Death to the Magical

Foreword

The book you have in front of you was essentially finished in the summer of 1985. At that time a few attempts to market the book were made, a couple of rejections were received, and the book was set on the shelf. I finally decided to scan it and clean up the text in order to turn it loose.

I exhort readers to stick with it and not let the first chapter put you off. I’ve enclosed section titles in the 2nd chapter to show that there is a plan to the book. (Yes, there are 2 Veronicas). I envision deleting these titles in the unlikely event of there ever being a printed, book version. I’ve had to make some allowance for copyrighted material, I have abridged songs quoted in the book at length to 1 line only with a notation. The numerous literary references I naturally feel are homage to better writers than myself and certainly not plagiarism.

About the cover: My cover of choice would have been a picture of the fountain which I refer to in the book, however I could not find any pictures of it. My second choice, the Church at Ronchamps simply did not seem right, also the only pictures I found were copyrighted. This picture I took myself during a stopover at the hot gates on the road from Athens to Saloniki last summer. It’s the best picture I had, hopefully it will not be seen as too pretentious.

Contents

A Day in the Life

The Passion of Franz

Death to the Magical

More of the Same

A Day in the Life

Waking naturally around seven, Franz threw the covers off with authority I’ve a terrible, errible lot to do today. He sped around, cranked the heater, punched on the Stereo (KFAT what’s that?), lit the stove, put some water on and opened the shades. Ooooh it’s a pretty day, another nice day in San Jose. He enjoyed the view of his front yard, the unruly grass, cracked walkway, street, the low rent houses, palm tree with squirrel, antennas and wires, and finally the sky. Yes for minutes at a time he admired the world and he might, do a little dance, if the music was right.

The water soon became coffee and he liked it with a splash of milk. He sat there sort of studying his Latin, chapter 19 was the perfect passive of verbs, Catullus bids a bitter farewell to Lesbia. After he looked it over, did a few translations, his attention waned. Sometimes he did his homework on time today it lay half-finished and he found himself anointing the margins with various triangles, loops, smudges and by playing connect-the-dots. There’s no rush, he thought, no problem on a Monday, it can wait. He sipped his coffee, gazing idly now at the sparsely decorated walls, where he had some art prints cut out from old Maestri di colore collections. On his right, he had a cork bulletin board on which he kept various scraps of paper and quotes. One read lever matin n’est point bonheur, boire matin c’est le meilleur or to get up in the morning just isn’t gay, to drink in the morning is a better way, from Rabelais no less. He also had a quote from Aristophanes taken from a volume of Kierkegaard’s proving God’s existence and a couple of postcards of the Gotheanum and Notre Dame de l’haute in Ronchamps as well as some snapshots taken by Franz himself.

Now he turned and sifted through the random papers, books, newspapers, clothes, dishes, etc. which was piled around, the stuff spilled over too on the carpet, scattered around, dishes, clothes, newspaper, books, records and tapes. Every fourth or fifth day, he was forced to restore order. This morning, if he wasn’t so busy. As he looked through his papers he found scribbled on the back of his notebook, The Me Generation, all over the page he had written the me, me, me, Me, generation and he thought it’s really their generation or your generation. But it’s not my ge-ge-ge-ge-generation and people try to put us down perhaps but really since when are the students blamed for learning the lessons taught all too well? He had also written there, the seventies age of solipsism, and this was harder to criticize. Mostly true in fact, yet he thought, that the word doesn’t apply to me. After all why bother reading the books. And he had a variety of books stacked, stored and strewn about the place, a plank between the speaker boxes supported the paperbacks, heavier volume were piled on a small desk below the shelf. Not to mention those under the couch or stuffed away in the closet. He not only collected them he read them. Reading is believing.

