Henry James as a fat old (celibate or gay) Literary Dude.

Henry James

There was a time in my life when I greatly admired Literary Dudes. Men Of Letters. I even entertained briefly a wild thought of joining their ranks. A brief notion that swiftly faded. I’m not a literary kind of guy. I don’t have what it takes, honestly. What I am is a reader. I read a lot. Before, it was books and encyclopedias. Now it’s my phone. At one point in my life I read voraciously. This was during my Professional Student days. I kicked that habit when I turned thirty, cashed my last student loan, and ran off to Europe. Married a German woman. Had to stop reading and start working to support her dead ass. It was a real bad deal I signed up for. It was the biggest mistake of my life. If I had only not married that German woman…well, there’s plenty of “if onlys” to spare for this old dude.

My point. I’m trying to make a point here. My point…I read a lot but I’m not a Scholar. Scholars pick a subject and beat it to death. Pick up a PHD along the way. Or, like old Henry James, Scholars emerge from their celebrity. They start out as Men Of Letters. They write Novels, Poetry, Plays, Literary Criticism, etcetera, ad. nauseum. They con everybody into believing they’re a true scholar from the bulk of their output. Which is okay. I first read Henry James and found him a cure for insomnia. I forced myself to read the Bostonians and actually enjoyed it. Not only enjoyed it. Found it enlightening.

Do I have a point here? My point, I don’t read like Literary Dudes read. They read all day long and deep into the night. That’s all they do. They gain the ability, through endless reading, to talk books and authors and literary movements. They know more than you’ll ever know about a particular subject. I especially like the LIterary Dudes that specialize in Science Fiction. Not only do they know all the more obscure authors but they got the weird science down pat. They’ll con you with the science. Talk string-theory-parallel-universe-gobbledegook-this-is-why-you-don’t-really-exist bullshit until you’re gasping for air. I imagine they’re currently having orgasms with this A.I. shit.

But now I’m off track again.

The point I’m trying to make. It takes real commitment to be a literary dude. And once you’re there? You’re stuck with it. Like you’re stuck with everything else in life you pursue beyond a healthy measure. The downside of being a Literary Dude is you sound that way. Now I’m getting to my point. Literary Dudes sound literary even when they’re trying to sound normal. They’ve lost the ability to sound an emotion genuinely. They paint every utterance with gloss of “Literary.”

They can’t even die sounding normal.

Here’s the dying words of Henry James:

“So here it is at last, the distinguished thing”. 

I mean, come on!

The Old Fart roasted his ass on Literature.

Anyway, I’m done with Henry.

Here’s a few more Big Shots saying bye bye

1. ‘Money can’t buy life’ – Bob Marley. …
2. ‘Last words are for fools who haven’t said enough’ – Karl Marx. …
3. ‘I hope the exit is joyful and hope never to return’ – Frida Kahlo. …
4. ‘I’m bored with it all’ – Winston Churchill.
5. ‘Dammit, don’t you dare ask God to help me’ – Joan Crawford. …

Whoa…Joan Crawford. The lady was true to form to the end.

Mommie Dearest…Woman of steel.

The German I married reminded me a little of Joan Crawford. A fierce statuesque beauty. The woman hitched onto me like a refugee escaping Dresden’s smoking ruins. I was her ticket to America. Once here, She took my measure and found me lacking…dumped my ass on her way up the ladder. I don’t blame her, actually. You need to reach the top and if some loser gets in your way, well, you gotta cut em loose.

The day she moved out I got down on my knees and thanked God for my delivery from bondage…

Because, as Lord Byron once said:

“Hell is a bad marriage.”

Nice and succinct. I think I’ll look up Byron’s dying words.

