Esprit | Spring 2009

—James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

            Everything had happened before. At his desk, Wren’s pen twirled about his fingers. He spoke softly, letting each syllable resonate upon his lips: simulacrum. A good word. Pen spinning, a web of thoughts screamed through his mind.
            Endless reflections. Like that bathroom with the mirrors on each wall, and me in the middle.
            Work from Borges, but with a contemporary novel. With Fight Club. It’s become mixed up in the culture. Some people don’t know there’s a novel. So a guy, Connor, will try to rewrite it. Create a perfect copy.
            It begins with a gun in his mouth. Speak in vowels. What sort of person notices a gun’s effect on the tongue? A line like that speaks loads about a character.
            First lines differ in the film and the book.
            We’ve lost track of originals.
            Time to start.
            His pen halts.
            Ready?
            Begin.

* * *

            I don’t know when Tyler started carrying an empty pistol. The gun had six chambers, all empty. But bullets weren’t important for Tyler: guns are just as deadly without them. Having a gun pointed in your face changed your life no matter how many shots were fired. At least that’s what Tyler thought.
            “With the barrel of a gun in your mouth you can only speak in vowels,” Tyler said one day while we made soap. He was full of useless information… like how to make soap.
          I was with Tyler when he put a man on his knees, held a pistol to his head and told him he needed to change his life. He wanted to be a vet, so Tyler told him to finish college. Told him to stop wasting his life peddling sugar products.
          No. I was holding the gun. As he ran off I said, “Tomorrow will be the greatest day in Raymond Hessel’s life.” Tyler must have been watching me, or else I wouldn’t have been saying anything aloud. Was I talking to myself?

* * *

            Connor kept his ideas neatly listed in a notebook, which he opened for this latest entry and wrote:
Is Tyler playing the role of teacher still? Or has the narrator graduated from his tutelage and begun to act on his own. Who should the reader favor?
            Connor dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. The narrator held the gun in the book, but in the movie someone changed it so that Brad Pitt held the gun and Ed Norton just watched. Hold it. I shouldn’t think like that. The original doesn’t matter. I don’t want to copy the original. I’m not copying, I’m creating. Fight Club will be everything Fight Club was and more.
            When finished, Connor’s Fight Club would resemble Chuck Palahniuk’s novel word for word, but the themes would be different. The introspective tone of Connor’s novel would allow it to surpass Palahniuk’s. Who was better suited to write such a novel than Connor, who grew up reading Palahniuk’s debut? A boy who had experienced the same angst which the narrator and Tyler warred against. A boy who learned to cope with reality’s shortcomings after reading Fight Club. A boy who lived through the release of a film adaptation and even a video game. The absolute corruption of an original idea. Palahniuk’s vision lost in the endless cave of mirrors established by the American media cesspool.
            All this would influence the writing of Fight Club. All this would allow Fight Club to criticize the very world which would consume it. All this would rocket Connor into fame. Menard never witnessed the debut of Cervantes’ novel. Menard never had to separate himself from the pop culture which still revolved around The Quixote. It was too easy to write Don Quixote. Connor lived in a world of adaptations and his question, his charge, was ultimate: how does one escape his culture to create a work of art? He had to break away. Create on his own, without the originals weighing him down.

* * *

Wren grew silent.
—It’s a good idea, Sophia said, as she placed her lips on the tip of his nose.
He stood quietly in front of his window as she slept. I should emphasize the differences between the movie and the book. They’re not exact copies. Subtle differences in narrative, but also in characterization. These would be important points for someone like Connor, someone writing a novel that already exists.

* * *

Against his will, Connor recalled the opening lines:
Chuck Palahniuk: Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler’s pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die.
Jim Uhls: People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden.
He lifted his pen and, after finding a fresh page in his notebook, began jotting:
The real difference between the opening lines is visual. Everyone in the theater can see Tyler’s gun projected onto a giant screen. Why draw any more attention to it? Palahniuk, on the other hand, needs to take the extra step and construct the image for us. He projects into our very minds. Unless, that is, we’ve seen the movie: the copy. If so, we’ve had its image seared into our minds. And so no matter how carefully constructed Palahniuk’s novel is, the only thing we can picture is Brad Pitt. The novel gives way to the actor. To Brad Pitt; Ed Norton; Fight Club: The Game; and somewhere, someone at a piano is penning the musical adaptation.

