Tuesday, April 07, 2009
The Black Christ has come
Why write a complete novel? Jorge Luis Borges asks. That would be too tedious, too much a labour." I only write the story, the reader assuming that a larger work already exists and I make allusions to it as if indeed it did exist."
So, being a Borg for Borges I write my own ficcione with the assumption that a larger work exists.
A child of war, he remembers himself and his family living in holes along the Rhine, where the bombers came every day and every night, along the river across which the Americans were laying their Bailey bridges, one dead soldier-engineer for every yard of boat-pontoon.There were still German soldiers wth their 88's up on the banks.
Abaove, were spectacular air battles the ME 262 jets firing cannon into the tails of B-17's from incredible distances, leaving holes in the American bombers big enough for a man to fall through. And the little ragdolls did, followed by wispy parachutes. The farmers hardly went out to pitchfork them any more. German soldiers stripping off their uniforms and walking around in their longjohns till some Bauer offered a shirt.
White flags on staves out of the pigeonholes in the Rhine banks, fashioned from the discardedd long johns. And sheets, tablecloths.We are civilians. We surrender. And now so many soldiers in alpine hats and lederhosen.
Also Sprach Zarathustra.
One Superman lay dead, only his long-johns and torn cape flapping from a pole.
At night, the Americans could not see the white flags, of whatever the material, and howiitzer rounds would walk the escarpment occasionally hitting a granny and her bag of rice spilled all over the dead vinyard.
The denizens came out of thei holes for the rice, dodging the bullets.
The American tanks and trucks came across on the Bailey bridges one morning. Full of hapy singing negroes. Cigarettes, gum, Hershey Bars.
The black Christs had come.