Page 19

By Jack Joseph Smith

But Stavrogin was here now. Going down from the highway. Looking up askance at the last of the Santa Monica Free- way strands with Lenny Bruce's name painted across it in black, which sure enough come August would turn into an obituary. Ah Shit. A Writer Or An Actor, Which. And it did go through Stavrogin's mind like a bitch. Flashing again: O'Neill. The writer. How could Stavrogin ever be a writer? You've got to work to do that. You have got to go to meet- ing in your mind. And nobody is ever in when you're doing that. And Screw this actor stuff. You've got to memorize lines, and you also have to do what you're told. God Bless America. Lay it down Stavrogin. You're a drunk. A party boy. O'Neill saw that. But you're tough Stavrogin. Sometimes. Well. When you good and God Damn scared. Back flashing. Ribbons of faded red film crossing through Stavrogin's head. O'Neill running the street theatre. Stavrogin bringing the kids in off the street. But back. Back into love. On a hyjeria through Harlem. Day and night. Another day. Day is in the red. The end. The finish. Night is blue. The strange- est blue, by God. Blue that will change ones mind. Blue that seeks day. Seeks red. The blazing red. Not the shadow in blue. The black in blue. The shoulders in blue. The curve in blue. The endless down in blue. The running out of blue. The smashing of day. Of red brilliant. Rushing in streams. Natural streams. Streams of humanity. Then white. Shattering. Bands of white cloth across the hot foreheads of men. And here

Original Scan

AI Interpretation

GPT

The scan-verified page follows Stavrogin beneath the Santa Monica freeway as Lenny Bruce, O'Neill, writing, acting, drunkenness, Harlem, and red-blue-white memory all flash through his mind.

The corrected transcript makes the page's argument with itself sharper. Stavrogin wants the authority of writing, rejects actorly obedience, and then drops into a color-driven memory of street theatre and love where red, blue, and white become emotional weather.

Claude

Stavrogin 'here now', under 'the last of the Santa Monica Free- / way strands with Lenny Bruce's name painted across it', which 'come August would turn into an / obituary'. The page is a self-lacerating interior monologue weighing two vocations: 'How could Stavrogin ever be a writer? / You've got to work to do that', versus the actor's servility - 'You've got to memorize / lines, and you also have to do what you're told.' His verdict on himself is brutal: 'You're a drunk. A party boy. / O'Neill saw that. But you're tough Stavrogin. Sometimes.' It then dissolves into a synesthetic memory of 'O'Neill running the street theatre' and 'Stavrogin bringing the / kids in off the street', 'a hyjeria through Harlem', cycling through 'Day is / in the red' and an extended blue litany - 'The black in blue. The shoulders in blue. The curve / in blue. The endless down in blue.' - resolving toward 'white. Shattering. / Bands of white cloth across the hot foreheads of men.' Source spellings ('hyjeria', 'ones') are preserved.