Not now though. Since it was morning, it was breakfast time. Franz dutifully relit the stove, refilled the kettle and from the cupboard took two small packages of cream of wheat, Bananas and spice, which he poured in a bowl. Then from the refrigerator an English muffin found its way into the toaster. While the water and muffin were boiling and toasting respectively, he stepped out the back door. Undaunted by the chill February morning, he walked through the scattered weeds and wood scraps to view his garden. The mangy plants he cultivated were planted in a row alongside the house. Some were as high as a foot and a half, which considering that they hadn’t grown at all during the last few months, wasn’t bad. He assured himself that the plants weren’t really dead, just dormant, laying low till the onslaught of spring. Come June he saw them, you know, high as an elephants eye, an ample harvest. Bounteous nature. Most of the yard was still in shadow, it was chilly, the sides of his booties soaking through with dew. Franz stood yet a moment still. Yes, even in the back yard, he was alone, unheeded, happy, in short young-willful-wildhearted. Well he was alone that’s for sure. With a deep breath he turned and hopped on back to the house.

The water was boiling as expected and the muffin was ready. Seated again at the table, he looked at the clock. He thought, as long as I’m going to school might just as well get there on time. Now he jumped up to raise the volume. They were playing his song Bing Crosby singing Accentuate the Positive he sang along. The sunlight streamed through the glass door inside. Franz switched the heater off and set his feet in sunshine’s path. Leisurely breakfast, pleasant, now an instrumental came on, bluegrass. Lapped in soft Lydian airs, warmed by the wheat and the sun. Happier that the morning sun. Happy, sure try not to be, there’s always something to charm you.

Yawn, Franz perked up and started gathering his papers together, then he started clearing the table off. He put the clothes on the couch, books on the floor, stacked the papers up, then the dishes to the sink. There, yesterdays dishes first, he started washing away. If you don’t rinse the cream of wheat out it sticks like glue, have to chip it our later. Quickly done, he stood at the window blank-minded, looking out over the weed and junk strewn backyard of his neighbor, he stretched indolent, window needs to be washed. Again the clock, edging past 8:30 and the news on the radio, don’t need to hear that stuff at all. He switched it to phono and set a record on, an old Stones album, from before his time, loud, just the thing you need in the morning.

To the music, he stepped around to the bedroom, the whole room in fact taken up by a king size bed. The walls were bare, excepting a Michelin map of France on the wall. Vive la France. He liked to have a feminine presence in the room. Contemplating his wardrobe, the magic of the new day dimmed slightly. Oh it was no dilemma, any shirt will do, yet some were frayed, some wrinkled, not exactly clean. He found one, a yellow, dress shirt, too formal oh it will do, good enough. This is 1978 after all, where whatever you feel like. Just let the inner me shine through. It’s O.K.

By this time the record had spun down to his favorite song of the week. He turned the stereo up to 1/3 volume, the speakers were big guys, with 15-inch woofers. And quite loud, deafening in fact. Franz sang along with Mick Jagger.

(First verse of I used to love her Rolling Stones)

Sing the blues, he liked the song, not that it had any special significance to him, it was just good. Over, with a flick of the wrist from loud-sound to silence-still. Just like that in control. Last flurry of activity, brush the teeth, comb the hair, grab a coat, don’t need a hat. Latin book and English notebook, catch the bus in seconds flat. Let’s see, keys, pull the shades down. Open the door, pen wait, grabs a cool plastic pen, nothing else. Rushing out, into the sunlit day.

* * *

Alighting from the bus on first Street, Franz skirted a few shops and turned right to follow the El Paseo de San Jose towards the school. This was the scenic route, brick laid, tree-lined and terraced, nice touch. Still he had the song in his head and a half smiling face to wordlessly greet any passer-byers, singing to himself, well I used to love her, but it’s all over now, thinking, ready to move on, to ripe to fields, new vistas, the new day at last. Why every day I learn more and more, learning as a growth process, I just want to keep getting bigger and bigger. Oh darn it, he thought as he stopped short at Second St. I forgot my English book. Allowing Cars the green light right of way, Franz stood in the thin February sunlight, not too worried about having forgotten his book. At San Jose State, in the humanities, the professors were usually pleased enough when the students enrolled actually showed up for class, if you had actually done the reading or less likely the assignment, why that was just icing on the cake so to speak.

