Discussion:
Jim Carroll
(too old to reply)
Will Dockery
2004-07-12 04:58:27 UTC
Permalink
For some reason I don't have access to alt.books.beatgeneration.
However, here's what I sent to the two guys who posted about Carroll.
You can post it on the newsgroup if you want. (If you do, please insert
a note that replies should be sent via e-mail.) Also, will you send me
further developments on the topic?

Cassie Carter |-------------------------------------|
English Department | here . . . I'm extending my wrist |
Bowling Green State University | to you . . . feel the pulse. |
Bowling Green, OH 43403 | Feel it. --Jim Carroll |
***@bgnet.bgsu.edu |-------------------------------------|

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: ***@mailhost.epix.net (Jay A. Gertzman)
Newsgroups: alt.books.beatgeneration
Subject: The Basketball Diaries
Date: Wed, 03 Jan 1996 04:27:05 GMT

Can anyone help me with information or appreciation, criticisma, etc. of
Jim
Carroll's The Basketball Diaries? I don't know if it can be called a beat
work but the narrator is certainly contemptuous of social conventions,
all
kinds of sentiment and idealism, and what could be classified as
"sensible"
protection from disease and violence. Although the book is funny in
places,
I've rarely read anything more devoid of faith in the future or hope that
there is such a thing as meaningful human contact or mutual concern. What
other works of fiction or autobiography is this
work compared to? Is Carroll's later work of similar bleakness?

MY RESPONSE TO JAY:
First of all, I have published two articles on Carroll that may be of use
to you. These are:

Kuennen, Cassie Carter. "Jim Carroll: An Annotated, Selective, Primary
and Secondary Bibliography, 1967-1988." *Bulletin of Bibliography* 47.2
(1990): 81-112.
I will be happy to send you an updated version if you are interested.

Carter, Cassie. "The Sickness That Takes Years to Perfect: Jim Carroll's
Alchemical Vision." *Dionysos: Literature and Addiction Triquarterly*
(forthcoming in the next issue).

There are also about 20 Web pages dealing with Carroll. I will send you
a list if you are interested. (I'm hoping to have a Carroll home page up
and running in the near future, but until then . . .)

Secondly, I agree with your characterization of Carroll as "contemptuous
of social conventions, all kinds of sentiment and idealism, and what could
be classified as "sensible" protection from disease and violence." I have
always thought of this in terms of his "punk" code of ethics. I mean,
look at the world he is growing up in. (Remember, *Basketball Diaries* is
his actual diary; this stuff really happened.) He has to be tough just to
survive, and he has to be "punk" to transcend the crap his world is
constantly throwing at him. Two entries are especially important in
explaining Carroll's punk code: the "leap into the Harlem River" entry
(47-50) and the "presence" entry (89-90). He has to be able to endure
physical and emotional pain without even a wince; he's got to jump into
the river and risk being hit by a "shit line" to prove that he is worthy
of existence (think of the Harlem River as a metaphor for the world . .
.); and he's got to do it all with the grace of a cheetah, making it all
seem effortless--otherwise, he risks just making a fool of himself (like a
chimp).

As for Carroll's connection to the Beats, that's a complex issue. He
claims he never read *On the Road* until after he finished the *Diaries*,
but he indicates in the *Diaries* that he was reading Ginsberg and
Burroughs. After the *Diaries*, though, he became close friends with
Ginsberg and he knows most of the Beats personally. Kerouac even wrote a
blurb for the *Diaries*. Carroll does not consider himself a
Beat writer, but he thinks of himself as a poet, and his poetry
isn't Beat. I say his diaries and lyrics are Beat-Punk.

You also asked what works *Basketball Diaries* can be compared to. Well
. . . the ones that usually come up are *Catcher in the Rye* and
*Adventures of Huckleberry Finn*. I agree that it is very much a growing
up story. What's unique about it is that it's an actual diary, not a
fiction, and Carroll wrote it as things happened, not in retrospect.
And, of course, the content itself is pretty unique. Most people who
read it can't believe that such things could happen in a real life. It's
a real eye-opener, isn't it?

That brings me to your question, "Is Carroll's later work of similar
bleakness?" This begs the question, "Is *Basketball Diaries* bleak?" to
which the answer is No!!! There are bleak *moments* in all of Carroll's
works. In *Forced Entries*, as in *Basketball Diaries*, Carroll lands in
the bottom of the pit, crawls out, falls back in, crawls out again . . .
Just like in the song "City Drops Into the Night," though, there is
always a moment of light to redeem the darkness. That, I think, is
the most important (and most often missed) aspect of Carroll's work.

I strongly disagree with this statement: "I've rarely read anything more
devoid of faith in the future or hope that there is such a thing as
meaningful human contact or mutual concern." Jim Carroll is one of the
most optimistic writers I have ever had the pleasure to read. In *The
Basketball Diaries*, it is Carroll's faith in the future and his hope for
meaningful human contact that keeps him alive! He writes, repeatedly, "I
just want to be pure." He wants the Bomb to hold off just one more day so
he can play in a big game, so he can go to camp, so he can find out "if
I'm the writer I know I can be" (150-51). He dreams about a lame girl and
knows "there was an incredible love somewhere in my world . . ." (177).
(Listen to "I Want the Angel" for more on this idealism!) He gets tossed
into Rikers and thinks "about what a nice concept it is having a
'godmother' and 'godfather.'" He masturbates on his rooftop to experience
a pure communion with his body and the universe. He takes LSD, smokes
pot, shoots heroin in his search for beauty in an ugly world (notice how
beautiful and poetic his descriptions of hallucinations and nods are). Of
course, just about everything he tries in his search for beauty and love
backfires on him, but the fact is that it is his optimism, his search for
purity and beauty that keeps him going. Jim Carroll is no nihilist!

---------------------------------------------------
From: jim harris <***@sseinc.com>
Newsgroups: alt.books.beatgeneration
Subject: Re: The Basketball Diaries
Date: 3 Jan 1996 19:54:01 GMT
To: ***@mailhost.epix.net

Come on, the guy was only sixteen when he wrote it. It is fundamentally
comparable to the abject realism found in Zola or Henry Miller-To get a
real grasp of Jim Carrol as a beat is through his punk rock albums in the
early eighties I write your name, Catholic Boy and the absolute
masterpiece DRY DREAMS. He is a brilliant poet with an incredible sense
of irony and sound. All the elements that you quote as downgrading the
work are reasons it works so brilliantly at capturing the pathos of a
sixteen year old who would later become a great poet.


MY RESPONSE TO JIM: Hmmm. First of all, Carroll was 12 when he started
writing *The Basketball Diaries*, and the book ends when he is 15.
Second, he was already a poet by the time he was 15; he published his
first book of poetry, *Organic Trains*, when he was 17, maybe 16 1/2.
Third, it's interesting that you mention Henry Miller, since Miller was
very influential in Carroll's decision to do rock music (see just about
any interview from the early-to-mid-eighties). Fourth, I am very
surprised that you name *Dry Dreams* as a masterpiece . . . I like it too,
but I think you are probably the first and only person in the world to
call it a masterpiece. (I don't mean to insult you--I really am
surprised! It got panned all over the place when it came out!) Anyway,
that's just the little stuff. More to the point, I want to restate my
point that the negativity Jay finds in *Basketball Diaries*, and which you
say captures the pathos of a budding young poet, simply isn't there.
"Pathos" is an especially inappropriate word to use in relation to the
*Diaries* and Carroll's music (though I might use it--cautiously--to
describe some of *Forced Entries*). Carroll refuses to *ever* let anyone
pity him. No matter how horribly he suffers, no matter what happens to
him, he always turns it into a victory. What does he do when his shorts
rip, exposing his ass to a gym full of people? He moons everyone. What
does he do when a basketball scout lures him home with the promise of a
Flyers uniform, then starts molesting him? He punches the bastard and
leaves the room as a hero. What does he do when his habit has reduced him
to hustling men in public toilets? He transforms the scene into a
personal victory over every authority figure who has ever cut him down.
And how about his music? Eleven of the 40 kids who graduated with him
from his Catholic grammar school died in Vietnam. Teddy fell from the
roof; Cathy OD'd on reds and wine; Bobby died of leukemia; G-berg and
Georgie died of hepatitus; Eddie got slit in the jugular vein; Bobby OD'd
on Drano . . . on and on. "People Who Died" lists 13 of his friends who
died. Does this song create "pathos," though? No. Carroll celebrates
the fact that HE SURVIVED. Another good example is his recent poem "8
Fragments for Kurt Cobain." Most of the time when people talk about
Cobain, they romanticize him, make him the "hero of his generation," or
bemoan the loss of such a bright star. Carroll, on the other hand,
itemizes the parallels between his experience and Cobain's, saying he
understands what Cobain felt. But again, no pathos. He writes in the
seventh fragment, "But Kurt . . . / Didn't the thought that you would
never write / another song / Another feverish line or riff / Make you
think twice? / That's what I don't understand / Because it's kept me
alive, above any wounds."

I hope my point is well taken. I'm thrilled to see people talking about
Carroll and trying to make sense of his life and work. Yet when anyone
tries to paint him as a nihilist or producer of "pathos," I've got to
jump in. Part of the problem is that, biographically, Carroll perfectly
fits the stereotype of the tortured, decadent young artist . . . but as
an artist, he has spent his life transcending that stereotype. I think
that transcendence is what he should be recognized for.

Okay, I'll shut up now.

***@aol.com

Good stuff, found and reposted.
Will
Will Dockery
2004-07-12 05:13:23 UTC
Permalink
Right on target. Poetry is of the people, for the people. Thanks
for
the interesting comments.
Good grief. Are you still here, you boring drug addict?
Oh yes, I'm here, and intend to stay. So who are you?
Will
Tom Bishop
2004-07-12 15:09:38 UTC
Permalink
Post by Will Dockery
Right on target. Poetry is of the people, for the people. Thanks
for
the interesting comments.
Good grief. Are you still here, you boring drug addict?
Oh yes, I'm here, and intend to stay. So who are you?
Will
He is a plonkupine.

Careful of the quills.
Will Dockery
2004-07-20 14:18:03 UTC
Permalink
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
Right on target. Poetry is of the people, for the people. Thanks
for
Post by Will Dockery
the interesting comments.
Good grief. Are you still here, you boring drug addict?
Oh yes, I'm here, and intend to stay. So who are you?
Will
He is a plonkupine.
Careful of the quills.
Did you see the film "Quills" from a couple of years back?

There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then
Into its body, its soft skin

--Jim Carroll, "Poem"

http://www.catholicboy.com/catholicboy.com-asp//index.asp

I Shot a Deer
By Jim Carroll
Gentlemen's Quarterly (pp. 113-14)
January 2002

In its January 2002 issue (with Hugh Jackman on the cover), GQ ran a
feature titled "My First Time," explaining, "Before every big
discovery, there's a journey into virgin territory. We asked five
great writers for five great coming-of-age stories." The five writers
are Mark Richard, Jim Carroll, Rick Bass, Padget Powell, and Richard
Ford. This was Carroll's first article for GQ, by the way. -- Cassie

My girlfriend and I were spending the weekend at her house, on a back
road in Connecticut, asleep in an upstairs room. It was about 6 A.M.,
just barely light and misty, when we heard the sound: a high-pitched,
aberrant whining. We woke simultaneously; I leaped up and ran to the
window, wiping my eyes clear. "What is it?" Judith asked in a
grogged-out frenzy. "It's freaking me." She buried her head under the
pillow and pressed her hand down to muffle the noise.

All I could see from the window was two deer in the front yard, and in
this town deer had become a common sight. One dawn a reporter from the
local newspaper had counted more than a hundred grazing on the
football field at the high school. "There are a couple deer out front
is all," I reassured her, "but I can't see where the sound's coming
from. I'm going to check it out." I pulled on a pair of jeans and
headed down the stairs.

As I opened the door onto the porch, the two deer -- a large doe and
her yearling -- scrambled off with a peculiar hesitancy. They'd been
standing near the gate of the light green picket fence that enclosed
the yard. Now I could see what was causing the hideous sound, and it
was dreadful.

There was a third, smaller deer impaled on the fence. Apparently, the
mother and a sibling had jumped the fence, easily clearing its
four-foot height. The smallest tried and failed. It must have taken
off too soon. I mean, its landing drove the splintered thin pickets
right through its belly and out the brown-and-white fur of its back.
Since its mouth wasn't moving, the hideous cry appeared to come from
the wound itself. It was repugnant, sad in a way that confounds not
just your mind and heart but also your body. You don't even know which
direction to move your head, up, down, or sideways. They all seemed
wrong.

Judith was now beside me on the porch; she grabbed my hand and, tears
flying horizontally off her face, led us toward the poor beast. It
made a low, glottal sound, like the bleating of a sheep. Judith held
its chin in one hand and caressed its head with the other. Realizing
how bizarre this was, she pulled away. "My gun," she muttered, "we
have to get my gun."

I ran into the house and found the pistol, a nine-millimeter
semiautomatic, inside a shoebox on the bedroom-closet shelf. The piece
felt too light in my hand, and checking the handle, I realized the
clip was missing. No clip meant no bullets. I turned the shoebox over,
sweating with adrenaline and frustration. Judith entered the room.
"Where's the clip?" I implored, waving the gun.

"What's the clippy part?" she answered.

"It's the part with the bullets, babe. . . . Why in God's name do you
have a gun, anyway?"

She stood there helpless, her palms and eyes upturned. I ran my arm
across the shelves of the closet, then began yanking open dresser
drawers. No clip anywhere. I checked the gun once more with a
long-shot notion: There was one round left inside the chamber. OK, I
thought, I have one bullet. I bolted down the stairs, hoping the
pistol wasn't going to misfire on me.

Judith waited on the porch as I hurried over to the fence. The blood
had streamed so heavily in all directions that the pickets were bright
red. I crouched before the fawn's twisted, stooped head; its breathing
was heavier now, labored, desperate. As I raised the gun, its eyes
locked with mine. Doe eyes: There was still a wet elegance in them, at
once a rueful defiance and a desperate need for life. I saw my own
reflection as well, and was startled for a moment with what I thought
was a glimpse of the mother doe directly behind me. It looked so real
that I braced myself for the weight of her hooves on my back. Turning,
I saw only Judith, shivering with folded arms. I poked the muzzle
against the short stiff hairs above the fawn's ear and, recalling
Judith's gesture, put my other hand on its chin. So I was touching it
gently as I pulled the trigger, and the weight of its head collapsed
into my palm. I had killed my first deer.

