Dead Writers in Rehab. Paul Bassett Davies

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Yes, a dickhead. God, to think I used to like your stuff. STC: But Mr Hemingway’s pugnacious posture is congruent with the attitudes expressed in his literary efforts, which you profess to so admire. EH: You want some too? FJ: Leave him alone, you moron! He’s not even insulting you! EH: You want to call me a moron? Put them up. Come on. Dr WH: Stop it! FJ: Fuck that Queensbury rules shit. Dr WH: No, I really must-- EH: Owww! Ahh, ahh, ahh – he kicked me in the balls! FJ: Damn right I did. Not a bad shot, was it, Paddy? PW: Look out! FJ: Wha— Ah! Ah. Ahhhhhh. DP: That was a low trick, Ernie! EH: At least I didn’t go for his balls! Your hero can still fuck you, unless he’s a queer like most of these Brits! PW: You shit, Hemingway, he wasn’t even looking! EH: You want some too? Come here! Dr WH: No, no, I can’t let you— EH: Let go of me you fucking quack! (Sounds of a general fracas, then Dr Bassett enters the room.) Dr EB: What is the meaning of this! Oh my God, Wallace, are you all right? PW: He’s fine, it’s Jim who got punched in the face! EH: He kicked me in the balls! Dr EB: Mr Hemingway, let go of Dr Hatchjaw! EH: If you look carefully, sister, you’ll find that he’s the one who’s holding on to me. Dr EB: Wallace, what are you doing? Dr WH: Preventing further violence. Dr EB: I see. Yes, very good. I believe you may release Mr Hemingway now. Dr WH: Mr Hemingway, I am merely attempting to prevent you, as clearly the most skilled pugilist present, from inflicting any further damage. May I release you without further danger to anyone? EH: Okay, Doc, it’s all over. Dr WH: Very well. EH: Thanks. Dr EB: Will you all please leave? No! One at a time. That’s better. We’ll look into this later when tempers have cooled. Foster, perhaps someone should look at that eye. FJ: It’s okay. PW: Don’t worry. I’ve seen him take a few punches. He’ll live. Dr EB: But perhaps you’ll take him to his room? PW: No problem. Come on, Jim. Dr WH: Ernest, I hope I didn’t— EH: No, no. But that’s quite a grip you have there, Doc. Do you use weights? Dr WH: Well, I— Dr EB: Mr Hemingway, will you kindly leave now? EH: Sure. We’ll talk about it later, Doc. Dr EB: You, too, Hunter. