Excersizes in Style
Queneau, a frenchman, wrot the same story ninety-nine times. This was the story: On a croweded bus, the narrator observes one man accusing another of josteling him deliberately. When a seat is vacated, the first man appropriates it. Later, in a nother part of town, the narrator sees the man being advised by a friend to sew another button on his overcoat.
I had to write the story again, as if 99 times wasn't enough for this world. So I did, and this is what I wrote (completely fresh, completely unedited. forgive my errors and trespasses):
Self-satisfied elbow in my ribs, put there thousands of time before, by the unthinking masses. The selfless herds that roam the streets, flood the streets with moving machines, corner me in busses. This one has it’s elbow in my ribs. I don’t know whether he knows that this is a sign of war. But it is. I must maintain my dignity—just because I have no car and am forced to ride this cattle-car does not mean I am a cow, a hump of meat to be cowed up the ramp to the slaughterhouse. It is time to resist.
I put my elbow in his ribs and locked his eyes with mine. “Don’t touch me,” he said.
I touched his eyes to mine.
He retreated. Words and words do not make a man.
He flung himself headforth through the bus, squeezing past bestial sweating flanks, through heaving oceans of meat. He sat, head down.
I must remind myself that he exists, after I have forgotten his eyes. But he does, behind me.
The moment has come. I have been traveling to reach this point. My stop.
It is his stop. Perhaps he is also going to the Ministry. It summons all of us.
But he is too shabbily dressed for that. No man should present himself at the Ministry with one button askew.
Bodies swirl between us. All flesh hidden beneath cloth. My flesh hidden with gloves.
One of them pauses in front of him. I listen: we all must listen, to survive today for tomorrow, although none of us want to be heard.
The man was brave enough to point at his jacket, tilted and jilted. He gestures at the buttons.
He reminds him of his mother dressing him for snowplay.
He readjusts his blue-buttoned skin. It is not dead, the empty self beneath the coat, dangling open ridiculously, unshackled from its buttons, it is still a coat.
I look at the grey cement, until the revolving doors of the Ministry admit me
I had to write the story again, as if 99 times wasn't enough for this world. So I did, and this is what I wrote (completely fresh, completely unedited. forgive my errors and trespasses):
Self-satisfied elbow in my ribs, put there thousands of time before, by the unthinking masses. The selfless herds that roam the streets, flood the streets with moving machines, corner me in busses. This one has it’s elbow in my ribs. I don’t know whether he knows that this is a sign of war. But it is. I must maintain my dignity—just because I have no car and am forced to ride this cattle-car does not mean I am a cow, a hump of meat to be cowed up the ramp to the slaughterhouse. It is time to resist.
I put my elbow in his ribs and locked his eyes with mine. “Don’t touch me,” he said.
I touched his eyes to mine.
He retreated. Words and words do not make a man.
He flung himself headforth through the bus, squeezing past bestial sweating flanks, through heaving oceans of meat. He sat, head down.
I must remind myself that he exists, after I have forgotten his eyes. But he does, behind me.
The moment has come. I have been traveling to reach this point. My stop.
It is his stop. Perhaps he is also going to the Ministry. It summons all of us.
But he is too shabbily dressed for that. No man should present himself at the Ministry with one button askew.
Bodies swirl between us. All flesh hidden beneath cloth. My flesh hidden with gloves.
One of them pauses in front of him. I listen: we all must listen, to survive today for tomorrow, although none of us want to be heard.
The man was brave enough to point at his jacket, tilted and jilted. He gestures at the buttons.
He reminds him of his mother dressing him for snowplay.
He readjusts his blue-buttoned skin. It is not dead, the empty self beneath the coat, dangling open ridiculously, unshackled from its buttons, it is still a coat.
I look at the grey cement, until the revolving doors of the Ministry admit me
2 Comments:
I called it unedited because I posted it right after I wrote it. Then I went back and edited the post itself twice. The first was for a typo. The second, I added the sentance:
It is not dead, the empty self beneath the coat, dangling open ridiculously, unshackled from its buttons, it is still a coat.
I wrote that sentance trying to get myself started on the next peice of writing. then i realized i hadn't changed tones at all.
this is the first sentance of the next one:
I awoke yesterday on the bus, my drool on my shoulder in the eyes of the onlookers, with an elbow in the ribs, his elbow, my ribs, my elbow, my ribs, I am all ribs, he is all elbows, and I own his elbow.
Was this for a class, or is this just a creative piece? Also, things have switched between what Queneau did and what you do: In Queneau, a narrator observes what occurs. You make the jostled man the narrator.
What does this mean: "I listen: we all must listen, to survive today for tomorrow, although none of us want to be heard."
If you're looking to continue things, I think it would be interesting to have the man wake up the next day with his head on somebody else's shoulder. He would thus be doing something far more intrusive than what the guy did to him the day before. Also, "unthinking masses" rings a little too general. This piece seems to be about alienation as an essential interpersonal relation; it's somewhat awkward when you move from 'the selfless herds' to 'this one' with his elbow in your ribs.
It's also interesting that the word 'self' comes up so prolifically here. The character/narrator seems to be obsessed with selves, with privacy, privation, resilience, violence even. Is society the problem here, or is he? Is society oppressive, or is he nearsighted? Is his irritation over the intrusion not symptomatic of his own inability to deal with reality? One is reminded of Emerson's self-reliant man (whom this narrator surely is not), who manages to exist in the thronging, hoarding crowd, and do so without risking his personal integrity. Then again, that man is also consumed by reflections about his 'self.'
Also, Jed, I only make all these criticisms because I really like your piece.
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