Vazou o epílogo de 15 minutos que virá no DVD box de LOST.
Ele é muito bacana porque responde questões cabeludas da série de uma maneira simples, com aquele sorriso na boca de quem diz: "você aí elaborando mil teorias e olha como a resposta era óbvia".
Entre as perguntas que se resolvem no epílogo:
1. Porque existiam ursos polares na ilha?
2. Como chegavam os alimentos Dharma que caíam na ilha de paraquedas?
3. Porque as mulheres da ilha não podiam engravidar?
4. Porque Walt cresceu tanto?
5. Qual é a função de Walt na trama toda de LOST?
6. O que acontece durante a gestão Hurley na ilha?
7. Ben Linus se redimiu em vida?
Não é pouco, certo? E fizeram isso sem uma grama de efeito especial. Tudo na base da velha maestria da tradição dos judeus roteiristas de Hollywood.
"New man in Charge"
Especialista
Only an expert - Música e Letra, Laurie Anderson.
Now only an expert can deal with the problem
Cause half the problem is seeing the problem.
Only an expert can deal with the problem
Only an expert can deal with the problem.
So if there is no expert dealing with the problem
It's really actually twice the problem.
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem
Only an expert can deal with the problem.
In America we like solutions. We like solutions to problems.
And there are so many companies that offer solutions
Companies with names like: The Pet Solution, The Hair Solution
The Debt Solution, The World Solution, The Sushi Solution.
Companies with experts ready to solve these problems.
Cause only an expert can see there's a problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem
Only an expert can deal with the problem
Let's say you're invited to be on Oprah and you don't have a problem
But you want to go on the show and so you need a problem
And so you invent a problem. But if you're not an expert in problems
You're probably not going to make up a very plausible problem
And so you're probably going to get nailed
You're going to get exposed
And you're going to have to bow down and apologize
And be for the public's forgiveness.
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem.
And on these shows, these shows that try to solve your problems
The big question is always: How can I get control? How can I take control?
But don't forget this is a question for the regular viewer
The person who's barely getting by, the person who's watching shows
About people with problems, the person who is one of the sixty percent
Of the U.S. population 1.3 weeks away, 1.3 paychecks away, from a shelter.
In other words a person with problems.
So when experts say let's get to the root of the problem
Let's take control of the problem cause if you take control of the problem
You can solve the problem
Often this doesn't work at aII because the situation is
Completely out of control.
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem.
Now sometimes experts lend you money
And sometimes they lend you lots of money
And sometimes when the subprime mortgages collapse
And banks close and businesses fail
And the crisis spreads around the world–
Sometimes other experts say:
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
Just because aII the markets crashed
Doesn't mean it's necessarily a bad thing.
And other experts say: Just because aII your friends were fired
And your family's broke and we didn't see it coming
Doesn't mean that we were wrong.
And just because you lost your job and your house
And all your savings doesn't mean you don't have to pay for the bailouts
For the traders and thd bankers and the speculators.
Clause only an expert can design a bailout
And only an expert can expect a bailout
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem.
Only an expert. Only an expert. Only an expert.
Only an expert. Only an expert. Only an expert.
And sometimes when it's really really really really hot and it's July in January
And there's no more snow and huge waves are wiping out cities
And hurricanes are everywhere and everyone knows it's a problem–
But if some of the experts say it's no problem
And if other experts claim it's no problem or explain why it's no problem
Then it's simply not a problem.
But when an expert says it's a problem and makes a movie about the problem
And wins an Oscar about the problem
And gets the Nobel Prize about the problem
Then all the other experts have to agree it is most likely a problem.
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem.
Even though a country can invade another country
And flatten it and ruin it and create havoc and civil war in that other country
If the experts say it isn't a problem and everyone agrees they're experts
And good at seeing problems then invading those countries
Is simply not a problem.
And if a country tortures people and holds citizens without cause
Or trial and sets up military tribunals this is also not a problem
Unless there's an expert who sap: This is the beginning of a problem.
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem.
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem
And only an expert can deal with the problem.
Cause only an expert can see there's a problem
And seeing the problem is half the problem.
Cause only an expert can deal with the problem.
Only an expert can deal with the problem.
Crossmedia + Internet + Via Satélite + Bordão Popular + Querem extinguir o Locutor de Futebol
O fanfarrão Rodrigo Scarpa aparece no link ao vivo da Globo durante a transmissão do pré-jogo entre Brasil e Coréia do Norte durante passagem da ótima repórter Glenda Kozlowski, cita o bordão de Charles Wikipedia e mostra no fim uma sincera simpatia a Galvão Bueno, nosso Waldir Amaral moderno. Uma convergência midiática que reúniu fenômeno internet, TV ao vivo e cross espontâneo e sadio entre emissoras concorrentes.
O porquê do povo ter esquecido que bom locutor é aquele que dá graça ao espetáculo, é impulsivo, falastrão e exagerado, é um mistério explicado talvez apenas pelo viés da ignorância juvenil de que um locutor de Futebol (atenção, estamos falando de Futebol, Esporte, Entretenimento, Exagero, Paixão - não de CPI do Congresso) deve narrar um jogo como quem narra uma operação no mesocólon.
Então lembremos mestres locutores de futebol impulsivos, falastrões e exagerados. Que tanto fizeram por nosso futebol. Tanto transformaram jogos entediantes em partidas eletrizantes. Que, como diz o poeta Manoel de Barros, outro impulsivo, falastrão e exagerado: "A invenção é um negócio profundo. A invenção é um negócio que serve para aumentar o mundo."
