The Anatomy Lesson (9 page)

Inquiry
’
s
publication of Appe
l
’
s essay—and the outbreak of Zuckerman
’
s hatred—took place in May 1973. In October, five thousand
Egyptian
and Syrian tanks attacked Israel on Yom Kippur afternoon. Caught off guard, the Israelis took three weeks this time to destroy the Arab armies and approach the suburbs of Damascus and Cairo. But after the rallying to victory, the Israeli defeat: in the Security Council, the European press, even in the U.S. Congress, condemnation of Jewish aggression. Of all things, in the desperate search for allies. Milton App
e
l turned to the worst of Jewish writers for an article in support of the Jewish slate.

The appeal wasn
’
t put directly, but through their mutual acquaintance Ivan Felt, who had once been Appe
l
’
s graduate assistant at NYU. Zuck
e
rman, who knew Felt from the artist
’
s colony at Quahsay, had introduced him to his own publisher the year before, and Felt
’
s first novel, soon to be published, would carry a paragraph of appreciation by
Zuckerman
on the jacket. The contemptuous destructive rage of the sixties was Felt
’
s subject, the insolent anarchy and gleeful debauchery that had overturned even the most unlikely American lives while Johnson was devastating Vietnam for the networks. The book was as raw as Felt but, alas, only half as overhearing; Zuckerman
’
s guess was that if he could get
alt
that overbearing nature coursing through the prose, abandon his halfhearted objectivity and strange lingering respect for the great moral theme, Ivan Fell might yet become a real artist in the demonic, spiteful Celine line. Surely his letters,
Zuckerman
wrote to Felt, if not his fiction, would live forever in-the annals of paranoia. As for the brash, presumptuous overconfidence and ostentatious egoism, it remained 10 be seen how much protection they would offer for the long-drawn-out brawl: Felt was twenty-seven and the literary career yet to begin.

Syracuse—
12/1/73

Nathan—

Xerox paragraph (enclosed) from correspondence between M. Appel and myself concerning NZ. (Res
t
abou
t
B.U. vacancy I asked him, and now you. to support me for.) I s
t
opped a
t
his Harvard pulpit when in Boston ten days back. Hadn
’
t heard any echo since gal
l
eys went off to him weeks ago. Told me he
’
d read a chapter but wasn
’
t
“
responsive
”
to
“
what that sort of humor represents.
”
Only trying to strip everything
I
fear of its
“
prestige.
”
I said what
’
s wrong with that, but he wasn
’
t interested, said he didn
’
t have strong impres
sions any longer of my book, his mind far away from fiction. On Israel
’
s enemies.
“
They
’
ll kill us all gladly,
”
he told me. I told him that
’
s how I saw
everything.
When later I said of Israel,
“
Who isn
’
t worried.
’”
he thought I was assuming a profitable role—
’
took it for playacting. So out I lashed at the tirade on you. He said I should have written the magazine if I wanted to debate. He didn
’
t have
the
energy or inclination now—
”
Other things on my mind.
”‘
On leaving [ added that one Jew worried about Israel was you. His paragraph follow-up to that parting shot. Civilized world knows how celebrated paranoid would rush to respond. Wait to learn what invitation to clear your conscience whips up in loving soul like you,

Your public toilet.

I.F.

“
Buried anger, troves of it
”
; this was young Dr. Felt on the origins of Zuckerman
’
s affliction. When news had reached him the year before that Zuckerman was hospitalized for a week, he phoned from Syracuse to find out what was wrong, and stopped by when he was next in New York. Out in the hallway, in his hooded high-school windbreaker, he
’
d taken his comrade by the arms—arms whose strength was ebbing by the day—and, only half mockingly, pronounced judgment.

Felt was constructed like a dockworker, strutted about like a circus strong man. piled layers of clothes on like a peasant, and had the plain ungraspable face of a successful felon. Compact neck, thick back, shock-absorbent legs—roll him up and you could shoot him from a cannon. There were those in the Syracuse English Department wailing in line with matches and powder. Not that Ivan cared. He
’
d already ascertained the proper relationship of Ivan Felt to his fellow man. So had Zuckerman
,
at
twenty-seven
: Stand alone. Like Swift and Dostoevsky and Joyce and Flaubert. Obstinate independence. Unshakable defiance. Perilous freedom. No, in thunder.

It was the first time they
’
d met on Eighty-first Street. No sooner had Felt entered the living room and begun pulling off his jacket, his cap. and the assortment of old sweaters that he was wearing under the windbreaker and over the T-shirt, than he was appraising aloud all he saw:
“
Velvet curtains. Persian carpet. Period mantelpiece. Overhead the ornamented plaster. below the gleaming parquet floor. Ah. but properly ascetic all the same. Not a hint of hedonism yet somehow—
cushy.
Very elegantly under
-
fu
rn
ished. Nathan. The pad of a well-heeled monk.
”

But how Felt sardonically size
d up the decor interested Zuck
erman less than the new diagnosis. They just kept coming, these diagnoses. Everybody had a slant. The illness with a thousand meanings. They read the pain as his fifth book.