Copyright © 2002 Gentlemen's Quarterly.
Tom Bishop
2004-07-20 15:48:50 UTC
Permalink
Post by Will Dockery
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
Right on target. Poetry is of the people, for the people. Thanks
for
Post by Will Dockery
the interesting comments.
Good grief. Are you still here, you boring drug addict?
Oh yes, I'm here, and intend to stay. So who are you?
Will
He is a plonkupine.
Careful of the quills.
Did you see the film "Quills" from a couple of years back?
No. I'll look for it.
Post by Will Dockery
There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then
Into its body, its soft skin
--Jim Carroll, "Poem"
http://www.catholicboy.com/catholicboy.com-asp//index.asp
I Shot a Deer
By Jim Carroll
Gentlemen's Quarterly (pp. 113-14)
January 2002
In its January 2002 issue (with Hugh Jackman on the cover), GQ ran a
feature titled "My First Time," explaining, "Before every big
discovery, there's a journey into virgin territory. We asked five
great writers for five great coming-of-age stories." The five writers
are Mark Richard, Jim Carroll, Rick Bass, Padget Powell, and Richard
Ford. This was Carroll's first article for GQ, by the way. -- Cassie
My girlfriend and I were spending the weekend at her house, on a back
road in Connecticut, asleep in an upstairs room. It was about 6 A.M.,
just barely light and misty, when we heard the sound: a high-pitched,
aberrant whining. We woke simultaneously; I leaped up and ran to the
window, wiping my eyes clear. "What is it?" Judith asked in a
grogged-out frenzy. "It's freaking me." She buried her head under the
pillow and pressed her hand down to muffle the noise.
All I could see from the window was two deer in the front yard, and in
this town deer had become a common sight. One dawn a reporter from the
local newspaper had counted more than a hundred grazing on the
football field at the high school. "There are a couple deer out front
is all," I reassured her, "but I can't see where the sound's coming
from. I'm going to check it out." I pulled on a pair of jeans and
headed down the stairs.
As I opened the door onto the porch, the two deer -- a large doe and
her yearling -- scrambled off with a peculiar hesitancy. They'd been
standing near the gate of the light green picket fence that enclosed
the yard. Now I could see what was causing the hideous sound, and it
was dreadful.
There was a third, smaller deer impaled on the fence. Apparently, the
mother and a sibling had jumped the fence, easily clearing its
four-foot height. The smallest tried and failed. It must have taken
off too soon. I mean, its landing drove the splintered thin pickets
right through its belly and out the brown-and-white fur of its back.
Since its mouth wasn't moving, the hideous cry appeared to come from
the wound itself. It was repugnant, sad in a way that confounds not
just your mind and heart but also your body. You don't even know which
direction to move your head, up, down, or sideways. They all seemed
wrong.
Judith was now beside me on the porch; she grabbed my hand and, tears
flying horizontally off her face, led us toward the poor beast. It
made a low, glottal sound, like the bleating of a sheep. Judith held
its chin in one hand and caressed its head with the other. Realizing
how bizarre this was, she pulled away. "My gun," she muttered, "we
have to get my gun."
I ran into the house and found the pistol, a nine-millimeter
semiautomatic, inside a shoebox on the bedroom-closet shelf. The piece
felt too light in my hand, and checking the handle, I realized the
clip was missing. No clip meant no bullets. I turned the shoebox over,
sweating with adrenaline and frustration. Judith entered the room.
"Where's the clip?" I implored, waving the gun.
"What's the clippy part?" she answered.
"It's the part with the bullets, babe. . . . Why in God's name do you
have a gun, anyway?"
She stood there helpless, her palms and eyes upturned. I ran my arm
across the shelves of the closet, then began yanking open dresser
drawers. No clip anywhere. I checked the gun once more with a
long-shot notion: There was one round left inside the chamber. OK, I
thought, I have one bullet. I bolted down the stairs, hoping the
pistol wasn't going to misfire on me.
Judith waited on the porch as I hurried over to the fence. The blood
had streamed so heavily in all directions that the pickets were bright
red. I crouched before the fawn's twisted, stooped head; its breathing
was heavier now, labored, desperate. As I raised the gun, its eyes
locked with mine. Doe eyes: There was still a wet elegance in them, at
once a rueful defiance and a desperate need for life. I saw my own
reflection as well, and was startled for a moment with what I thought
was a glimpse of the mother doe directly behind me. It looked so real
that I braced myself for the weight of her hooves on my back. Turning,
I saw only Judith, shivering with folded arms. I poked the muzzle
against the short stiff hairs above the fawn's ear and, recalling
Judith's gesture, put my other hand on its chin. So I was touching it
gently as I pulled the trigger, and the weight of its head collapsed
into my palm. I had killed my first deer.
Copyright © 2002 Gentlemen's Quarterly.
Will Dockery
2004-07-20 15:59:16 UTC
Permalink
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
Right on target. Poetry is of the people, for the people.
Thanks
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
Post by Tom Bishop
for
Post by Will Dockery
the interesting comments.
Good grief. Are you still here, you boring drug addict?
Oh yes, I'm here, and intend to stay. So who are you?
Will
He is a plonkupine.
Careful of the quills.
Did you see the film "Quills" from a couple of years back?
No. I'll look for it.
REVIEW: Quills (Mainstream bio-pic of Marquis de Sade)

From: "AJB" <***@hxomx.cxom>

Today I went to an artsy cinema in downtown Toronto to watch "Quills"
starring:

Geoffrey Rush (of Oscar winning fame in "Shine") as de Sade,
Kate Winslet (of "Titanic" fame) as chambermaid / linen cleaner
Madeline
the ubiquitous Michael Caine ("Blame it on Rio") as the evil Dr.
Collard
Joachim Phoenix (???) as Abbey Congagne.

The film starts with an erotic yet horrifying scene. A noble class
woman
appears to be in the throes of erotic excitement as a man's thick,
coarse
hands slowly wrap around her neck. A narrator tells us that she is an
upper
class sauce-box into pain and erotic kink thrills. I imagined we'd see
her
doing some bondage with de Sade. But then the camera angle widens and
we see
that the man behind her is an executioner wearing a mask and that she
is on
a platform about to be guillotined. Her seeming erotic rapture suddenly
disintegrates into fright, loathing and mourning. A callous crowd of
peasants eagerly await her head getting chopped off. She struggles at
first
but is bound and forced to kneel down with her neck on the chopping
block.
She see, in a basket below, a dozen purple decapitated heads. She looks
up
at the blade and thick blood drools down on her cheek. Finally the
blade
falls and the screen is awash in crimson. A really great opening scene
wherein my anticipation of submissive carnality is transformed into a
scene
of submission to horror.

The movie jumps forward many years. The Marquis de Sade is an elderly
nobleman of infamy whom, we are told, raped and murdered young girls
many
decades earlier. He now lives in an insane asylum. However, his room is
quite comfy with carpeting, a couch, a library, bottles of wine... not
a bad
little apartment. He spends all his time writing nasty stories and
novellas
of extreme sexual acts mixed with violence and contempt for the rules
of
polite society. The kind humanitarian priest who runs the insane asylum
is
Abbey Congagne -- and he allows de Sade the paper, ink and quills to
write
the smut because it allows de Sade to "vent his madness". Little does
the
priest know de Sade is using chambermaid Madeline to smuggle out his
manuscripts to get published in Paris. At one point, de Sade coaxes
Madeline
into giving him a kiss for every page of his latest
master(bation)piece. He
takes advantage of his contact with her to jam his tongue down her
throat
and bounces her on his lap. She resists but is ultimately saved by the
appearance of the Abbey who disapproves of the lechery.