O Cruel, muito cruel, Januário de Oliveira e o seu "tá lá o corpo estendido no chão!"
Lembrando que Nelson Rodrigues, no rádio, no meio da empolgação, já disse: "A seleção chuta por 100 milhões de brasileiros. E cada gol dela é feito por todos nós.” - Fosse hoje, essa garotada fascista do Twitter iria fazer churrasquinho de Nelson Rodrigues.
Tá na hora de inventarem o movimento Fala Galvão.
.
1982
Achei lá na 5a gaveta meu álbum chiclete ping pong de figurinhas da Copa de 1982.
Camisas chocantes, agasalhos de fuder, cortes de cabelo rock, barbas e bigodes indies, Iugoslávia unificada, seleção da União Soviética. E a garotada toda cheia de cárie.
Pra não esquecer.
11 Heavy Things
A instalação da Miranda July passa o verão no coração de Manhattan.
É só chegar na Union Square e vestir a carapuça.
Física Moderna, Teoria do Multiuniverso e Religião
Bem, primeiramente vamos entender o que é, realmente, a Teoria dos Multiuniversos. Eles não entrariam em contato, exatamente por isso teríamos ainda um Universo "estável". Eles são paralelos e independentes, ou seja, cada um possui uma autonomia molecular, atomica e física. Ou seja, deveriam haver várias dimensões para que estes universos pudessem existir sem nunca se tocar (e manter o equilibrio natural).
Talvez também seja possivel afirmar que antes do nosso big bang já existiram muitas outras "explosões" ou expansões (se preferires) de singularidades existentes em qualquer outra dimensão que alberga estes vários universos. Assim, teriamos "tempos" anteriores ao nosso, embora completamente autonomos. Ou seja, é como várias bolhas espalhadas em um espaço. Estas bolhas nunca se tocam, mas podem "explodir" em um big crunch ou serem criadas em um big bang.
Dessa maneira, é possível encontrar partículas numa espécie de superposição de estados. O exemplo clássico e o do gato que pode estar vivo e pode estar morto ao mesmo tempo dentro da caixa que serve de exemplo e paradoxo da teoria pronunciada por um dos "pais" da física quântica, Erwin Schrödinger. Mais informações sobre o problema do gato:
http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gato_de_Sch…
http://www.feiradeciencias.com.br/sala23…
***
Sendo assim, não existiu um 1º universo e não existirá um último, se estes sempre estiverem em equilíbrio. Em nossa cultura sempre precisamos de um começo digno, dado a instantes. Mas na astrofísica nem sempre o tempo é um componente válido para uma equação que precisa de constantes.
***
Estude um pouco da Teoria Ecpirótica. É mais nova que a Teoria de Multiuniversos e explica melhor a situação tempo. A teria diz que tudo surgiu do choque de duas "membranas cósmicas" numa quarta dimensão do espaço. O choque teria sido percebido por nós como big bang. É como dois panos que tenham se encontrado e se transformado em um balão, nosso universo. Mais informações:
http://arxiv.org/abs/hep-th/0103239
http://arxiv.org/abs/hep-th/0103239
Fonte: Yahoo
2o Booktrailler - Fé na Estrada
"Porque escritores têm que ser infelizes para serem admirados?"
Levei sete anos para descobrir.
.
Fomos.
Cena do filme "The Happening", de M. Night Shyamalan.
O Julio Silveira, amigo deste blog, começou um exercício distrativo: listar os suicidas notáveis da literatura.
Tá faltando gente? quer completar?
Hart Crane (poeta norte-americano, aos 32 anos, pulando de um navio que seguia do México a Nova York)
Ernest Hemingway (romancista norte-americano, aos 62 anos, dando-se um tiro de espingarda)
Jack London (romancista norte-americano, aos 40 anos, por overdose de morfina. Estudos recentes vêm refutando a teoria do suicídio)
Vladimir Maiakóvisky (poeta russo, aos 36 anos, por tiro)
Torquato Neto (poeta brasileiro, um dia após completar 28 anos, envenenamento de gás)
Raul Pompéia (romancista brasileiro, aos 32 anos, em um dia de natal, por tiro no peito)
Yukio Mishima (poeta e dramaturgo japonês, aos 45 anos, harakiri)
Gérard de Neval (poeta francês, aos 36 anos, por enforcamento)
Cesare Pavese (poeta e romancista italiano, aos 41, por overdose de barbitúricos)
Sylvia Plath (poeta, romancista e contista norte-americana, aos 30 anos, envenenamento por gás)
Anne Sexton (poeta norte-americana, aos 45 anos, envenenamento por monóxido de carbono)
Horácio Quiroga (contista uruguaio, aos 56 anos, por ingestão de cianeto), depois de assistir 19 suicídios entre familiares e amigos, como…
Alfonsina Storni (poeta argentina, aos 46 anos, caminhando em direção ao mar)
Herinrich von Kleist (poeta, dramaturgo, romancista e contista alemão, aos 34 anos, por tiro)
Virginia Woolf (escritora inglesa, aos 54 anos, atirou-se no rio)
Stefan Zweig (romancista e ensaísta austríaco refugiado no Brasil, aos 60 anos, por envenenamento)
Ana Cristina César (poeta brasileira aos 31 anos, pulando da janela do apartamento dos pais)
Reynaldo Arenas (poeta e romancista cubano, aos 47 anos, por overdose, para fugir dos efeitos da Aids)
Camilo Castelo Branco (romancista, ensaísta e dramaturgo português, aos 65 anos, tiro de revólver)
Sándor Márai (romancista húngaro, aos 88 anos, tiro de espingarda), deprimido por não ser reconhecido como grande romancista (o que seria, pós-morte).
Mário de Sá-Carneiro (romancista português, aos 25, de envenenamento por estricnina)
Emilio Salgari (romancista italiano, aos 48, cortando o pescoço e o ventre)
Hunter S. Thompson (jornalista norte-americano, aos 65, por tiro de espingarda)
Sergei Esenin (poeta russo, aos 30 anos. Cortou os pulsos, escreveu com seu próprio sangue o poema “Adeus, meu amigo” e enforcou-se).
Fé na Estrada booktrailer 1
O ano: 2003. O país: Estados Unidos. A rota: a mesma que Jack Kerouac fez para escrever o livro Pé na Estrada, nos anos 50. O objetivo: escrever uma versão século 21, do ponto de vista do estrangeiro, de Pé na Estrada. Descobrir o que existe de contra-cultural no coração da contracultura.
Enfim, ver o que sobrou de tudo.
Os viajantes: a fotógrafa Luiza Leite e eu.
O resultado: depois de sete anos de trabalho, o 1o booktrailer.
O resto vou contando nos próximos booktrailers.
No Jô Soares, em 2005, adiantei um pouquinho do que rolou.
.
A Filosofia de Stanley Kubrick
Não me pergunte como, mas arrumei tempo para preparar o mais completo curso sobre a obra de Stanley Kubrick apresentado em Pindorama.
Duvida? Saca só:
A Ata? Em detalhes:
Aula 1. Stanley Kubrick, o último Modernista.
Arte Conceitual e Vídeo Arte em Stanley Kubrick.
Filosofia da Arte ou Cinema como suporte para a Filosofia?
Aula 2. Descobrindo otimismo na obra de Stanley Kubrick.
Modelando o futuro - 2001: Uma odisséia no espaço com Homero e Jung .
Laranja Mecânica - Alex como a continuação do Starchild, encarnação de Ricardo III de Shakespeare e do mito de Prometeu.
Aula 3 . Descobrindo otimismo na obra de Stanley Kubrick.
"Painting in White" - Barry Lyndon, Édipo e Hamlet.
"Painting in Black" - Nascido Para Matar, Rolling Stones, e o "Mundo de Merda".
Hotel Overlook, espiritualidade Zen e Alice no País das Maravilhas em "O Iluminado".
Aula 4. Roteiro em Stanley Kubrick.
Método de trabalho: roteiro a quatro mãos.
Roteiro adaptado versus roteiro original: as obras literárias adaptadas por Kubrick.
De Nabokov a Dalton Trumbo. Co-roteristas: rivais imprescindíveis.
Kubrick e o screenwriting judaico.
Aula 5. Música em Stanley Kubrick.
Walter e Wendy Carlos em Laranja Mecânica.
Por que Strauss em 2001.
Ligueti, compositores de vanguarda e sua função para entender a obra de Kubrick.
Stanley Kubrick, o 1o videomaker.
Aula 6. A Cura em a Laranja Mecânica.
O Absurdo em Barry Lyndon.
O Barroco Inglês e Barry Lyndon.
Ética existencialista em Glória Feita de Sangue.
Aula 7. Entendendo o Inimigo - O diálogo entre Fear and Desire e Dr. StrangeLove.
A Lógica de Lolita: Kubrick Nabokov e Poe.
Lolita é Dolores - a Dama das Dores.
Aula 8. Em algum lugar no fim do arco-íris: Morte e vida em De Olhos Bem Fechados.
"Por favor, me transforme em um garoto REAL": Amor e morte em A.I. - Inteligência artificial.
Nietzsche: o pós-humano em 2001 e Moral, Caos e Ordem em Nascido Para Matar.
Aula 9. Niilismo e Liberdade na obra de Stanley Kubrick.
Tudo isso aos sábados, no delicioso espaço de palestras da Livraria Café Moviola, em Laranjeiras.
Começa no dia 10. Ligue pra lá e garanta sua vaga. Elas são, claro, limitadas.
Moviola Café - Rua das Laranjeiras 280 Lojas B e C Rio de Janeiro Tel (21) 2285 8339 moviola.contato@gmail.com
Vai ser divertido. Vejo vocês lá, né?
O nascimento de Jack Kerouac
Logo após e por causa do 11 de Setembro, resolvi ir para os EUA refazer a viagem feita pelo escritor Jack Kerouac para escrever o livro On The Road. A intenção era rever a mitologia da moderna contra-cultura ocidental - que teve origem com o movimento Beatnik, contumaz saco de pancada de oportunistas que precisam parecer mais espertos do que são.
Consegui fazer a viagem em 2003, acompanhado da fotógrafa Luiza Leite. Foram 3 mil fotos, em diversos registros, do digital, a roleiflex, passando pelos últimos filmes polaroids disponíveis no mercado.
Foram meses de viagem da costa Leste até a Costa Oeste.
Depois da viagem, fui no programa do Jô Soares e contei umas pitadas da história.
Sete anos depois, ainda não havia terminado de escrever o livro. Editores, amigos, a fotógrafa do projeto, todos já estavam descrentes que algum dia ele seria finalizado. Ir a Bienal do Rio, a Flip de Paraty, ou a Feira do Livro de Porto Alegre era passar o vexame de dizer: "Paciência. Tá ficando pronto." durante 7 anos, eu respondia com cara de Guilherme Fontes. Este livro era o meu Chatô. Seria a minha ruína.
Agora está ficando pronto.
E ontem foi aniversário de Jack Kerouac.
Resolvi:
1) Comemorar o aniversário de Kerouac aqui, agora, neste post.
2) Passar a publicar algumas fotos da viagem e, quem sabe, trechos do romance - ainda sem título.
3) Atualizá-los com a produção do filme On The Road, projeto de Francis Ford Coppola e Walter Salles, que também está encruado, no papel, há quase tanto tempo quanto meu livro.
Começando pelo começo. O Aniversariante:
Aqui, um raro registro de Kerouac falando em sua lingua natal, o francês:
http://archives.radio-canada.ca/arts_culture/litterature/clips/126/
Trechos de On The Road
''Para mim, pessoas mesmo são loucos, os que estão loucos para viver, loucos para falar, loucos para serem salvos, que querem tudo ao mesmo tempo agora, aqueles que nunca bocejam e jamais falam chavões, mas queimam, queimam, queimam como fabulosos fogos de artifício explodindo como constelações''.
''Ele se aproximou vagarosamente: 'Ei rapazes, vocês estão indo para algum lugar específico ou apenas estão indo?Não entendemos bem a pergunta. Era uma pergunta boa pra cacete''.
''Foi triste vê-los partir; percebi que jamais voltaria a rever qualquer um deles, mas na estrela era assim mesmo''.
''Simplesmente não dormirei nunca, decidi. Havia tantas outras coisas interessantes para fazer''.
''De repente, percebi que estava na Califórnia. Ar cálido e próspero soprando entre as palmeiras - ar que se pode beijar''.
''Pelo menos tinha aprendido a rir melhor do que qualquer pessoa no mundo, e eu percebi o quanto nos divertiríamos em Frisco''.
''Todos os maus espíritos desse mundo estão a fim de nossa cabeça. Depende da gente impedir que eles nos imponham ordens''.
''Botei a cabeça para fora da janela e aspirei profundamente o ar perfumado. Foi o mais sublime de todos os momentos''.
''Mas para que pensar nisso quando se tem pela frente toda a vastidão dourada da Terra e acontecimentos imprevisíveis de todos os tipos estão à espera, de tocaia, para te surpreender e te fazer ficar satisfeito simplesmente por estar vivo para presenciá-los?''
''Quando eu fechava os olhos, tudo que eu sentia era a estrada sendo devorada embaixo de mim''.
''Chega o momento de agir e eles ficam completamente paralisados, histéricos, assustados - nada mais os amedronta do que aquilo que querem''.
''Estendido sobre a capota do carro olhando para o céu escuro era o mesmo que estar trancado dentro de um baú numa noite de verão. Pela primeira vez na vida, o clima não era algo que me envolvia, me acariciava, me enregelava ou fazia suar - mas era parte de mim mesmo! A atmosfera e eu nos tornamos a mesma coisa''.
Aniversário da morte de Bukowski. "Por que é que ninguém sai gritando?"
Prefácio de Pergunte ao Pó, de John Fante
por Charles Bukowski
Eu era um jovem, passando fome e bebendo e tentando ser um escritor, Fiz a maior parte das minhas leituras na Biblioteca Pública de Los Angeles, e nada do que eu li tinha a ver comigo ou com as ruas ou com as pessoas em minha volta. Parecia que todo mundo estava brincando de jogar com as palavras, que aqueles que não diziam quase nada eram considerados escritores excelentes. Seus escritos eram uma mistura de sutileza, artesanato e forma, e era lido e era ensinado e era ingerido e acabou. Era um esquema confortável, uma Cultura da Palavra, muito malandra e cheia de nove-horas.
Era preciso voltar aos escritores da Rússia pré-revolucionária para achar alguma ginga, alguma paixão. Havia exceções mas essas exceções eram tão poucas que a gente as lia logo, e lá estava você olhando para filas e filas de livros chatos pra caralho.
Com séculos para olhar para trás, com todas as suas vantagens, os modernos não davam pra saída.
Tirei livro após livro das estantes. Por que é que alguém não diz alguma coisa? Por que é que ninguém sai gritando?
Tentei outros livros na biblioteca. A seção sobre religião era um pé no saco. Fui pra filosofia. Encontrei alguns alemães amargurados que me animaram um tempo, mas não passou disso. Tentei matemática, mas matemática superior era igualzinho religião: não saquei bulhufas. O que EU precisava parecia não existir em lugar algum.
Tentei geologia e a achei curiosa mas, finalmente, insubstancial.
Achei alguns livros sobre cirurgia e gostei dos livros sobre cirurgia: as palavras eram novas e as ilustrações maravilhosas. Gostei particularmente e memorizei a operação no mesocólon.
Daí eu abandonei a cirurgia e voltei para a sala dos romancistas e contistas (Quando eu tinha bastante vinho barato pra beber eu nunca ia a biblioteca. Uma biblioteca era um bom lugar para ir quando você não tinha nada pra beber nem pra comer, e a dona da pensão estava atrás de você e do dinheiro do aluguel. Na biblioteca, pelo menos, você tinha uma privada que preste). Vi uma porção de vagabundos lá, a maior parte dormindo em cima dos livros.
Eu ficava andando pelo salão, tirando os livros das estantes, lendo umas linhas, algumas páginas, depois pondo de volta.
