Strange Roommate 1

Dear Strange Roommate,

Today I was thinking about a recent letter that you wrote about the “Dying Animal” a named used to refer to the practice of literary criticism and also the figure noble figure of the literary critic. We also have a real dying animal trapped in the walls of our house. Let me share with you my thoughts on both.

FIRST: THE LITERAL DYING ANIMAL

As I was eating breakfast this morning I heard the small screams, which sounded like a rusty hinge really, coming from another room. I assumed our cats had killed another bird and I imagined turning the corner to the sight of another flapping creature with its intestines lolling out from bloody feathers. I was more afraid of not actually seeing anything immediately, but rather, once I was in the room, that the animal would be dying in whatever place my eyes happened to land next. Every shift of gaze was another personal dare to see if I wanted to see. The cats were freaking out, looking and running with no focus, no center. I walked closer to the wall, didn’t want to believe an animal was trapped in there so I looked under the heating vents. Now my fear turned into a kind of gruesome hope that I’d be able to see the damn thing, so that I could know what animal it was or how it was dying, instead of just this vague, seemingly sourceless screaming, which was more like a haunting. Instead of cleaning up the guts or the carcass I just had to kind of look around the room and screw up my face with a shrug before I could go back to eating my breakfast. “Lamely” is the word that keeps cropping up in my mind. The first definition: (of a person or animal) unable to walk normally because of an injury or illness affecting the leg or foot: his horse went lame. Perfect, don’t you think?

SECOND: THE LITERARY DYING ANIMAL

I do think we both agree on the screams from the wall that belong to James Wood. We’ve both done enough reading of Wood to see him as this noble (but tragic) creature. Doomed by his commitment to saying something and defending it entirely. Doesn’t he strike you like those damn Romantic Germans you love? If my calculations are correct he should. Same amount of reason and eloquence teertered by passion. Same dreamy register. He’s probably had to erase an ecstatic, involuntary “O!” or two from many a draft. I still don’t know if you think that Wood’s voice is necessary or not. Please respond. I certainly do. I love that we have a voice in the wilderness, I love that literary humanists have a prophet, even if we have to dust him off some times so as to not fuss the allergies of the sterilized Tao Lin enthusiast. But what to do with the man in argument, what’s going to happen to him when he tries so hard to be a solid relic, especially in a time when being something at all is just data for the market, or a modernist lie?

WEAK CONNECTIONS

- James Wood is not like the dying animal in our walls, because the dying animal is unknown and while we can hear its cry, and understand its circumstance, we can not shape it as easily as we shape Wood.

- James Wood is the dying animal in the wall, because like the dying animal my only available action is to raise my hands in the air and walk away while it cries itself to death — exactly what Wood wants.

THE REAL SCENE:

The cries in the wall grow louder as I eat my breakfast and also deeper in tone. What once was squeaking and clawing starts to sound something like mixed consonants and vowels, but I cannot tell if I am imagining them or not. Screams of animals are usually one vowel maximum, right? Maybe what I am hearing is words. I decided to reinvestigate. I decide that I simply cannot stand not knowing what is inside the wall. I start to claw at it with my fingernails, enjoying gathering the lead paint underneath them. Splinters form and I am embarrassed for taking this emotional and animalistic approach. I go up into your room and find the hammer you keep underneath the small table next to your bookshelves (what is on the table or whether it really exists, I cannot remember). I walk downstairs and without thinking or caring about getting our security deposit back I break into the wall. The screams get louder, deeper, the dying animal acknowledges that its inner-wall environment is drastically and rapidly changing. The more I break through the wall the more I can see of the animal. It is large, curled up, bleeding. Through the shrill screams I reveal a hand. I now begin to tear away at the wall from the inside, taking apart the pieces like a puzzle going back into the box. Underneath is James Wood, mouth gagged with pages of Ulysses, his eyes wide with fear. I pull him out, stand him up, and dust him off. He pulls the pages out of his mouth.

We owe the landlord around $200 for damages. I have left the bill on our fridge and circled the amount in green marker. If you can’t pay it now I’ll pay the whole thing now and you can get me back later.

Thanks and all the best,

Strange Roommate