We see that his latest manuscript is "Justine", which would go on to be
an
underground classic of Western Literature (if that is not an oxymoron).
It
is published and evokes outrage. Napolean himself orders the book burnt
and
de Sade shot. Advisors convince Napolean to send a "alienist" (a
proto-psychologist) to cure de Sade. That alienist is Dr. Collard,
played by
Michael Caine. Having to watch Caine in his millionth movie role is
enough
to make me go nutzoid but that's another matter.

The lunatics in the asylum as well as the in-keepers / support staff
are
into kinky stuff. Madeline reads the S&M stories to her assembled male
and
female friends... one guy pal is groping the boobs of one female
listener
(Elizabeth?) while she fingers herself through her clothes. They're
getting
turned on by all the filthy talk. Kate Winslet seems to be really into
shocking one of the prudish girls in the crowd with de Sade's filthy
stories. Must have been like reading Penthouse Letters to your family
at the
Thanksgiving dinner table. BTW, Kate's wearing one of those push up
numbers
that props her knockers up high. So delicious. Later, we see horny
Elizabeth
in bed, sandwiched between two dudes who appear to be double
penetrating
her... but of course, this ain't X-rated so we'll never know. I mean,
what's
with that? Am I just spoiled by x-rated porn flicks? It just seems that
if
your film deals with kinky hot sex perverts, you gotta show some of the
true
nasty. But these mainstream film makers are so terrified of shocking
middle
class arts film viewers, they just don't take it all the way. They
censor
themselves like cowards and have all sorts of clever aesthetic /
philosophic
/ artistic justifications for their gutlessness. Anyway...

One of the lunatics in the asylum is the same dude who used to be the
chief
executioner. He keeps spying on Madeline through people holes and
jacking
off while he peeps. Of course the jacking off is just implied. During a
theatrical play in the asylum, he tries to rump rape her but she grabs
an
hot iron and scalds his face with it, thus making him back off. The
rape is
just as awful as rape truly is but there is an odd juxtaposition here:
while
the real rape is going on backstage, the actors on the stage are
showing a
parody of an old man (meant to parallel Dr. Collard) buggering his 16
year
old wife. This comparison of reality vs fiction is a theme throughout
the
movie. The moral conservatives keep saying that the erotic works of de
Sade
CAUSE sexual perversions and rape. But de Sade keeps saying,
essentially,
it's just fiction; it's incredible that people become aroused by what's
merely written on the page but their lusts and primal nature are
already
there with their free guiding their moral and/or sexual behaviour. The
fiction doesn't create the lust or primal nature, it simply reflects
it. In
this particular scene, de Sade's argument seems correct in that the
play is
not arousing -- if anything it is hilarious. The need for dominance and
power the crazed executioner has goes far deeper than any pornographic
"trigger effect".

Enough of the intellectual stuff... Kate Winslet's tits were great in
this
flick. Ever since she had children awhile back, her boobs have filled
out
marvellously. I was hoping for a lactation scene in this movie, but no
such
luck. HOWEVER: there's a great scene where (after Kate aka the
chambermaid
Madeline has died) that the kindly priest loses control and climbs on
top of
her dead, pale white corpse and starts some cold, cold lovin'. The
priest is
so good at love making, Madeline "wakes from the dead" and they go at
it.
The camera looks down on them as he stuffs it in to the corpse girl; a
prettier sight is not to be seen in this flick. But -- alas -- it was
all a
dream! The horny priest is simply losing his mind under the corrupting
influence of de Sade.

The one point in the film that was truly erotic and gave me a stiffy
was
involving the 16 year old wife of the evil Dr. Collard. She sparks an
affair
with a young interior decorator who has been hired by the good doctor.
I
don't know the name of the actress but she's a pretty black haired
sweetie.
How does she finally seduce the young guy? She pulls out a copy of the
extremely filthy novella Justine and shows it to the dude. He says,
"eventually, a young lady must turn her book learning to practical
experience". And she replies with a smile, "And I am looking for a
teacher".
A little later we see her head bobbing on front of his crotch, you see
his
"fuck face" as he cums, and then she stands up, licking her lips
(presumably
licking cum off her lips). Definite turn on, even if I didn't get to
see any
direct action.

A few closing comments... overall, this was a fairly good movie. It was
inspiring to see how a committed rebel / artist like de Sade would
never,
never give up. Despite all the torture, the censorship, the
deprivations,
the hatred of moralistic yet hypocritical elements of society --
despite all
of that, de Sade never gave up his honest vision of human nature and
his
need to express. By the end, his enemies cut out his tongue and strip
him
naked. What does he do? He continues to write by using his blood or
excrement as the writing media. This will to express thoughts freely no
matter what the repression is very powerful. On the other hand, I can't
help
but judge from what I know of de Sade's life before the period
portrayed in
this movie, that he was a sociopathic monster as well. At least by
today's
standards. But that's what it is all about: the relativity of
"standards" or
"ethics", the re-evaluation of all values. Confronting all the
Christian,
anti-female, slave mentality morals of our society is invigorating and
can
only strengthen a viewer of this film. So if de Sade was a monster,
that's
besides the point for me. What interests me is the fight within our
society,
timid power mongers vs. sensual free thinkers. The character of de Sade
and
his particular society and moment in history is a great illustration of
that
fight.