Nearing the mall’s end at Third St. he alerted to the sound of rushing water, waters fall. There as part of a redevelopment project, a massive fountain had been built, most certainly with Federal funds. There, Suburb city had decided to beautify itself with a concrete waterfall. Very appropriate. Yet waters course is always pleasant, continuity made visible, read Siddhartha on the significance of waterfalls and rivers. Water lives in the present only, omnipresent only or in a syllable OM. Right who needs it. Better a slash / through life, find rather a momentary identification, the same world then changed utterly. Forget who you are, then remember again. He crossed the street and followed the sidewalk that led between two huge dirt parking lots, the unscenic route, what was that again?

Better to bring it up to date, change the ending too. And mark in every tanned, well-fed face I meet, marks of contentment, self-satisfaction. Self-knowledge California style; be convinced that the you know yourself already. This is the answer, what was that question again? Here it is as Franz watched a co-ed walking past him on Fourth St., pretty smiling, nice tits, frame her pleasant first thing in the morning. And books, what is it? It’s a heavy sucker, Business Law, that figures -- mind forged manacles, it fits. Through a subdued archway, he emerged on a common, the original university grounds complete with Ivy covered tower and palm trees.

Plotting a course of 70 degrees to the left, he set off across the dew covered lawn. Other students, determined, crossed and traversed the lawn too. Franz was among them, walking along. On reaching the walkway on the other side, he was swept along in a moving row of students. His eyes caught on faces, dislodge, on women, separate, he walked along numbed by the still spritely air and by the multitude of which he was a part. A member in good standing, 30,000 strong. At times, upon reflection, he himself seemed situated in his eyes, his face would seem to contract, tighten, his features slightly distort. Am I smiling, he’d wonder? Or think of his hair, recently combed, already unkempt, he’d pass a hand through it. Silent command, you up there, down boy stay. Yet he was also glad that he had somewhere to go, he had chosen it after all. No need to fade away in the morning, be bold, bold as love. The crowd debouched into Seventh St. Franz grabbed a Spartan daily and joined the throng waiting to enter the engineering building. He went in the building, going right to the stairs which he took 2 by 2 up to the third floor. On entering the classroom he greeted his classmates with a hello or maybe a wordless smile and seated himself in the second row to the left. He opened the student paper and proceeded to read it with exaggerated interest.

* * *

The class was a small community of thirteen eager students. Every day at half-past nine the Latin coach steamed in and weighed anchor. There from the bridge she led the class following a daily outline, first things first. Often enough every student came to class, perhaps because Latin was one subject which satisfied few if any general Ed requirements.

The hour proceeded in an orderly fashion. Though the coach was not above making lengthy digressions, she tried to stick to her outline. Today’s plan was to review the perfect passive and the interrogative pronouns. Franz it seemed to him, had a tacit understanding with the sympathetic professor so that if she, asking a question, glanced his way, he with his eyes, could signal his willingness to respond to the question. Today he had decided to volunteer early on one of the sentences he had prepared, thus to avoid the later embarrassment of being called on to translate a sentence he hadn’t done. For he didn’t like to be put on the spot, had trouble thinking when the attention was focused on him, felt uncomfortable. Yet he was not the only reticent student in class, others too were reserved, reluctant to speak out. He had that in common with them. The resignation of the modern college student. Learning become passive, just teach us teacher, just explain it but don’t bother me, it’s nothing personal after all. I’ll just sit here and take notes.

With some pupils complaining of the Monday morning (cliché) blahs the class responded only sluggishly to the presentation. The professor, receiving only one word replies to her questions, concluded that no one had done the homework at all. She announced that it was due tomorrow and you’d better do it, guys, because if you fall behind here when we get to the participles you’re really going to be lost in the woods. O.K., let’s talk about Catullus, that’s page 91, who wants to start? (Silence) Ah Mr. Ozisch, why don’t you do the first two sentences."

Franz, feeling double-crossed, replied, "At the bottom?’

Yes, page 91, at the bottom.

You want me to read it first?

