dog

I have always shook with fright before human beings. Unable as I was to feel the least particle of confidence in my ability to speak and act like a human being, I kept my solitary agonies locked in my breast. I kept my melancholy and my agitation hidden, careful lest any trace should be left exposed. I feigned an innocent optimism; I gradually perfected myself in the role of the farcical eccentric.

I thought, "As long as I can make them laugh, it doesn't matter how, I'll be all right. If I succeed in that, the human beings probably won't mind it too much if I remain outside their lives. The one thing I must avoid is becoming offensive in their eyes: I shall be nothing, the wind, the sky."

This excerpt comes from near the end of the book. It's my favorite passage of Schoolgirl.

Some of us, in our daily depressions and rages, were apt to stray, to become corrupted, irreparably so, and then our lives would be forever in disorder. There were even some who would resolve to kill themselves. And when that happened, everyone would say, Oh, if only she had lived a little longer she would have known, if she were a little more grown up she would have figured it out. How saddened they would all be. But if those people were to think about it from our perspective, and see how we had tried to endure despite how terribly painful it all was, and how we had even tried to listen carefully, as hard as we could, to what the world might have to say, they would see that, in the end, the same bland lessons were always being repeated over and over, you know, well, merely to appease us. And they would see how we always experienced the same embarrassment of being ignored. It's not as though we only care about the present. If you were to point to a faraway mountain and say, If you can make it there, it's a pretty good view, I'd see that there's not an ounce of untruth to what you tell us. But when you say, Well, bear with it just a little longer, if you can make it to the top of that mountain, you'll have done it, you are ignoring the fact that we are suffering from a terrible stomachache-right now. Surely one of you is mistaken to let us go on this way. You're the one who is to blame.

He began thinking of his former life and felt disgusted with him-self. He had been such an egoist, when he really had not needed any-thing. He kept looking around at the translucent foliage, the setting sun, and the clear sky, and felt as happy as he had that first moment. "Why am I happy, and what did I live for in the past?" he thought. "How I used to want everything for myself, how I schemed, all for nothing but shame and sorrow! But I see I don't need anything to be happy!" Suddenly it was as if a new world had opened. "This is what happiness is!" he said to himself. "Happiness is to live for others. How clear it is. The need for happiness is within every man-so happiness must be legitimate. One might try to attain happiness selfishly-in other words, seek riches, glory, luxury, and love-and yet circumstances might not allow one to attain these things. So these are the things that aren't legitimate, not the need for happiness. But what can always be attained, regardless of circumstances? Love and selflessness!"

He was filled with such joy and excitement at discovering this new truth that he jumped up, and in his impatience began wondering who he could sacrifice himself for, who he could do good to, who he could love. "As one needs nothing for oneself, why not live for others?" he thought.

"Bending, with a breaking heart, I touched the marble drapery with my lips, then crept back into the silent house."

"Nobody would believe what an effort it is to do what little I am able,—to dress and entertain, and order things."

"As I writhed under it, I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without the remedy. It opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder upon which to get out. In moments of agony, I envied my fellow-slaves for their stupidity. I have often wished myself a beast. I preferred the condition of the meanest reptile to my own. Any thing, no matter what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my condition that tormented me."

A bizarre, meandering collection of Dylanisms and vignettes. Sparse moments of cohesion and genius bind together an otherwise surreal and meaningless patchwork. Sometimes Tarantula is funny or insightful, sometimes it paints vivid portraits, but most of the book is stream-of-consciousness gobbledygook from a heavily drugged Dylan. Worth a read for fans of Dylan (me) and weirdo literature (also me!) Totally worthless for just about anyone else.

"that's right-a lot of people would feel guilty & close their eyes to such a happening-there are people that interrupt & interfere in other people's lives-only God can be everywhere at the same Time & Space-you are human-sad & silly as it may seem"

"I am trying to get at something

and I want to talk very plainly to you

so that we are both comforted by the honesty."

HOLD UP!! HIS WRITING IS THIS FIRE???

Hardly anyone listened to Salamano either, when he recalled how I had been good to his dog and when he answered a question about my mother and me by saying that I had run out of things to say to Maman and that was why I'd put her in a home. "You must understand," Salamano kept saying, "you must understand." But no one seemed to understand. He was ushered out.

"The only hope now, I felt, was the possibility that we’d gone to such excess, with our gig, that nobody in a position to bring the hammer down on us could possibly believe it."