* * *

If all art is parody, thought Wren, how do I define myself? If all I do is parody my influences, how do I set myself apart? Am I really just a copy of a copy of a copy? Am I nothing more than a bard with a keyboard? Do I have to recondition myself? If a writer were really trying to rewrite, or write, Fight Club, would he really try to eliminate its influence? Hasn’t he already been influenced? And even if you do manage to eliminate it, then what? Move beyond the zero? To what? A new original. Does that even exist anymore? Everyone is lost in a maze of copies. We stare into it and it stares back. Laughing. Coaxing. And we are content.

* * *

          Propped up against the arm of the couch, Kurt read quietly. Occasionally, his head began to nod and his book, spine spread wide, dipped to meet the brim of his nose. They connected and he awoke. He rubbed his eyes and read a line which seemed familiar, jumped to the next paragraph, and repostured in an attempt to wake himself.
—How’s the book? Wren asked, setting his computer on the coffee table.
           Kurt sat up and, after marking his page, set the book down next to Wren’s computer.
—Good, I just didn’t get enough sleep last night. Did you finish the chapter?
—A few minutes ago, then I didn’t feel like doing any work so I looked it up on Sparknotes.
—Really?
—It’s kinda funny. Listen. For Sisyphus, Chapter One. Aaron, a middle-aged widower living in New York wakes up on Monday, July 22. He dreads going to work at the fictional publishing house Glamor and entertains the idea of staying home and reading all day. Instead, he gets up and showers, during which he thinks about “Death and the Compass” by Jorge Luis Borges, a story he had read the night before. Aaron’s thoughts on the story reveal that he knows a great deal about Borges and admires the writer. Yada, yada, yada. It goes on like this for a few pages. But it’s the analysis that’s really funny. Here, listen. The first book of For Sisyphus recounts a single work week for a number of characters, though the narration usually follows Aaron Corinth. Aaron’s struggle with the monotony of his life becomes the crux of the novel. Chapter One begins a common motif in the novel, Aaron’s daydreams. In this chapter the thoughts and fantasies revolve around writing and stories. In addition to thinking about literature, we also learn that Aaron works at a publishing house. Aaron surrounds himself with fiction, and it is only revealed later that his wife was once an award-winning novelist, and it is this fact which causes his literature-based musings. Then it goes on to talk about how his wife was murdered and the anniversary is that weekend, which is part three etcetera. It’s not analysis at all. It’s just a summary of later chapters and an attempt to explain why Aaron is depressed.
            Wren looked up from the screen. Kurt had fallen asleep.

* * *

And to whom did our illustrious hero, love-stuck, life-lost Wren, pose this all-important question to?

A trade paper back copy of the Gabler edition of James Joyce’s Ulysses {copyright 1986 by Random House, Inc. [ISBN: o-394-74312-1(pbk.)]} which had been read thrice, though never by Wren. One reader took the time to copy many, though not all, of Don Gifford’s annotations into the margins.

If not Wren, then who were the readers?

Kurt, Sophia, and Kurt again, though he regrettably skipped a number of passages in episodes twelve and fourteen.

Had Wren read any of Mr. Joyce’s works?

“The Dead,” in High School; the rest of Dubliners, in college; A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, and a number of passages from Ulysses which Tom Stoppard has transcribed into Travesties.

Did Wren know the source of these transcribed passages?

He assumed as much.

And, to return to the question of the question, what was Ulysses’ response?

Parody is inevitable.

How was it the book spoke at all?

The large blue ‘U’ upon the cover parted at its center to create lips.

But it’s a book.

Yes, a living being conceived in 1906 only to endure a long gestation, nearly two decades, on the continent. Joyce, who began labor quietly in Trieste, was forced by war, the Great one, to continue in Zurich, despite the doctor’s orders to stay put for the child’s sake, and finally in Paris where it was born, once and for all, on the second day of February in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and twenty-two. Sylvia Breech, midwife attending.

What was the only question asked by dear, dirty Dublin’s novel?

How many hits does ‘contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality’ turn up on Google?

The answer?

~2,550.

Did Wren search for the word anywhere else?

The Oxford English Dictionary, at www.oed.com.

And the OED’s response to the query?

The nearest alphabetical match-point is displayed in the side-frame.

Which was?

Contranatant.