Still, I wish this flick had a bit more nudity and hard fucking. Only
mild
erotic content here and there. Oh well, can't always get what you want.

AJB
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
There will always be a poem
I will climb on top of it and come
In and out of time,
Cocking my head to the side slightly,
As I finish shaking, melting then
Into its body, its soft skin
--Jim Carroll, "Poem"
http://www.catholicboy.com/catholicboy.com-asp//index.asp
I Shot a Deer
By Jim Carroll
Gentlemen's Quarterly (pp. 113-14)
January 2002
In its January 2002 issue (with Hugh Jackman on the cover), GQ ran
a
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feature titled "My First Time," explaining, "Before every big
discovery, there's a journey into virgin territory. We asked five
great writers for five great coming-of-age stories." The five
writers
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are Mark Richard, Jim Carroll, Rick Bass, Padget Powell, and
Richard
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Ford. This was Carroll's first article for GQ, by the way. --
Cassie
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My girlfriend and I were spending the weekend at her house, on a
back
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road in Connecticut, asleep in an upstairs room. It was about 6
A.M.,
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just barely light and misty, when we heard the sound: a
high-pitched,
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aberrant whining. We woke simultaneously; I leaped up and ran to
the
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window, wiping my eyes clear. "What is it?" Judith asked in a
grogged-out frenzy. "It's freaking me." She buried her head under
the
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pillow and pressed her hand down to muffle the noise.
All I could see from the window was two deer in the front yard, and
in
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this town deer had become a common sight. One dawn a reporter from
the
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local newspaper had counted more than a hundred grazing on the
football field at the high school. "There are a couple deer out
front
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is all," I reassured her, "but I can't see where the sound's coming
from. I'm going to check it out." I pulled on a pair of jeans and
headed down the stairs.
As I opened the door onto the porch, the two deer -- a large doe
and
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her yearling -- scrambled off with a peculiar hesitancy. They'd
been
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standing near the gate of the light green picket fence that
enclosed
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the yard. Now I could see what was causing the hideous sound, and
it
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was dreadful.
There was a third, smaller deer impaled on the fence. Apparently,
the
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mother and a sibling had jumped the fence, easily clearing its
four-foot height. The smallest tried and failed. It must have taken
off too soon. I mean, its landing drove the splintered thin pickets
right through its belly and out the brown-and-white fur of its
back.
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Since its mouth wasn't moving, the hideous cry appeared to come
from
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the wound itself. It was repugnant, sad in a way that confounds not
just your mind and heart but also your body. You don't even know
which
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direction to move your head, up, down, or sideways. They all seemed
wrong.
Judith was now beside me on the porch; she grabbed my hand and,
tears
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flying horizontally off her face, led us toward the poor beast. It
made a low, glottal sound, like the bleating of a sheep. Judith
held
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its chin in one hand and caressed its head with the other.
Realizing
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how bizarre this was, she pulled away. "My gun," she muttered, "we
have to get my gun."
I ran into the house and found the pistol, a nine-millimeter
semiautomatic, inside a shoebox on the bedroom-closet shelf. The
piece
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felt too light in my hand, and checking the handle, I realized the
clip was missing. No clip meant no bullets. I turned the shoebox
over,
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sweating with adrenaline and frustration. Judith entered the room.
"Where's the clip?" I implored, waving the gun.
"What's the clippy part?" she answered.
"It's the part with the bullets, babe. . . . Why in God's name do
you
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have a gun, anyway?"
She stood there helpless, her palms and eyes upturned. I ran my arm
across the shelves of the closet, then began yanking open dresser
drawers. No clip anywhere. I checked the gun once more with a
long-shot notion: There was one round left inside the chamber. OK,
I
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thought, I have one bullet. I bolted down the stairs, hoping the
pistol wasn't going to misfire on me.
Judith waited on the porch as I hurried over to the fence. The
blood
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had streamed so heavily in all directions that the pickets were
bright
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red. I crouched before the fawn's twisted, stooped head; its
breathing
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was heavier now, labored, desperate. As I raised the gun, its eyes
locked with mine. Doe eyes: There was still a wet elegance in them,
at
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once a rueful defiance and a desperate need for life. I saw my own
reflection as well, and was startled for a moment with what I
thought
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was a glimpse of the mother doe directly behind me. It looked so
real
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that I braced myself for the weight of her hooves on my back.
Turning,
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I saw only Judith, shivering with folded arms. I poked the muzzle
against the short stiff hairs above the fawn's ear and, recalling
Judith's gesture, put my other hand on its chin. So I was touching
it
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gently as I pulled the trigger, and the weight of its head
collapsed
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into my palm. I had killed my first deer.
Copyright © 2002 Gentlemen's Quarterly.
Tom Bishop
2004-07-21 08:26:19 UTC
Permalink
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
Post by Tom Bishop
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Right on target. Poetry is of the people, for the people.
Thanks
Post by Tom Bishop
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for
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the interesting comments.
Good grief. Are you still here, you boring drug addict?
Oh yes, I'm here, and intend to stay. So who are you?
Will
He is a plonkupine.
Careful of the quills.
Did you see the film "Quills" from a couple of years back?
No. I'll look for it.
REVIEW: Quills (Mainstream bio-pic of Marquis de Sade)



Thx
Will Dockery
2004-07-23 02:22:49 UTC
Permalink
Post by Tom Bishop
Post by Will Dockery
Post by Tom Bishop
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Right on target. Poetry is of the people, for the people.
Thanks
for
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Post by Will Dockery
Post by Tom Bishop
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the interesting comments.
Good grief. Are you still here, you boring drug addict?
Oh yes, I'm here, and intend to stay. So who are you?
Will
He is a plonkupine.
Careful of the quills.
Did you see the film "Quills" from a couple of years back?
No. I'll look for it.
REVIEW: Quills (Mainstream bio-pic of Marquis de Sade)
Thx
Are you really leaving Usenet, Tom? Not that I blame you, but I see no
reason for you to go.