Então um dia peguei um livro, abri e lá estava. Parei por um momento, lendo. Então como alguém que achou ouro no lixo, levei o livro para uma mesa. As linhas rolavam fácil pela página, havia uma corrente. Cada linha tinha sua própria energia e era seguida por uma outra que nem ela. A própria substância de cada linha dava uma forma à página, a sensação de alguma coisa esculpida ali. E, aqui, afinal, estava um homem que não tinha medo da emoção. O humor e a dor estavam misturados numa esplêndida simplicidade. Começar aquele livro foi um selvagem e enorme milagre pra mim.
Eu tinha um cartão da biblioteca. Tirei o livro, levei-o para meu quarto, me joguei na cama e li, e eu sabia muito antes de terminar que aqui estava um homem que tinha desenvolvido um jeito diferente de escrever. O livro era Pergunte ao Pó; e o autor, John Fante.
Ele ia ser uma influência permanente sobre o meu modo de escrever.
Terminei Pergunte ao Pó e procurei outros livros de Fante na biblioteca.
Achei dois: Dago Red e Espere Até a Primavera, Bandini. Eram da mesma categoria, escritos com as tripas e com o coração.
Sim, Fante teve um puta efeito sobre mim. Logo depois de ter lido seus livros, comecei a viver com uma mulher. Ela bebia mais que eu e tivemos umas brigas brabas e então eu gritava para ela:
- Não me chame de filho da puta! Eu sou Bandini, Arturo Bandini!
Fante era meu deus e eu sabia que os deuses devem ser deixados em paz, não se bate na porta deles. Mesmo assim eu gostaria de saber onde ele tinha vivido em Angel’s Flight e imaginei que ele ainda podia estar vivendo lá. Quase todo dia eu passeava por lá e pensava: foi por essa janela que Camila passou? Essa é a porta do hotel? E essa a portaria? Nunca cheguei a saber.
39 anos depois, reli Pergunte ao Pó. Isto é, reli este ano e lá estava ele inteiro, como as outras obras de Fante, mas esta é a minha predileta porque foi minha primeira descoberta da mágica.
Há outros livros além de Dago Red e Espere Até a Primavera, Bandini. São Cheio de Vida e A Irmandade da Uva. E, atualmente,
Fante tem um romance em obras, uma obra romance em processo, uma obra em obras, Um Sonho de Bunker Hill.
Através de outras circunstâncias, finalmente encontrei o autor este ano. Tem muito mais coisa na história de John Fante. É a historia de uma sorte terrível, e um terrível destino, e de uma coragem rara e natural.
Algum dia vai ser contada mas eu sinto que ele não quer que eu a conte aqui. Mas quero dizer que o jeito de suas palavras e o jeito do seu jeito são ainda os mesmos: fortes e bons e quentes.
Chega. Agora esse livro é de você.
(Extraído de Pergunte ao Pó - Editora Brasiliense, 1987)
A reconstituição de Rank
Que legal. Sincronizando áudio do CD com vídeos de fãs, estão reconstituindo o histórico show RANK, dos Smiths:
.
Um dia perfeito para J.D Salinger (1919-2010)
A Perfect Day for Bananafish
By J. D. Salinger
HERE WERE ninety-seven New York advertising men in the hotel, and, the way they were monopolizing the long-distance lines, the girl in 507 had to wait from noon till almost two-thirty to get her call through. She used the time, though. She read an article in a women's pocket-size magazine, called "Sex Is Fun-or Hell." She washed her comb and brush. She took the spot out of the skirt of her beige suit. She moved the button on her Saks blouse. She tweezed out two freshly surfaced hairs in her mole. When the operator finally rang her room, she was sitting on the window seat and had almost finished putting lacquer on the nails of her left hand.
She was a girl who for a ringing phone dropped exactly nothing. She looked as if her phone had been ringing continually ever since she had reached puberty.
With her little lacquer brush, while the phone was ringing, she went over the nail of her little finger, accentuating the line of the moon. She then replaced the cap on the bottle of lacquer and, standing up, passed her left--the wet--hand back and forth through the air. With her dry hand, she picked up a congested ashtray from the window seat and carried it with her over to the night table, on which the phone stood. She sat down on one of the made-up twin beds and--it was the fifth or sixth ring--picked up the phone.
"Hello," she said, keeping the fingers of her left hand outstretched and away from her white silk dressing gown, which was all that she was wearing, except mules--her rings were in the bathroom.
"I have your call to New York now, Mrs. Glass," the operator said.
"Thank you," said the girl, and made room on the night table for the ashtray.
A woman's voice came through. "Muriel? Is that you?"
The girl turned the receiver slightly away from her ear. "Yes, Mother. How are you?" she said.
"I've been worried to death about you. Why haven't you phoned? Are you all right?"
"I tried to get you last night and the night before. The phone here's been--"
"Are you all right, Muriel?"
The girl increased the angle between the receiver and her ear. "I'm fine. I'm hot. This is the hottest day they've had in Florida in--"
"Why haven't you called me? I've been worried to--"
"Mother, darling, don't yell at me. I can hear you beautifully," said the girl. "I called you twice last night. Once just after--"
"I told your father you'd probably call last night. But, no, he had to-Are you all right, Muriel? Tell me the truth."
"I'm fine. Stop asking me that, please."
"When did you get there?"
"I don't know. Wednesday morning, early."
"Who drove?"
"He did," said the girl. "And don't get excited. He drove very nicely. I was amazed."
"He drove? Muriel, you gave me your word of--"
"Mother," the girl interrupted, "I just told you. He drove very nicely. Under fifty the whole way, as a matter of fact."
