Chapters (60)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Personae
- I: Early Days
- One. Control
- Two. Doubt
- Three. Fate
- Four. Same
- Five. Fine Arts
- Six. In Loco Parentis
- Seven. Settling
- Eight. Neighbors
- Nine. Prospects
- Ten. The Lucky
- Eleven. Instruction
- Twelve. Same
- Thirteen. This Is a Pipe
- Fourteen. This Is Not a Pipe
- Fifteen. The Reason
- Sixteen. That Person
- Seventeen. Predictably
- II: Writing Teacher
- Eighteen. Early Poems
- Nineteen. Motivation
- Twenty. Allegory
- Twenty-One. Grief
- Twenty-Two. A Portrait
- Twenty-Three. Veils
- Twenty-Four. Soft Power
- Twenty-Five. Lists
- Twenty-Six. A Break
- Twenty-Seven. Elsewhere
- Twenty-Eight. Custom
- Twenty-Nine. Parity
- Thirty. Fortune
- III: Volta
- Thirty-One. Images
- Thirty-Two. A Very Interesting Young Man
- Thirty-Three. Letters
- Thirty-Four. We Prefer to See Ourselves Living
- Thirty-Five. Love
- Thirty-Six. The Iceberg
- IV: Your Best Reader
- Thirty-Seven. A Novelist
- Thirty-Eight. In Advance of the Broken Arm
- Thirty-Nine. Their Penultimate Encounter
- Forty. Détente
- Forty-One. Worlds
- Forty-Two. Recognition
- Forty-Three. Persistence
- Forty-Four. And Then
- Forty-Five. Mingling
- Forty-Six. You
- Forty-Seven. Persona
- Forty-Eight. Est et Non
- Forty-Nine. The Author
- Epilogue
- Afterword: The Libertine
- Acknowledgments
- About the Authors
The room is full and no one is really saying anything. They all mill around gazing up at this veil-free desktop rendition of Courbet’s much more modestly sized masterpiece. It’s like they’re standing in the studio of some artist, but they don’t know who. The only sound arises from someone who, seated on a sofa, scrubs away at a scratch-off ticket, oblivious to artistic value.
The others begin to notice Clare, and their pointed looks suggest they are waiting for her to tell them something. From underneath their carefully crafted hangovers, they wordlessly implore her. Is this her message? They do not want to return to their rented places of dwelling without a word. They want to know what this thing is, why it appears, if the author is at last coming to take full command.
And the author is born again.
Clare remembers the tower, its final steps, which she takes in a single bound, landing with ease.
She will figure out what it means later.
“I guess it’s spring,” she says to no one.
Forty-Nine. The Author
Forty-Nine
The Author
There is a prone body facedown at the edge of her lawn. Meanwhile, Lizzie Hillary is not alarmed. Birds warble, and Lizzie is wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt that fit her best when she was eleven. The T-shirt was acquired outside the francophone world and yet for some reason it reads MAÎTRE-CHIEN. Lizzie throws herself across the lawn. She nearly barks and howls. Her parents have joined a delegation of concerned academics protesting President George W. Bush’s speaking engagement at a local community college, and good for them, and particularly good for them in that they are not here with her and the birds. No one can prevent what is now very much about to go down.
Lizzie is moving with a mixture of terror and joy, and she can imagine it is fascinating to see. Too bad no one is watching. Too bad so few recognize the greatness of her artistry. Too bad she can’t take credit where credit is due.
Lizzie comes to a standstill, squats.
“Troy, Troy, Troy,” Lizzie says. “Loudermilk, Loudermilk, Loudermilk.” She pats the back of his head, her poor destroyed man. She knew he was going to figure out how much he needed her one day, and here he is, sultry from sun and slightly foul. Lizzie pats harder. She flicks Loudermilk’s left ear.
There is a moan.
Lizzie, a true artist, turns and sits and maneuvers Loudermilk’s heavy, hot cranium onto her bare thigh.
“MPHHphlfg,” Loudermilk is saying.
“I know,” says Lizzie. “So true! Are you ready to wake up now?”
“Beans,” mutters Loudermilk.
“What? I don’t have any beans, OK? Loudermilk, I think maybe it’s time for you to wake up. My parents’ lawn is probably not so super comfortable. Um, Loudermilk?”