William Gass Readings

William Gass read from his work-in-progress, Middle Sea, Thursday at the Prospect Heights Brooklyn Public Library. Ostensibly, the occasion celebrated the 40^th anniversary of Willie Masters’ Lonesome Wife, but Gass doesn’t like reading what can’t be revised, the dead works. Upon entering the theater, Ula and I saw Gass’s little white head seated down in front with his wife. I asked him to sign my Saintsbury (A History of English Prose Rhythm), a request arousing surprise from Mary Gass. The man looks well for 84, despite cataracts.

He read for about 40 minutes, and I wondered to what extent we were privileged to hear this material, considering his age: he says he has 400 pages down, with about 400 to go. The passage, entitled The Man Who Spoke With His Hands, is characteristically baroque. The gesticulations of its protagonist are wildly expressive, more so even than those of The Tunnel’s Magus Tabor. (Gass’s gesticulations were partially hidden by the podium, but not so the following night, at a reading in a small bookstore. The Master’s hands are tiny, hairless, and age-spotted. Tiny little fingernails.)

After the reading, Gass took questions. I asked him, in reference to an interview he gave a college newspaper, what the protagonist of Middle Sea pretended to. He delighted us with some of the story: a professor, escaping a bad situation somewhere in Europe, pretended in London to Judaism, failed, and then crossed the ocean to pretend at a university in Ohio. Teaching music, he pretends presently in the narrative to love Schoenberg, when in fact he loves Liszt. His daughter has accompanied him, and “has gone rather far” in seducing her teachers. The title Middle Sea is a pun on what was to be the middle novella of three starting with the letter ‘c’, the first and last being already completed; however Middle Sea has turned into a novel.

There were a few other general questions about writing (total in attendance, around 25), and I decided to ask a second question: what are his favorite restaurants in New York. He answered that he isn’t around enough, or doesn’t have enough money, to have any.

After the reading, Ula went up to him and had him sign her Willie Masters’ Lonesome Wife. She said, apparently, that she was newly into him, and had been introduced to his writing by me, his biggest fan.

The following night, Friday, Ula and I went to Gass’s other New York reading, at 192 Books on tenth ave. The crowd was the same size, but the venue was much smaller. He read the same passage again, and I meditated on his modulation, especially the occasional low grumble, not all that low considering his high register. I waited for the rest of the audience who hadn’t been there the previous night, to ask questions. I asked the last question: would he tell us some of the writers, other than Kafka and Barthelme, he paid secret homage to in each of the beginnings of the twelve parts of The Tunnel. He named Collette, but hedged a bit and suggested the homages weren’t uniform. He especially liked, though, being able to play around with signature styles, for example using Collette’s when addressing dark material. Another person asked whether he listened to music while writing, and he said no, but he does like to listen to music as much as he can. He is a Berliozan, likes Bach’s partitas, and late Liszt. The really tough stuff, bits of Bartok, he listens to infrequently. When asked about what time of day he writes, he said he likes to write in the morning, every day if possible, but that he isn’t mean enough to insist on it, given the demands of family man and a citizen. When he got the grant enabling him to go somewhere and finish The Tunnel, however, he wrote 12-14 hours a day for a year.

After the reading, I had him sign my copy of The Tunnel—not that I cared about the signature—I just wanted more face time. I told him the reading was a pleasure, and as he signed the book, I told him a little bit about a letter I saw of his from 67, sold to someone on ebay—how it was floating out there in a time warp. Here is the letter:

June 12, 1967

Dear Bill,

Thank you, of course, for Book Week. Do my words reach

so far as Washington? Fancy that.

You must tell me all about how it was (or is or will have

been) at the reunion. I should love to have been there, if

I could have been invisible. What is your connection with

Mr. Burr (whom I barely know). He called; presented your

greetings; urged my attendance; received my, I hope, genial

refusal; rang off.

My wife is this moment in Arkansas reunioning with her

mother and sister, and she is not cruel, but has most

kindly taken the kids away with her into the momentary never-

never, and it is so quiet, so pleasantly quiet, so sweetly

silent, so calm, so restful, peaceful, serene… that I drink

Irish straight from the bottle and play Bach full blast.

A collection of short stories, called IN THE HEART OF THE

HEART OF THE COUNTRY, is not at my publishers. So sooner

than I should like I must run the gauntlet again.

I do not give up hope – one day, Washington.

Give me news of yourself. Protect us from the socialisssts.

Best,

Bill