"Did he try any of that funny business with the trees?"
"I said he drove very nicely, Mother. Now, please. I asked him to stay close to the white line, and all, and he knew what I meant, and he did. He was even trying not to look at the trees-you could tell. Did Daddy get the car fixed, incidentally?"
"Not yet. They want four hundred dollars, just to--"
"Mother, Seymour told Daddy that he'd pay for it. There's no reason for--"
"Well, we'll see. How did he behave--in the car and all?"
"All right," said the girl.
"Did he keep calling you that awful--"
"No. He has something new now."
"What?"
"Oh, what's the difference, Mother?"
"Muriel, I want to know. Your father--"
"All right, all right. He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948," the girl said, and giggled.
"It isn't funny, Muriel. It isn't funny at all. It's horrible. It's sad, actually. When I think how--"
"Mother," the girl interrupted, "listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know--those German poems. What'd I do with it? I've been racking my--"
"You have it."
"Are you sure?" said the girl.
"Certainly. That is, I have it. It's in Freddy's room. You left it here and I didn't have room for it in the--Why? Does he want it?"
"No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I'd read it."
"It was in German!"
"Yes, dear. That doesn't make any difference," said the girl, crossing her legs. "He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should've bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please."
"Awful. Awful. It's sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night--"
"Just a second, Mother," the girl said. She went over to the window seat for her cigarettes, lit one, and returned to her seat on the bed. "Mother?" she said, exhaling smoke.
"Muriel. Now, listen to me."
"I'm listening."
"Your father talked to Dr. Sivetski."
"Oh?" said the girl.
"He told him everything. At least, he said he did--you know your father. The trees. That business with the window. Those horrible things he said to Granny about her plans for passing away. What he did with all those lovely pictures from Bermuda--everything."
"Well?" said the girl.
"Well. In the first place, he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the hospital--my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there's a chance--a very great chance, he said--that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of honor."
"There's a psychiatrist here at the hotel," said the girl.
"Who? What's his name?"
"I don't know. Rieser or something. He's supposed to be very good."
"Never heard of him."
"Well, he's supposed to be very good, anyway."
"Muriel, don't be fresh, please. We're very worried about you. Your father wanted to wire you last night to come home, as a matter of f--"
"I'm not coming home right now, Mother. So relax."
"Muriel. My word of honor. Dr. Sivetski said Seymour may completely lose contr--"
"I just got here, Mother. This is the first vacation I've had in years, and I'm not going to just pack everything and come home," said the girl. "I couldn't travel now anyway. I'm so sunburned I can hardly move."
"You're badly sunburned? Didn't you use that jar of Bronze I put in your bag? I put it right--"
"I used it. I'm burned anyway."
"That's terrible. Where are you burned?"
"All over, dear, all over."
"That's terrible."
"I'll live."
"Tell me, did you talk to this psychiatrist?"
"Well, sort of," said the girl.
"What'd he say? Where was Seymour when you talked to him?"
"In the Ocean Room, playing the piano. He's played the piano both nights we've been here."
"Well, what'd he say?"
"Oh, nothing much. He spoke to me first. I was sitting next to him at Bingo last night, and he asked me if that wasn't my husband playing the piano in the other room. I said yes, it was, and he asked me if Seymour's been sick or something. So I said--"
"Why'd he ask that?"
"I don't know, Mother. I guess because he's so pale and all," said the girl. "Anyway, after Bingo he and his wife asked me if I wouldn't like to join them for a drink. So I did. His wife was horrible. You remember that awful dinner dress we saw in Bonwit's window? The one you said you'd have to have a tiny, tiny--"
"The green?"
"She had it on. And all hips. She kept asking me if Seymour's related to that Suzanne Glass that has that place on Madison Avenue--the millinery."
"What'd he say, though? The doctor."
"Oh. Well, nothing much, really. I mean we were in the bar and all. It was terribly noisy."
"Yes, but did--did you tell him what he tried to do with Granny's chair?"
"No, Mother. I didn't go into details very much," said the girl. "I'll probably get a chance to talk to him again. He's in the bar all day long."
"Did he say he thought there was a chance he might get--you know--funny or anything? Do something to you!"
"Not exactly," said the girl. "He had to have more facts, Mother. They have to know about your childhood--all that stuff. I told you, we could hardly talk, it was so noisy in there."
"Well. How's your blue coat?"
"All right. I had some of the padding taken out."
"How are the clothes this year?"
"Terrible. But out of this world. You see sequins--everything," said the girl.
"How's your room?"
"All right. Just all right, though. We couldn't get the room we had before the war," said the girl. "The people are awful this year. You should see what sits next to us in the dining room. At the next table. They look as if they drove down in a truck."
"Well, it's that way all over. How's your ballerina?"
"It's too long. I told you it was too long."
"Muriel, I'm only going to ask you once more--are you really all right?"
"Yes, Mother," said the girl. "For the ninetieth time."
"And you don't want to come home?"
"No, Mother."
"Your father said last night that he'd be more than willing to pay for it if you'd go away someplace by yourself and think things over. You could take a lovely cruise. We both thought--
"No, thanks," said the girl, and uncrossed her legs. "Mother, this call is costing a for--"
"When I think of how you waited for that boy all through the war-I mean when you think of all those crazy little wives who--"
"Mother," said the girl, "we'd better hang up. Seymour may come in any minute."
"Where is he?"
"On the beach."
"On the beach? By himself? Does he behave himself on the beach?"