Right, She rolled her eyes, At the bottom, page 91, read it first.

Vale, puella, iam Catullus obdurat. Scelesta, vae te!

Good, now translate it. It’s not hard

Beats me what it means. Ah --- Farewell girl?, now Catullus be strong, woe to you wicked one? (In the footnotes each word had been translated.)

That was easy, do the next one too.

Quae tibi manet vita?, Hmmmm Tibi is dative, manet is third person singular?

Uh huh, meaning? (Silence) Who can help?

Franz rapidly turned to the glossary, someone else beat him to and said remain, stay abide.

Tentatively, Franz summed up, What life remains to you?

Fine, Mrs. Fugacy, would you please continue.

Unperturbed by her lack of preparation she proceeded to wade through the next sentence. Franz listened for a while then let his attention wane, unmoved by the eternal troubles of poor Catullus, Hurt my eyes wide open, that’s no lie, now the tables turning and it’s her turn to cry. He’d rather silently sing the song again then listen to the Latin. Or just view the class in action, observing only, separating himself from the discussion. Easy to do, wonder about the other students, sure, stereotype them too. The housewives, secure in themselves, my mother would fit right in. Now that the kids are grown up, it’s important that I do something for myself too, Noble sacrifice, thanks Mom for being you, AAAAoooo. What was that? Quem nunc Amabis? Can’t say, someone. Who will love you now? How about say Miss Smith, she’s in class every day and Franz watched her, covertly. She was following the discussion, a strand of hair curled around a finger, sort of stern, impassive, no inexpressive features, hard to tell, not much though, small chested, she was easily the best student in the class yet even more reluctant to say anything than Franz himself and she wrote her homework in a script that was so small that it only took up 1/4 of the space available on a lined page. You can get serious eyestrain trying to copy answers off her. And, well if not her someone else right? Rita perhaps, that German girl, or maybe Martha? Why not Sophia herself? Meet her late night, walking across campus, more likely off campus. and Franz found himself rubbing his thumb against his forefinger, a callus had formed there. He stopped when he thought about it and closed his book waiting for twenty after. The class was almost over and the Latin coach was relaxed and talking about the I Claudius series being shown on Channel 9.

It’s a true story, those ancient Romans didn’t mess around. They were fighting for control of the whole civilized world, that is to them the whole world. It’s like a glorified soap opera, but that’s the way it was --- she gestured with a wave of the hand palms up. O.K. kids, see you tomorrow and do those sentences, please.

Franz swept his books off the table and was one of the first to leave, for he never lingered, another day of Latin under his belt.

* * *

Franz was seated now in the courtyard below the business building, where the English classes met. Here it was warm enough in the sun, Franz, after rolling a cigarette, proceeded to smoke it. He was waiting for eleven O’clock and his English class. Or maybe not, still undecided, is it worth my time to go to that class or should I just drop it, forget it?

He looked over some of the notes he had taken during the introductory lecture. Dismayed, no he was depressed by what the voluble professor had said last Wednesday, Back-ground material. On the paper were written some phrases that stuck out, The romantics rebelled against the rationalistic outlook, He had underlined rationalistic outlook, it sounded so fine. Return to nature as a reaction to the industrial revolution, Or again the Victorian reaction to romanticism, Mathew Arnold in Dover Beach, He gave up poetry because he thought it was inadequate to express … Oh here’s a good one suspend your disbelief, what a bastard phrase that is.

Professor I refuse to suspend my disbelief long enough to believe what you’re telling me. It’s a double negative anyway, he thought suspend your disbelief, change it to the imperative, you believe! Why do we read great books? And then not one but seven, count ‘em, seven reasons for it. I really should have taken notes on that too. And he paused in his thought to roll another cigarette, though his mouth was already dry from the first one.

Rick, hey, Rick, Franz said spotting a guy he knew, a fellow English major.

Franz, he said, approaching, How you doing?

Just fine, just fine, have a seat. So, how’d your schedule work out?

It didn’t matter, I got all the classes I wanted anyway. I’m taking four English classes.

