Go: A Novel
John Clellon Holmes
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cradle there’s a grave … A thousand dollars advance! What did you say when he told you?” “Oh, I didn’t say … well, anything, I don’t think.” Hobbes sniffed. “I didn’t say anything either.” “Oh, yes, let’s see, I said: ‘It isn’t enough to buy a farm with, but maybe next year.’ Something crazy like that.” “Maybe next year … yes … But, my God, Gene, I can see that I made it difficult for you to tell me, didn’t I? Just now. I mean, because mine was turned down. And at the very same moment too!
let me take care of it? Gene will call and we’ll work something out.” “I don’t want it here, Paul … Couldn’t you take it to the police?” she continued evenly to Stofsky. “Well,” he stumbled with shame-faced confusion, staring at her intently, hurtfully. “I don’t know about that … But, let’s see … Well, I’ll do something about it.” “I won’t have it!” Hobbes exclaimed. “I won’t have it! Please leave this to me!… David, forget about the goddamn radio. I’ll take care of it!… Kathryn,” he implored.
everyone does. And, well, Christ, MacMurry’s turned down my book, the bastards! After almost two months, they send it back with a rejection slip about paper costs and the risks of first novels! What do I care about all that!… But, you know, when I ran up to Hart, asking him, ‘What are we going to do about it?’ … Not the book, because that really doesn’t matter, I’ve decided I wrote that for myself, my own soul, a sort of plea and nothing more … but death and the unsolvable mysteries of life …
to himself. But Hart and Ed, who had covered the place thoroughly, did notice and came up to him. “Say, look, let’s cut out of here. Ancke’s not coming and nobody’s seen him. I talked to a guy over there but he didn’t even know he was out of jail. He used to peddle with Ancke out in Chicago. Imagine that! A real beat character!” Hart, once more bent on getting things organized toward a common objective, was not curious about the old man on whom Stofsky had been fastening himself. “Come on,
wanted to tell you that I’m leaving you,” he heard before he could say anything. “I’m reading your letters to Liza. The love letters you’ve been writing to another woman for three years!” The voice was so strange, so filled with those bewildered tones of reproach that are beyond mere anger, that all he could say was: “Oh.” “I don’t know how you could have done this to me. I’ll never understand it!… ‘Doomed lovers, you so rare and dark beside me …’ And that was written a week ago in case you’ve