* * *

Mr. Leopold Bloom trumpeted down the street, pig’s kidneys on his mind. Or Mutton. Yes, that would do. A nice mutton kidney would have been nice. His stomach growled loudly, loudly growled: Gnknaagh. That liver isn’t sitting right at all. Carriage coming by there. Stop at the window. Pretend to look at the umbrellas. Umbrellas recovered. Recovered from where? Forgot the hyphen, poor ad. Nothing like—now.
Pprrpffrrppffff.

* * *

The stage is barren, lit as though by street lights. Tyler and the Narrator stand center stage in one of the circles of light. The Narrator is shabbily dressed in a beige suit, Tyler in jeans, a Warhol-inspired tee-shirt, and red leather jacket. Both sport bruises, smoke cigarettes, and drink from beer bottles.
Narrator: So what do we do now?
Tyler: The same thing we do every night… Try and take over the world.
Narrator: (To the Audience) I’ve heard these words before. (To Tyler) Where have I heard that before?
Tyler:: Where haven’t you? Isn’t world domination the great dream we’re all taught to have?
Narrator: (To the Audience) Tyler is always filled with these insights. (To Tyler) I think I heard it on TV.
Tyler:: Exactly. We’ve all been brainwashed. But it’s pointless in the end. I pass by great men every day. They work hard and yet they feel something’s missing. That’s all their conditioning has given them. Remorse. And now what? Society frowns at them and wags a finger. ‘Failures, all of you.’ Why can’t we just be content? Why do we need the world? We have ourselves. Why can’t that be good enough anymore? People think we need fame, money. And you try for these things, and fail, and in the end you sit in a nursing home, trying to figure out when it was that your life started slipping by. What happened to it all?
Narrator: (To the Audience) Listening to him, it’s hard not to be inspired. I could never speak like that.
A few moments pass. They smoke and drink their beers.
Narrator: So, tonight?
Tyler:: Nothing to be done.
Narrator: I’m beginning to come around to that opinion.
At this moment Bloom enters followed closely by a drunken Stephen, whom supports himself on an ashplant cane. Both wear black. Stephen sports a black eye.
Bloom:: You are quite right to favor music over the plastic arts. I had a look at a statue of Aphrodite today. A splendid piece of work, incredible attention to detail, but it doesn’t move you like music can. And you, a man of languages, must feel a closer bond to music. Or perhaps you’ve inherited it from your father. You have his voice. And I tell you tenors are the rarest of boons. Not like baritones. Ten a penny they are.
Bloom: Is that so?
As they pass by Tyler and the Narrator, Tyler nods.
Bloom: More friends of yours?
Bloom: I don’t believe so.
Tyler:: Good fight?
Bloom: Who, us? No, no. Just a little scuffle. He’ll be fine in the morning.
Tyler:: I think he’s just fine tonight.
Narrator: (To the Audience) The first rule of fight club is you don’t talk about fight club.
Bloom: Of course he’s fine. But a good night’s sleep will do him good. Just need to get him a bed. And how are you occupying yourself this evening?
Tyler:: Waiting. Just like I’ve done my entire life
Bloom: Waiting for what?
Tyler:: Does it matter? For my father. For a friend. A savior. What don’t we wait for?
Bloom: I see.
Tyler:: Your friend though. He looks as though he’s had exactly what he wants. Quiet though.
Bloom: Yes. Well, he’s a poet.
Tyler:: A poet? Is that so?
Narrator: (To the Audience) The only poetry Tyler or I had read lately was written by body parts. I am Jack’s liver. I get cancer. I kill Jack.
The lights move from their streetlight design to focus on the men. The Narrator takes notice to this.
Tyler:: Can you recite something for us.
Bloom: He’ll need his hat. (He hands it to Tyler who then places it on Stephen’s head.) Stand back!
Tyler stands back. The narrator is still interested in the light.
Bloom: Think!
Stephen: Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eterna stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.
Stephen becomes more passionate as he talks while Bloom and the others move from interest to outrage.
Bloom: His hat!
Finally, Bloom removes Stephen’s hat, silencing him. Stephen collapses.
Bloom: Avenged.
Tyler:: Will he be able to walk?
Bloom: Walk or crawl! (He kicks Stephen) Up pig!
Stephen staggers to his feet. Bloom grabs him by the tie.
Bloom: We’ll be going. (As they disappear off stage) Faster! On! Adieu! Pig! Yip! Adieu!
The light returns to its original, streetlight-esque formation.
Narrator: That was odd.
Tyler:: Wow, that big guy was really hitting him. Might just get the little guy to become a poet sure enough. I’ll bet tomorrow will be the best day of his life.
A pause.
Narrator: Who are we waiting for?
Tyler:: Does it matter?
Aaron, as a young boy, enters.
Tyler:: I’ve seen you before haven’t I?
Aaron: I don’t know sir.
Narrator: Have we been waiting for him?
Tyler:: Do you have something for us?
Aaron: I do sir.
Narrator: (In unison) Out with it.
Tyler:: (In unison) Out with it.
Aaron: Mr. Durden says there is no homework for tonight.
Narrator: Mr. Durden. This is Mr. Durden.
Aaron: I’m sorry sir. I just have the message.
Narrator: Who gave you the message?
Aaron: It was left for me, sir.
Narrator: And you’ve delivered it. You want to leave now?
Aaron: Yes sir.
Narrator: All right, you may go.
Aaron: What should I say to Mr. Durden?
Narrator: You’ve seen him?
Aaron: No, I only leave a message for him.
Narrator: Right. (He looks to Tyler, then back at the boy) Tell him you saw us.
Aaron: (Hesitating. Looking from the Narrator to Tyler) Yes sir.
Aaron hesitates a moment longer, then turns and runs off.
Tyler:: We can still part, if you think it would be better.
Narrator:: It’s not worthwhile now.
Silence.
Tyler:: No, it’s not worthwhile now.
Narrator:: Well, shall we go?
Tyler:: Yes, let’s go.
They remain as they are. Curtain.