That’s not bad, I guess, so are going to stay in this one? Modern English Novel.

Yeah, the professor is pretty good and the reading list is interesting.

You liked him, He seemed kind of arrogant to me, Mr. Leonard, Ph.D. Stanford University.

I don’t know his lecture on Friday was interesting and he only requires two papers.

Well, it’s kind of hard to take sometimes, look at all the people he quoted, Mr. Leonard had alluded to; Lionel Trilling, Roland Barthes, Gabriel Marceau, Wittgenstein, Karl Jaspers, Vince Lombardi, Thomas Pynchon and Lionel Trilling, these were the names Franz had written down in his notes, He didn’t miss very many?, I mean who can follow up on all that?

He’s alright, Rick said, I need the class anyway. So, what else are you taking?

I’ve got my Latin, and a German class, modern lyric and drama, I still don’t know about this one. So what do you have anyway?

Let’s see, I’ve got a Myth class, that’s a good one, and modern poetry and one on Greek Fiction, plus I’ve got another Psych class.

That’s a lot of papers to write.

"I know but I want to graduate some year, I worked it out and it’s only eleven papers all together.

Whatever happened on your Joyce paper, did you get it back?"

I don’t think I ever turned it in, but I was writing on Stephen’s aesthetic theory and his theory is so inconsistent that my paper turned out that way too. I don’t know I always have a hard time writing those stinking papers.

Well, that’s how you learn. I got an A on mine. I did it on Molly’s soliloquy and Jung. I told you I think, compared it with Jung’s theory on Archetypes. But see, I had a paper for my last Psych class to do and I used the same paper, just retyped it, changed it a little.

Hey, why not --- So what else have you been up to?

The usual, I’ve been running a lot. On Saturday I did 6 miles. I like that feeling of exhaustion and sweat dripping down my body and I’ve been working too, I’ll have to cut back some, get back to the grind.

During the break I went and saw that movie by Woody Allen, you know, Annie Hall. It was good, witty. Some of the scenes were great. In one they’re standing on a balcony talking about abstract painting, modern art and it shows subtitles of what Woody Allen is really thinking about forget the art I’d like to get into this girl’s pants. He shrugged, it was hard to describe. It’s worth going to see.

I’ve been meaning to see that, I like Woody Allen a lot

You’ve still got my number right? We can go see a show sometime.

Sure

Well, I think I’m going to mosey on to class, you coming?

Split-second decision, Naw, I think I’ll pass this time, I’ve got to go to the library. Catch you later.

O.K. take care.

Oh brother, Franz thought to himself, I guess I’ll scratch that class. Maybe I should go to it just to see how he explains the subject away. Of course the problem was, is, and Franz knew this, that almost everything the professor said was also true, too true, true to the max. He meanwhile left the courtyard and began to walk slowly through the campus towards the library, trying to explain to himself, I mean, the quotes too, are good, Lionel Trilling etc., what can you single out to disagree with? Sit in class after say 10 minutes, you think, this professor is pretty good. I can learn from this guy, you take notes. After 20 minutes, huh? that’s interesting. Still taking notes. 30 minutes gone by, what did he just say?, no more notes. After 40 minutes Whoa boy! what’s he talking about now? Where’d that come from? You are incredulous. And after 50 minutes you’re stupefied, open the door please and let me out, thank you. The result is that the professor has devalued his whole subject. Why do we read great books? It’s a rhetorical question, it turns out, and to the students silence, he’s willing, much too willing to explain everything.

Class you might want to take notes here. Find out what he wants then feed it back to him in your paper, voila an A student. These essays themselves, opportunities to perform, to show your stuff, to waste your time. Expository writing, well you need to work on developing a theme, you know any theme, pick a theme, one’s as good as another, at least to these professors. And of course he throws in the jokes, cause he’s hip right? --- and walking along Franz was agitated by what he thought, the sarcastic comments, hey pound on Nixon and Watergate, like the guy was a clown and not a criminal, Oh yes TV too, deodorant selling meathead football players, or for sure, Sunday Church going hypocrite Christians, and