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Show Acting Alone Page 434 crusade. Besides, one would be grossly disingenuous were one to imply that there wasn't a certain concern for his own immortality working in Sam's brain as regards this matter. One of the few things, after all, which can ensure the immortality of any author is his intimate association with a single word or phrase - this being far easier for English graduate students to remember and latch onto and sprinkle into their dissertations than, say, whole ideas. Orwell has his newspeak, Nabokov his nymphet, Heller his Catch-22, and Edwine his peckersnot. You'll find that artists who can't make art have no problem making artistic theory. The old man's neat Wang word processor was kept under lock and key across the room, its screen always turned on, for some odd reason, glowing tantalizingly day and night. But there was no such advanced equipment for old eight-character memory Sam: at this point there was no time for the polishing and rewriting that the nifty Wang could so wonderfully facilitate. Scott Meredith, who was working with Sam's agent in some vague sort of collusion which nobody seemed to care to elucidate, had a whole sweating stable of hacks with far greater rewriting and polishing experience than Sam. Sam's job was merely to draw upon his bellyful of personal experience, to relax and turn loose the sphincter holding back that experience, and to shit out the medium-large chunks of verbal matter out of which could be hacked a quickee psychosex bio. "God damn you! What the fuck is a 'psychosex bio'?" "Write one and see." "You're buttfucking me out of my youth up here!" "Don't be so anal-expulsive. I t ' s unattractive." |