"Mother," said the girl, "you talk about him as though he were a raving maniac--"
"I said nothing of the kind, Muriel."
"Well, you sound that way. I mean all he does is lie there. He won't take his bathrobe off."
"He won't take his bathrobe off? Why not?"
"I don't know. I guess because he's so pale."
"My goodness, he needs the sun. Can't you make him?
"You know Seymour," said the girl, and crossed her legs again. "He says he doesn't want a lot of fools looking at his tattoo."
"He doesn't have any tattoo! Did he get one in the Army?"
"No, Mother. No, dear," said the girl, and stood up. "Listen, I'll call you tomorrow, maybe."
"Muriel. Now, listen to me."
"Yes, Mother," said the girl, putting her weight on her right leg.
"Call me the instant he does, or says, anything at all funny--you know what I mean. Do you hear me?"
"Mother, I'm not afraid of Seymour."
"Muriel, I want you to promise me."
"All right, I promise. Goodbye, Mother," said the girl. "My love to Daddy." She hung up.
Part II
"See more glass," said Sybil Carpenter, who was staying at the hotel with her mother. "Did you see more glass?"
"Pussycat, stop saying that. It's driving Mommy absolutely crazy. Hold still, please."
Mrs. Carpenter was putting sun-tan oil on Sybil's shoulders, spreading it down over the delicate, winglike blades of her back. Sybil was sitting insecurely on a huge, inflated beach ball, facing the ocean. She was wearing a canary-yellow two-piece bathing suit, one piece of which she would not actually be needing for another nine or ten years.
"It was really just an ordinary silk handkerchief--you could see when you got up close," said the woman in the beach chair beside Mrs. Carpenter's. "I wish I knew how she tied it. It was really darling."
"It sounds darling," Mrs. Carpenter agreed. "Sybil, hold still, pussy."
"Did you see more glass?" said Sybil.
Mrs. Carpenter sighed. "All right," she said. She replaced the cap on the sun-tan oil bottle. "Now run and play, pussy. Mommy's going up to the hotel and have a Martini with Mrs. Hubbel. I'll bring you the olive."
Set loose, Sybil immediately ran down to the flat part of the beach and began to walk in the direction of Fisherman's Pavilion. Stopping only to sink a foot in a soggy, collapsed castle, she was soon out of the area reserved for guests of the hotel.
She walked for about a quarter of a mile and then suddenly broke into an oblique run up the soft part of the beach. She stopped short when she reached the place where a young man was lying on his back.
"Are you going in the water, see more glass?" she said.
The young man started, his right hand going to the lapels of his terry-cloth robe. He turned over on his stomach, letting a sausaged towel fall away from his eyes, and squinted up at Sybil.
"Hey. Hello, Sybil."
"Are you going in the water?"
"I was waiting for you," said the young man. "What's new?"
"What?" said Sybil.
"What's new? What's on the program?"
"My daddy's coming tomorrow on a nairiplane," Sybil said, kicking sand.
"Not in my face, baby," the young man said, putting his hand on Sybil's ankle. "Well, it's about time he got here, your daddy. I've been expecting him hourly. Hourly."
"Where's the lady?" Sybil said.
"The lady?" the young man brushed some sand out of his thin hair. "That's hard to say, Sybil. She may be in any one of a thousand places. At the hairdresser's. Having her hair dyed mink. Or making dolls for poor children, in her room." Lying prone now, he made two fists, set one on top of the other, and rested his chin on the top one. "Ask me something else, Sybil," he said. "That's a fine bathing suit you have on. If there's one thing I like, it's a blue bathing suit."
Sybil stared at him, then looked down at her protruding stomach. "This is a yellow," she said. "This is a yellow."
"It is? Come a little closer." Sybil took a step forward. "You're absolutely right. What a fool I am."
"Are you going in the water?" Sybil said.
"I'm seriously considering it. I'm giving it plenty of thought, Sybil, you'll be glad to know."
Sybil prodded the rubber float that the young man sometimes used as a head-rest. "It needs air," she said.
"You're right. It needs more air than I'm willing to admit." He took away his fists and let his chin rest on the sand. "Sybil," he said, "you're looking fine. It's good to see you. Tell me about yourself." He reached in front of him and took both of Sybil's ankles in his hands. "I'm Capricorn," he said. "What are you?"
"Sharon Lipschutz said you let her sit on the piano seat with you," Sybil said.
"Sharon Lipschutz said that?"
Sybil nodded vigorously.
He let go of her ankles, drew in his hands, and laid the side of his face on his right forearm. "Well," he said, "you know how those things happen, Sybil. I was sitting there, playing. And you were nowhere in sight. And Sharon Lipschutz came over and sat down next to me. I couldn't push her off, could I?"
"Yes."
"Oh, no. No. I couldn't do that," said the young man. "I'll tell you what I did do, though."
"What?"
"I pretended she was you."
Sybil immediately stooped and began to dig in the sand. "Let's go in the water," she said.
"All right," said the young man. "I think I can work it in."
"Next time, push her off," Sybil said. "Push who off?"
"Sharon Lipschutz."
"Ah, Sharon Lipschutz," said the young man. "How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire." He suddenly got to his feet. He looked at the ocean. "Sybil," he said, "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll see if we can catch a bananafish."
"A what?"
"A bananafish," he said, and undid the belt of his robe. He took off the robe. His shoulders were white and narrow, and his trunks were royal blue. He folded the robe, first lengthwise, then in thirds. He unrolled the towel he had used over his eyes, spread it out on the sand, and then laid the folded robe on top of it. He bent over, picked up the float, and secured it under his right arm. Then, with his left hand, he took Sybil's hand.
