
(although, I note depressed, it may always regroup and take over, as last week—just trap again and again), pray, hope.
 
 
This damned Inventory is valuable though. I find I'm not doing (acting) as well as I
thought
(an instruction in Humility—that thing so uncomfortably far beyond me) but
better
than I feared (encouragement).
Z
∈ηó
δα ηoς
K
ριστoς
.
With Potts and his tape-recorder I was far more open —about my drinking and my ambition—than I've ever been before in public. I call that a gain. I wonder if it is. Did I avoid pomposity? I hope I can
see
it if it's in the transcript he promised before he sends the interview abroad. Nice boy. A bad moment: though so concentrated on his sometimes rough questions and the mike, I noticed Ruth come in at one point, waved hello, and when I finally said, ‘That's enough for today,' I looked and she
wasn't there—went off angry, he said, at the ‘two male egos ignoring' her. Professional business, curse her. I might as well have been in a television studio.
 
 
‘DON'T READ IT,' Linc said, ‘just tell it.'
Severance saw his point but was not having any. ‘I think I'll read it,' he said calmly, ‘if you don't mind.'
‘Go ahead.' Linc was sprawled out, with, as usual, another pair of fancy high shoes on. Perhaps he had ten? Keg and one nurse were sitting in.
Severance unrolled the sheets in his right hand, leaned forward, and read in his clear, powerful voice, keeping the volume down but not neglecting the drama of his spectacular dream, which enshrined, in his opinion (he had deliberately not tried to analyze any of it), at least three concerns—his First Step secret, his fear of Dr Rome, and his ungovernable sexuality—even if it didn't bear, obviously anyway, on his Contract.
‘“I was out on a pass—at one point I went back and a man was signing in, I saw his name but forget it (W——?) and realized I could think of no excuse to get out again at 10 p.m. Throughout the very long dream it was just past 10 p.m.
‘“Dream begins:
I cannot accept the 1st half of Step 1
. (
Fact,
just realized, with shock and horror, this evening) —went to talk to Mary-Jane, others with her, drunka-logues, left to return later. Out on pass I tell Ruth (after perhaps telling others in the same building—she is not as
dismayed as I am, doesn't say come home, ‘go tell Dr Rome's Encounter-Group'—I say give me some money, I've only pennies (but in fact I had maybe 50¢, enough for bus home but not for drinks at the Masters—she gives me a one and a five?)—walking toward
corner
building on campus where Group is meeting up on 3rd? floor—walk in, very
few
there, all men—I go into room behind—forget
‘“Then I am walking campusward
again
past a very large building not right—find corner building—have to go to my office, 3rd floor, to get my
2nd
half of 1st Step to show Dr Rome and ask them for help (which I don't expect to get-will go to Masters and drink—hours till closing)—stop at door of banked theatre down left inside building upstairs (where I am
supposed
to be, to find empty but people are there, even at that time of night and on campus a film is to be shown—ask some girl on left what—girl coming up aisle says German film—now I have SEEN this girl before, know her well—middle height, straight hair, pretty—we talk, she stands against doorway, people passing—I am excited, I stand close to her, find her excited—we half embrace, her one eye is blind—she says excitedly, ‘Do you recognize me? Do I exist?' We go hurriedly down dark corridor, turn right, then into my office, she is on bed—I say, ‘But you
knew me too
—we
must
have met—I meet so damned many people.' To my amazement, in the
other
bed in my office a TINY boy is awake, in middle of counterpane,
under
it, just showing through hole, I say, ‘little boy, it's time for you to go home' (I'm mad to be alone with her)—he says, ‘No,' and I realize that his father, a colleague of mine possibly, has
told
him to spend the night here—so no sex, reluctantly resigned to this, but she's under counterpane and says, ‘Come under'—I do, she has stripped, she feels for me, I worry about my clothes, begin to touch her breast Wake up.” '
Severance looked up flushed and expectant, rolled the sheets, sat back in his chair. His cards were on the table, whatever they were. He felt ready for the Antarctic.