Mad, bad, and dangerous to know

The dying words of Lord Byron: “Come, come, no weakness! Let’s be a man to the last!”/“Now, I shall go to sleep.” There is some debate over the last words of Lord Byron, but the circumstances around his death in both versions remain the same.Oct 30, 2017

Poets. Org

Okay, so Lord Byron was a man’s man kind of guy. He swam the Hellespont. Fought for Greek independence. Was lauded the world’s greatest Romantic Poet. His star has faded but back then he was definitely the big cheese. Women the world over worshiped him. He had a thing for his half-sister…very sketchy. But the taboo of incest wouldn’t have held him back. The man walked with a limp…but he looked real good. Coleridge said of him: “his eyes were like twin portals of the sun.”

He was trouble if you hung around him too long.

The statement that Byron was ”mad, bad and dangerous to know” comes from Lady Caroline Lamb after their first meeting, when the publication of ”Childe Harold” (1812) made him the literary and social lion of London at the age of 24.Apr 1, 1989

The New York Times

Like I told you at the beginning of this blog. I’m not a literary guy. I don’t rate. Literary dudes can quote Shakespeare and shit. Rap off sayings from the high and mighty. Me, I can’t remember shit. But I do have one bit of poetry I actually took the effort to memorize. And it comes from Lord Byron of all people:

220

But I being fond of true philosophy,

   Say very often to myself, ‘Alas!

All things that have been born were born to die,

   And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;

You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly,

   And if you had it o’er again—’twould pass—

So thank your stars that matters are no worse,

And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.’ 

Canto 220 of Don Juan

Don Juan is a long poem mostly of Byron talking about himself but in a funny way. That’s what saved his ass in the end. He didn’t take himself too seriously. He wrote this long poem that’ll be around forever. A poem that doesn’t take itself too seriously.

Don Juan, by Lord Byron. Check it out…but only if you get the literary urge.

Byron made it to 36 and checked out before life got real ugly. I mean, it wasn’t about to get much better for the dude. Certain people in life almost need to check out early. Because they’ve used themselves up. I’m thinking of my Old Man, Bobby Lee, named after the confederate general. I’m thinking of my high school pal, Wild Nick, named by somebody, at some point, for being the Wildest Guy In Town. Wild Nick checked out at forty. I wish I had Wild Nick’s dying words but I don’t. He died in Bangkok of a cocaine overdose.

Not Bukowski’s final poem

The Poet Bukowski made it to 73 which is kind of astounding when you consider how much drinking he did.

He once said, “When you drank the world was still out there…but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.” 

Bukowski was not literary. He was not academic. You don’t find any of his poems in Harold Bloom’s literary canon. But by the end of his life Bukowski was most definitely a Big Shot Poet.

Harold Bloom, the great Sorter.

I looked up Harold Bloom’s dying words. Couldn’t find anything right off the bat. I could’ve kept looking but why bother? I don’t give a shit about Harold Bloom. I’m sure he was a nice guy in life. Or maybe not. I’ll give him credit if he stopped to feed the pigeons in Central Park.

As for Charles Bukowski, the most unliterary of Poets. The most readable. Certainly the most entertaining and funny. I looked around for his dying words. Only this on his gravestone:

Kinda perfect when you think about it.

He was a fighter. A bar brawler. He’d fight you and maybe while drinking and working up to the point where he’d be just about ready to take a swing at you, he’d say, “Don’t try it, man.” Don’t try it, as a kind of warning. Because, in the end, he’d just as soon keep drinking than fight.

Or, it could mean, don’t try too hard in life. Don’t try, because in the end you’ll only be disappointed. Even if you win you lose. So don’t try. Better to sit down, open the floodgates and let the words flow.

Effortlessly…

“Don’t Try,” is the tao of lao tzu.

But that’s Eastern Literary.

Which is okay in my book. I can groove with the Tao…

I’ll leave you with a poem that wasn’t Bukowski’s final poem but might very well have been his final words if he felt the need to come up with them. A bit of a lament. But a lament is not a bad thing to utter at the end of your life. A lament is honest. Because, let’s face it, we all of us have something or other to lament…even if it’s only wishing we’d tried a little harder to be happy and enjoy our lives while we still had the time.

This poem provided by kim.

Thanks, Kim.