Humboldt's Gift (1976 Pulitzer Prize) - Saul Bellow [164]
“He was sane again before he died. I know that from Kathleen. Don’t be a bad sport.”
“I’m the best sport you’ll ever know. You’ve got me confused with that up-tight bitch who drags you to court.”
“To get back to the subject, Americans had an empty continent to subdue. You couldn’t expect them to concentrate on philosophy and art as well. Old Doc Lutz, because I read poetry to his daughter, called me a damn foreigner. To pare corns in a Loop office was an American calling.”
“Please fold my coat and lay it on the rack. I wish the stewardesses would stop gossiping and take our drink orders.”
“Certainly, my darling. But let me finish what I was saying about Humboldt. I know you think I’m talking too much, but I am excited, and I feel remorseful about the children besides.”
“Just what Denise wants you to be,” said Renata. “When you go away and won’t leave a forwarding address she tells you, ‘Okay, if the kids get killed you can read about it in the paper.’ But don’t get into a tragic bind about this, Charlie. Those kids will have their Christmas fun, and I’m sure Roger will have a marvelous time with his Milwaukee grandparents. How children love that square family stuff.”
“I hope he is all right,” I said. “I’m very fond of Roger. He’s an engaging kid.”
“He loves you too, Charlie.”
“To get back to Humboldt then.”
Renata’s face took on an I’m-going-to-let-you-have-it-straight look and she said, “Charlie, this will is just a gag from the grave. You said yourself, once, that it could be a posthumous prank. The guy died nuts.”
“Renata, I’ve read the textbooks. I know what clinical psychologists say about manic dépressives. But they didn’t know Humboldt. After all, Humboldt was a poet. Humboldt was noble. What does clinical psychology know about art and truth?”
For some reason this provoked Renata. She became huffy. “You wouldn’t think he was so wonderful if he was alive. It’s only because he’s dead. Koffritz sold mausoleums, so he had business reasons for his death hang-up. But what is it with you?”
I had it in mind to reply, “What about yourself? The men in your life have been, were, or are Mausoleum Koffritz, Flonzaley the Undertaker, and Melancholy Citrine.” But I bit my tongue.
“What you do,” she said, “is invent relationships with the dead you never had when they were living. You create connections they wouldn’t allow, or you weren’t capable of. I heard you say once that death was good for some people. You probably meant that you got something out of it.”
This made me thoughtful and I said, “That’s occurred to me, too. But the dead are alive in us if we choose to keep them alive, and whatever you say I loved Humboldt Fleisher. Those ballads moved me deeply.”
“You were just a boy,” she said. “It was that glorious time of life. He only wrote ten or fifteen poems.”
“It’s true he didn’t write many. But they were most beautiful. Even one is a lot, for certain things. You should know that. His failure is something to think about. Some say that failure is the only real success in America and that nobody who ‘makes it’ is ever taken into the hearts of his countrymen. This lays the emphasis on the countrymen. Maybe that’s where Humboldt made his big mistake.”
“Thinking about his fellow citizens?” said Renata. “When will they bring our drinks?”
“Be patient and I’ll entertain you till they come. There are a few things I have to get off my chest about Humboldt. Why should Humboldt have bothered himself so much? A poet is what he is in himself. Gertrude Stein used to distinguish between a person who is an ‘entity’ and one who has an ‘identity.’ A significant man is an entity. Identity is what they give you socially. Your little dog recognizes you and therefore you have an identity. An entity, by contrast, an impersonal power, can be a frightening thing. It’s as T. S. Eliot said of William Blake. A man like Tennyson was merged into his environment or encrusted with parasitic