“…and with me sitting in front of this imperious secretary…. were a half dozen eager or worried future writers with their manuscripts all of whom gave me a positively dirty look when they heard my name as tho they were muttering to themselves ‘Kerouac? I can write ten times better than that beatnik maniac and I’ll prove it with this here manuscript called ‘Silence au Lips’ all about how Renard walks into the foyer lighting a cigarette and refuses to acknowledge the sad formless smile of the plotless Lesbian heroine whose father just died trying to rape an elk in the Battle of Cuckamonga, and Phillipe the intellectual enters in the next chapter lighting a cigarette with an existential leap across the blank page I leave next, all ending in a monologue encompassing etc., all this Kerouac can do is write stories, ugh’ –’and in such bad taste, not even one well-defined heroine in domino slacks crucifying chickens for her mother with the hammer and nails in a “Happening” in the kitchen’” –agh, all I feel like singing is Jimmy Lunceford’s old tune:
“It aint watcha do, It’s the way atcha do it!”‘
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