The two started to walk down to the ocean.
"I imagine you've seen quite a few bananafish in your day," the young man said.
Sybil shook her head.
"You haven't? Where do you live, anyway?"
"I don't know," said Sybil.
"Sure you know. You must know. Sharon Lipschutz knows where she lives and she's only three and a half."
Sybil stopped walking and yanked her hand away from him. She picked up an ordinary beach shell and looked at it with elaborate interest. She threw it down. "Whirly Wood, Connecticut," she said, and resumed walking, stomach foremost.
"Whirly Wood, Connecticut," said the young man. "Is that anywhere near Whirly Wood, Connecticut, by any chance?"
Sybil looked at him. "That's where I live," she said impatiently. "I live in Whirly Wood, Connecticut." She ran a few steps ahead of him, caught up her left foot in her left hand, and hopped two or three times.
"You have no idea how clear that makes everything," the young man said.
Sybil released her foot. "Did you read `Little Black Sambo'?" she said.
"It's very funny you ask me that," he said. "It so happens I just finished reading it last night." He reached down and took back Sybil's hand. "What did you think of it?" he asked her.
"Did the tigers run all around that tree?"
"I thought they'd never stop. I never saw so many tigers."
"There were only six," Sybil said.
"Only six!" said the young man. "Do you call that only?"
"Do you like wax?" Sybil asked.
"Do I like what?" asked the young man. "Wax."
"Very much. Don't you?"
Sybil nodded. "Do you like olives?" she asked.
"Olives--yes. Olives and wax. I never go anyplace without 'em."
"Do you like Sharon Lipschutz?" Sybil asked.
"Yes. Yes, I do," said the young man. "What I like particularly about her is that she never does anything mean to little dogs in the lobby of the hotel. That little toy bull that belongs to that lady from Canada, for instance. You probably won't believe this, but some little girls like to poke that little dog with balloon sticks. Sharon doesn't. She's never mean or unkind. That's why I like her so much."
Sybil was silent.
"I like to chew candles," she said finally.
"Who doesn't?" said the young man, getting his feet wet. "Wow! It's cold." He dropped the rubber float on its back. "No, wait just a second, Sybil. Wait'll we get out a little bit."
They waded out till the water was up to Sybil's waist. Then the young man picked her up and laid her down on her stomach on the float.
"Don't you ever wear a bathing cap or anything?" he asked.
"Don't let go," Sybil ordered. "You hold me, now."
"Miss Carpenter. Please. I know my business," the young man said. "You just keep your eyes open for any bananafish. This is a perfect day for bananafish."
"I don't see any," Sybil said.
"That's understandable. Their habits are very peculiar." He kept pushing the float. The water was not quite up to his chest. "They lead a very tragic life," he said. "You know what they do, Sybil?"
She shook her head.
"Well, they swim into a hole where there's a lot of bananas. They're very ordinary-looking fish when they swim in. But once they get in, they behave like pigs. Why, I've known some bananafish to swim into a banana hole and eat as many as seventy-eight bananas." He edged the float and its passenger a foot closer to the horizon. "Naturally, after that they're so fat they can't get out of the hole again. Can't fit through the door."
"Not too far out," Sybil said. "What happens to them?"
"What happens to who?"
"The bananafish."
"Oh, you mean after they eat so many bananas they can't get out of the banana hole?"
"Yes," said Sybil.
"Well, I hate to tell you, Sybil. They die."
"Why?" asked Sybil.
"Well, they get banana fever. It's a terrible disease."
"Here comes a wave," Sybil said nervously.
"We'll ignore it. We'll snub it," said the young man. "Two snobs." He took Sybil's ankles in his hands and pressed down and forward. The float nosed over the top of the wave. The water soaked Sybil's blond hair, but her scream was full of pleasure.
With her hand, when the float was level again, she wiped away a flat, wet band of hair from her eyes, and reported, "I just saw one."
"Saw what, my love?"
"A bananafish."
"My God, no!" said the young man. "Did he have any bananas in his mouth?"
"Yes," said Sybil. "Six."
The young man suddenly picked up one of Sybil's wet feet, which were drooping over the end of the float, and kissed the arch.
"Hey!" said the owner of the foot, turning around.
"Hey, yourself We're going in now. You had enough?"
"No!"
"Sorry," he said, and pushed the float toward shore until Sybil got off it. He carried it the rest of the way.
"Goodbye," said Sybil, and ran without regret in the direction of the hotel.
The young man put on his robe, closed the lapels tight, and jammed his towel into his pocket. He picked up the slimy wet, cumbersome float and put it under his arm. He plodded alone through the soft, hot sand toward the hotel.
On the sub-main floor of the hotel, which the management directed bathers to use, a woman with zinc salve on her nose got into the elevator with the young man.
"I see you're looking at my feet," he said to her when the car was in motion.
"I beg your pardon?" said the woman.
"I said I see you're looking at my feet."
"I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor," said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.
"If you want to look at my feet, say so," said the young man. "But don't be a God-damned sneak about it."
"Let me out here, please," the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.
The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.
"I have two normal feet and I can't see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them," said the young man. "Five, please." He took his room key out of his robe pocket.
He got off at the fifth floor, walked down the hall, and let himself into 507. The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.
He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the twin beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies calibre 7.65 automatic. He released the magazine, looked at it, then reinserted it. He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.