Art, music, poetry of Will Dockery:
http://www.lulu.com/dockery
Will-Dockery
2024-07-17 11:15:20 UTC
Permalink
Post by Will Dockery
For some reason I don't have access to alt.books.beatgeneration.
However, here's what I sent to the two guys who posted abou
Carroll.
Post by Will Dockery
You can post it on the newsgroup if you want. (If you do, pleas
insert
Post by Will Dockery
a note that replies should be sent via e-mail.) Also, will yo
send me
Post by Will Dockery
further developments on the topic
Cassie Carter |-------------------------------------
English Department | here . . . I'm extending my wrist
Bowling Green State University | to you . . . feel the pulse.
Bowling Green, OH 43403 | Feel it. --Jim Carroll
---------- Forwarded message ---------
Newsgroups: alt.books.beatgeneratio
Subject: The Basketball Diarie
Date: Wed, 03 Jan 1996 04:27:05 GM
Can anyone help me with information or appreciation, criticisma
etc. o
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Ji
Carroll's The Basketball Diaries? I don't know if it can be calle
a bea
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work but the narrator is certainly contemptuous of socia
conventions,
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al
kinds of sentiment and idealism, and what could be classified a
"sensible
protection from disease and violence. Although the book is funn
i
Post by Will Dockery
places
I've rarely read anything more devoid of faith in the future o
hope tha
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there is such a thing as meaningful human contact or mutua
concern. Wha
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other works of fiction or autobiography is thi
work compared to? Is Carroll's later work of similar bleakness
MY RESPONSE TO JAY
First of all, I have published two articles on Carroll that may b
of use
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to you. These are
Kuennen, Cassie Carter. "Jim Carroll: An Annotated, Selective
Primary
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and Secondary Bibliography, 1967-1988." *Bulletin o
Bibliography* 47.2
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(1990): 81-112
I will be happy to send you an updated version if you ar
interested
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Carter, Cassie. "The Sickness That Takes Years to Perfect
Jim Carroll's
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Alchemical Vision." *Dionysos: Literature and Addictio
Triquarterly*
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(forthcoming in the next issue)
There are also about 20 Web pages dealing with Carroll. I wil
send you
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a list if you are interested. (I'm hoping to have a Carroll hom
page up
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and running in the near future, but until then . . .
Secondly, I agree with your characterization of Carroll a
"contemptuou
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of social conventions, all kinds of sentiment and idealism, an
what coul
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be classified as "sensible" protection from disease an
violence." I hav
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always thought of this in terms of his "punk" code o
ethics. I mean
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look at the world he is growing up in. (Remember, *Basketbal
Diaries* i
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his actual diary; this stuff really happened.) He has to be toug
just t
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survive, and he has to be "punk" to transcend the cra
his world i
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constantly throwing at him. Two entries are especially importan
i
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explaining Carroll's punk code: the "leap into the Harle
River" entr
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(47-50) and the "presence" entry (89-90). He has to b
able to endur
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physical and emotional pain without even a wince; he's got to jum
int
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the river and risk being hit by a "sh*t line" to prov
that he is worth
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of existence (think of the Harlem River as a metaphor for the worl
.
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..); and he's got to do it all with the grace of a cheetah, makin
it al
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seem effortless--otherwise, he risks just making a fool of himsel
(like
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chimp).
As for Carroll's connection to the Beats, that's a complex issue.
He
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claims he never read *On the Road* until after he finished th
*Diaries*,
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but he indicates in the *Diaries* that he was reading Ginsberg an
Burroughs. After the *Diaries*, though, he became close friend
with
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Ginsberg and he knows most of the Beats personally. Kerouac eve
wrote a
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blurb for the *Diaries*. Carroll does not consider himself a
Beat writer, but he thinks of himself as a poet, and his poetry
isn't Beat. I say his diaries and lyrics are Beat-Punk
You also asked what works *Basketball Diaries* can be compared to.
Well
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.. . . the ones that usually come up are *Catcher in the Rye* and
*Adventures of Huckleberry Finn*. I agree that it is very much a
growing
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up story. What's unique about it is that it's an actual diary, not
a
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fiction, and Carroll wrote it as things happened, not in
retrospect.
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And, of course, the content itself is pretty unique. Most people
who
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read it can't believe that such things could happen in a real life.
It's
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a real eye-opener, isn't it?
That brings me to your question, "Is Carroll's later work of
similar
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bleakness?" This begs the question, "Is *Basketball
Diaries* bleak?" to
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which the answer is No!!! There are bleak *moments* in all of
Carroll's
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works. In *Forced Entries*, as in *Basketball Diaries*, Carroll
lands in
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the bottom of the pit, crawls out, falls back in, crawls out again
. . .
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Just like in the song "City Drops Into the Night,"
though, there is
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always a moment of light to redeem the darkness. That, I think, is
the most important (and most often missed) aspect of Carroll's
work.
Post by Will Dockery
I strongly disagree with this statement: "I've rarely read
anything more
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devoid of faith in the future or hope that there is such a thing
as
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meaningful human contact or mutual concern." Jim Carroll is
one of the
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most optimistic writers I have ever had the pleasure to read. In
*The
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Basketball Diaries*, it is Carroll's faith in the future and his
hope for
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meaningful human contact that keeps him alive! He writes,
repeatedly, "I
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just want to be pure." He wants the Bomb to hold off just one
more day so
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he can play in a big game, so he can go to camp, so he can find out
"if