‘A nice dream,' the analyst said lazily. ‘Lots of emotion. Do you remember anything more about the theatre?'
‘Surprisingly large. Sort of amphitheatre. Not many people in it. A few onstage, but not getting ready for anything. Maybe twenty scattered through the front rows, with nothing to look at.'
Linc thought for a while. ‘Do you think you could be the amphitheatre?' he asked suddenly.
Severance, not a man easily taken aback, was taken aback. ‘What?'
Linc did not say anything.
‘Be
the amphitheatre,' Severance said baffled. ‘I don't know.'
‘Would you like to try?' Linc's voice was not casual at all. It had assumed the tone of intimate command Severance was very familiar with, used to others. He felt pressure.
‘All right,' he said doubtfully.
‘Go ahead.'
He closed his eyes, and in five or six seconds, to his speechless surprise and unsurprise, he felt exactly like an amphitheatre. To show the group just where he stood, he raised his arms to shoulder level, stretching them out ahead of him, wrists and hands curved inward, and became immobile.
He heard Linc's voice say, ‘Are you the amphitheatre?'
‘Yes,' he said with decision.
‘How do you feel, Amphitheatre?'
He reflected. ‘Fine!'
‘Good. Can you see Alan?'
He looked, without opening his eyes (he really had no eyes, though he could see all right). ‘Sure.'
‘Where is Alan?'
‘Right here.' He jerked his head an inch to the right and moved his right thumb. ‘Just behind my shoulder.'
‘Can you see him clearly?'
‘Yes.'
‘How does he look?'
‘Not so good.' Severance considered. ‘He's tall, very thin. He's badly dressed, I can't see why he came. Inappropriate. He looks like hell.'
‘How does that make you feel, Amphitheatre?'
‘I don't give a
damn
about it,' he exploded.
Other questions, many questions, followed, and he responded without hesitation, clearly and fully, but afterward he could never say what any of them had been. His concentration was complete but his consciousness was double, he both was and was not in the Mini-group room, aware and not aware of the people seated around it. Linc himself was only a voice. He explained his position on the topics proposed to him. He felt quite happy—remote, austere, interested but uncommitted, semi-circular, almost empty, expectationless, patient. He felt that he was being understood, at last.
But at last the discomfort of his extended arms mounted toward actual pain. ‘I've got to put my arms down,' he said irritably.
‘Okay! You're back in the room now, you're Alan Severance, and you remember everything that has happened.'
He opened his eyes and saw Linc, dropped his arms in his lap, and sighed. ‘The next time you have me be something, I hope it doesn't involve
that
muscle-strain.'
‘I
didn't ask you to raise your arms,' Linc smiled at him, and the group roared with laughter.
Severance grinned sheepishly. My god, the witch-doctor.
‘How do you feel now? Do you feel okay?'
‘Yes. Yes, I do.'
‘Our desire here is to find out whether you are an okay
person or not an okay person. As for what
kind
of okay person, that doesn't matter—okay sad, okay mad, okay vain, anything is okay so long as you're comfortable with it. All clear?'
‘Maybe,' said Severance. ‘I'll think about it.'
‘Don't think about it. Does anybody else want to say anything?'
Keg put a question: ‘Why do you suppose one-eyed women are seeking their identity from you?'
‘Faintest idea,' Severance said shortly. ‘Never knew one.'
Apparently the young man didn't know a castration symbol on sight. Not my job to pass that back here.
Nobody else spoke.
‘I do want to extend our Contract, though.' Linc was looking sharp at him. ‘Over the weekend, will you make up your mind about two things. One, why you were surprised at your
comfort
in being an amphitheatre. Two: supposing you had entire control over it to re-invent it, is there anything about the dream that you would like to
change?
Okay?'