“
Buried anger?
”
Zuckerman asked him.
“
Where
’
d you get that idea?
”

“
Carnovsky.
Incomparable vehicle for the expression of your inadmissible loathings. Your hatred flows at flood level—so much hatred the heap of flesh can
’
t contain it. Yet, outside the books, you act like you ain
’
t even here. Moderation itself. Altogether. your books give off a greater sense of reality than you do. The first time I saw you, the night you came down into the dining room at Quahsay, the Glittering Guest of the Month, I said to
little
Gina. the lesbian poet,
‘
I
’
ll bet that fellow never gets mad outside of those best-sellers.
’
Do you? Do you know how to?
”

“
You
’
re tougher than I am. Ivan.
”

“
That
’
s a flattering way of saying I
’
m nastier than you are.
”

“
When do
you
get angry outside of the writing?
”

“
I get angry when
I
want to get rid of somebody. They
’
re in my way. Anger is a gun. I point it and I fire, and I keep firing till they disappear. I
’
m like you are in the writing outside the writing
and
in the writing. You button your lip. I
’
ll say anything.
”

By now, with all Felt
’
s layers of clothes impeded and strewn across the floor, the pad of the well-heeled monk looked as if it had just been sacked.

“
And,
”
Zuckerman asked,
“
you believe what you
’
re saying when you say anything?
”

Felt looked over at him from the sofa as though Zuckerman were demented.
“
It doesn
’
t matter whether / believe it. You
’
re such a good soldier you don
’
t even understand. The thing is to make
them
believe it. You are a good soldier. You seriously entertain the opposition point of view. You do all that
the right way.
You have to. You
’
re always astonished how you provoke people by pouring out the secrets of your disgraceful inner life. You get stunned. You gel
sad.
It
’
s a wonder to you that you
’
re such a scandal. The wonder to me is that you can possibly care. You, down with a case of the Bad-Taste Blues! To require the respect of men and women
’
s tender caresses. Poppa
’
s approval and Momma
’
s love. Nathan Zuckerman! Who
’
d believe it?
”

“
And you require nothing? You believe
that
?”

“
I sure don
’
t let guilt enter everything, not the way you good soldiers do. It
’
s nothing, guilt—it
’
s se
l
f-indulg
ence. They de
spisc me? They call me names? They don
’
t approve? All the better. A girl tried to commit suicide at my place last week. Dropped by with her pills for a glass of my water. Swallowed them while I was off teaching my afternoon dopes. J was furious when I found her. I phoned for an ambulance, but I
’
d be damned if I
’
d go with her. If she had died? Fine with me. Let her die if that
’
s what she wants. I don
’
t stand in their way and nobody stands in mine. I say,
‘
No, I don
’
t want any more of this—it
’
s not for me.
”
And I start firing until it
’
s gone. All you need from them is money—the rest you take care of yourself.
”

“
Thanks for the lesson.
”

“
Don
’
t thank me,
”
said Felt.
“
I learned it in high school, reading you. Anger. Point it and fire it and just keep firing until they disappear. You
’
ll be a healthy novelist in no time.
”

Appel
’
s paragraph, xeroxed by Felt and sent on to Zuckerman in New York:

Truth
t
o tell. I don
’
t
know
that t
here
’
s much we can Jo—first the
J
ews were destroyed by gas. and now it may be in oil. Too many around New York are shameful on
this
matter: it
’
s as if their circumcisions were acquired for other reasons. The people who raised hell
about
Vietnam are not saying much on Israel (but for a few souls). However, insofar as public opinion mailers, or
the
tiny
fraction of
o
il we can reach, let me offer a suggestion
t
hat may irritate you
but
which I
’
ll make nonetheless. Why don
’
t you ask your friend Nate Zuckerman
t
o write something in behalf of Israel for the Times Op Ed page. He could surely gel in
t
here. If I come ou
t
in support of Israel there, that
’
s not exactly news; it
’
s expected. But if Zuckerman came out with a forthright statement, tha
t
would be news of a kind, since he has prestige wi
t
h segments of the public that don
’
t care for the res
t
of us. Maybe he has spoken up on
t
his. but if so
I
haven
’
t seen it. Or does he still feel tha
t
, as his Ca
rn
ovsky says, the Jews can slick their historical suffering up their ass? (And yes,
I
know
t
hat there
’
s a difference between characters and authors; but
I
also know tha
t
grown-ups should not pre
t
end
t
hat i
t
’
s quite the difference
t
hey tell their students i
t
is.) Anyway, brushing aside my evident hostility
t
o his view on these
matters
, which is neither here nor there. I honestly believe tha
t
if he were to come out publicly, i
t
would be of some interest. I think we
’
re a
t
the point where
t
he whole world is getting ready to screw
t
he Jews. At such points even
t
he most independent of souls might find it worth saying a word.