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I'm the writer I know I can be" (150-51). He dreams about a
lame girl and
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knows "there was an incredible love somewhere in my world . .
." (177).
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(Listen to "I Want the Angel" for more on this idealism!)
He gets tossed
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into Rikers and thinks "about what a nice concept it is having
a
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'godmother' and 'godfather.'" He masturbates on his rooftop
to experience
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a pure communion with his body and the universe. He takes LSD,
smokes
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pot, shoots heroin in his search for beauty in an ugly world
(notice how
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beautiful and poetic his descriptions of hallucinations and nods
are). Of
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course, just about everything he tries in his search for beauty and
love
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backfires on him, but the fact is that it is his optimism, his
search for
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purity and beauty that keeps him going. Jim Carroll is no
nihilist!
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---------------------------------------------------
From: jim harris <jharris>
Newsgroups: alt.books.beatgeneration
Subject: Re: The Basketball Diaries
Date: 3 Jan 1996 19:54:01 GMT
Come on, the guy was only sixteen when he wrote it. It is
fundamentally
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comparable to the abject realism found in Zola or Henry Miller-To
get a
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real grasp of Jim Carrol as a beat is through his punk rock albums
in the
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early eighties I write your name, Catholic Boy and the absolute
masterpiece DRY DREAMS. He is a brilliant poet with an incredible
sense
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of irony and sound. All the elements that you quote as downgrading
the
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work are reasons it works so brilliantly at capturing the pathos of
a
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sixteen year old who would later become a great poet.
MY RESPONSE TO JIM: Hmmm. First of all, Carroll was 12 when he
started
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writing *The Basketball Diaries*, and the book ends when he is 15.
Second, he was already a poet by the time he was 15; he published
his
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first book of poetry, *Organic Trains*, when he was 17, maybe 16
1/2.
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Third, it's interesting that you mention Henry Miller, since Miller
was
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very influential in Carroll's decision to do rock music (see just
about
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any interview from the early-to-mid-eighties). Fourth, I am very
surprised that you name *Dry Dreams* as a masterpiece . . . I like
it too,
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but I think you are probably the first and only person in the world
to
Post by Will Dockery
call it a masterpiece. (I don't mean to insult you--I really am
surprised! It got panned all over the place when it came out!)
Anyway,
Post by Will Dockery
that's just the little stuff. More to the point, I want to restate
my
Post by Will Dockery
point that the negativity Jay finds in *Basketball Diaries*, and
which you
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say captures the pathos of a budding young poet, simply isn't
there.
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"Pathos" is an especially inappropriate word to use in
relation to the
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*Diaries* and Carroll's music (though I might use
it--cautiously--to
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describe some of *Forced Entries*). Carroll refuses to *ever* let
anyone
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pity him. No matter how horribly he suffers, no matter what
happens to
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him, he always turns it into a victory. What does he do when his
shorts
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rip, exposing his ass to a gym full of people? He moons everyone.
What
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does he do when a basketball scout lures him home with the promise
of a
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Flyers uniform, then starts molesting him? He punches the bastard
and
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leaves the room as a hero. What does he do when his habit has
reduced him
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to hustling men in public toilets? He transforms the scene into a
personal victory over every authority figure who has ever cut him
down.
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And how about his music? Eleven of the 40 kids who graduated with
him
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from his Catholic grammar school died in Vietnam. Teddy fell from
the
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roof; Cathy OD'd on reds and wine; Bobby died of leukemia; G-berg
and
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Georgie died of hepatitus; Eddie got slit in the jugular vein;
Bobby OD'd
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on Drano . . . on and on. "People Who Died" lists 13 of
his friends who
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died. Does this song create "pathos," though? No.
Carroll celebrates
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the fact that HE SURVIVED. Another good example is his recent poem
"8
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Fragments for Kurt Cobain." Most of the time when people talk
about
Post by Will Dockery
Cobain, they romanticize him, make him the "hero of his
generation," or
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bemoan the loss of such a bright star. Carroll, on the other
hand,
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itemizes the parallels between his experience and Cobain's, saying
he
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understands what Cobain felt. But again, no pathos. He writes in
the
Post by Will Dockery
seventh fragment, "But Kurt . . . / Didn't the thought that
you would
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never write / another song / Another feverish line or riff / Make
you
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think twice? / That's what I don't understand / Because it's kept
me
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alive, above any wounds."
I hope my point is well taken. I'm thrilled to see people talking
about
Post by Will Dockery
Carroll and trying to make sense of his life and work. Yet when
anyone
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tries to paint him as a nihilist or producer of "pathos,"
I've got to
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jump in. Part of the problem is that, biographically, Carroll
perfectly
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fits the stereotype of the tortured, decadent young artist . . .
but as
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an artist, he has spent his life transcending that stereotype. I
think
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that transcendence is what he should be recognized for.
Okay, I'll shut up now.
Good stuff, found and reposted.
Will
From the archives, the late Jim Carroll.


This is a response to the post seen at:
http://www.jlaforums.com/viewtopic.php?p=658208209#658208209
W.Dockery
2024-07-19 06:44:04 UTC
Permalink
This thread reminded me...

Dancehall part two:

People Who Have Died / Jim Carroll


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