‘—'
While Linc swivelled toward Rhea and her doomed competition with her Mother-of the-Year mother, Severance adjusted his thoughts. Compare my surprise, even incredulity
still,
about the
Irish Times
people waiting for me on the tender at Cobh: I have
not
come to easy terms with my fame etc—I am
not
an okay person. For no reason, this notion, with which he had begun the Contract, struck him with fresh and depressing force. He laid it aside to consider the second part. I feel that I
ought
to make the theatre feel guilty about neglecting poor Alan; but in fact I
won't:
screw him.
I give shows,
all day and even late in the evening (no?),
of all kinds.
Let him solve his own problems—I'll schedule him if I'm free. I'm sometimes free, he only has to ask the authorities that govern me—
but I won't
feel sorry
for him. I am a busy amphitheatre, glad to be one, useful to many.
Then he put the matter out of his head, attended to the confrontations of Hutch (very depressed: ‘I'm afraid—after four weeks it will be just the same thing over again.' Severance, who happened to know that he had started driving immediately: ‘You'll be a
different
Hutch—otherwise, no hope') and Letty, wide-eyed innocent grandmotherly minimizing, bolted lunch, let the lecture flow unregarded around him, and was so busy with the First Step that he just said, ‘No thanks today,' when somebody looked in for the walk at four o'clock. ‘I present this' (he had begun, for the nth time) ‘without much confidence, but also with great confidence, as merely the present stage of my feelings on the subject after nearly two weeks of my third treatment period in one year. Obviously my other two 1st Steps were worthless, though “sincere” enough to deceive a good judge at Howarden and Gus One here. I think I now know why. If this is an improvement on them—you will judge, and help me where deluded —it is because I have decided or learned to stick here to bone-sure emotional
facts;
so I may not get far but (I
think)
I can hardly go wrong.'
Feeling that he had not made any mistakes yet, he began a new paragraph. ‘I take the second half first; I used to think this the harder half, but have changed my mind. The unmanageability ought to
prove
the powerlessness; but it is horribly possible to “admit” the first without
accepting
the second, and in fact that was my situation until night before last, though I only realized it that afternoon.'
He had a good deal more to say before he really got going, but he felt unaccountably tired and went down the hall for coffee. Hotcha in the Snack Room half an hour, joking with Gene S, the new beanpole of Ward W. A minute after he'd returned to his room, Harry knocked and came in for a dyad. Severance was touched by such
consideration from a man about to be discharged, but during the desultory talk—Harry was a tall lean heavy-lidded man more thoughtful than articulate—he experienced some twinges of worry about Harry's unruffledness, facing The Outside so (attractive but) menacing to most patients including Severance. Harry seemed not to have a care in the world. Severance thought of confronting him, but decided: If their judgment is he's ready, what's mine worth. He left, and the weary scientist took up his pad to read over what he had written before PUSHING ON.
With sick dismay he saw that he had not said
anything.
He slashed a savage diagonal with his ballpoint down through his laborious and deluded paragraphs. He was sweating lightly. He looked at nothing, like a wall, without interest.
After the evening lecture, he had recovered sufficiently to start exploring his feelings again, to see if he had any, and he found himself writing something very different. ‘It is true that I am only an amphitheatre,' he began. ‘But I have a certain power of criticism over the shows that are put on in me. I don't allow shows that are merely entertaining; in fact I insist on shows that are so interesting or difficult that they are put on again and again. Only certain spectators are willing to come so often, but that is quite all right; I am a very ambitious and demanding but not a
greedy
amphitheatre. How about the seats? Not too comfortable, lest somebody drowse. Adjustable? Yes, decidedly; so long as' Here he broke off bored.
The following afternoon, Saturday, hard on a dramatic evening and a harrowing morning, he scratched quickly, ‘Yest'y,
fine
as amphitheatre. Today, not so good—in fact, unhappy, since Casey's wife saw the amph. as just a
container
for (my) “tumultuous” emotions. Now I'm struck by: Amphitheatre
never sleeps.
An amph., it's true, doesn't
need
sleep, but I am
not
an amphitheatre
‘I
am
a human being
—Alan, in rags, “thin, woebegone”
—arriving where he was
“supposed”
to be—Alas! (self-pity)

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