* * *

            Palahniuk followed Fight Club with Survivor, which seemed to be a rearrangement of the same themes. Think cultism. Think terrorism. Each subsequent publication is a rebirth of Fight Club. But with each remove, the novels lose something. Palahniuk gives way to the consumer market he once warred against.
            This is why Fight Club must be born anew. Spoken from a new perspective. Written by a person who has seen the materialistic-capitalistic-consumerist culture’s subordination of the original. We need a new savior. Tyler has failed us. We are left with nothing more than wasted hope. Failed attempts. A video game.
            Palahniuk’s introduction the newest edition of Fight Club is his most moving writing in years. You can feel his pain. He realizes it himself. The influence his novel has had on the market. The critical acclaim. The film. And while Palahniuk acknowledges this, it doesn’t change the fact that, before the introduction, on the copyright page, one can find the list of the movie tie-ins.
            All of these editions are identical copies, just with new covers. A new reason to consume.
            We’ve all lost ourselves. We are consumers. We don’t need Tyler anymore.

* * *

           In class, Wren gave up taking notes and flipped to the end of his notebook. There he wrote the first words which came to his mind. Whitman’s words, then Ginsberg’s. He wanted to read them aloud. To feel them cross his lips. To let the first syllable ring out.
            The professor continued to take questions. Wren listened for a moment. Then looked over at Sophia’s notes. They too had come to a halt. She drew an array of stick figures, all identical to one another, and, after more time passed, an hourglass.
            Minutes later, she passed a note: How’s the story going?
            They made eye-contact. He shrugged, scribbled his response, and returned the tiny piece of paper. It collapsed. She looked back at Wren who starred blankly towards the front of the room and occasionally jotted a word or two on the paper before him.

* * *

—I thought you were writing a story about Fight Club? Kurt asked as he laid the paper down on the bed.
—I was writing a story about a guy writing Fight Club, Wren corrected.
—Cute title at the very least: Plagiarize.
—You like it?
—I guess.
—Sophia didn’t.
—No?
—No.
—It’s a sort of cento.
—Isn’t that the ultimate parody? A poem not just inspired by other works, or driven by other works, but actually made up of other works?
—I guess so.

* * *

Plagiarize (Pluck Out Your Eyes)

I hear America singing, howling mad in the streets.
Darkness shadows even the silver-spoon-fed mouths of
good-fenced neighbors, who mend caesura-breaks before
forked-pathed gardens spread, but never dig
world-ending-whimpers with squat pens.
Instead, plump pleasure-domes decree:
Tell us of enchanted days.

So sing to me, ye muses, of these twists and turns,
of wrath and Grendel’s rage. Of his Mother killed by vorpal blade.
I’ve no pen to follow men like that.
I am who I am. I am no Beowulf.
But if he thrives and I am cast away,
death be not proud. For
I am but a shadow of the waxwing slain.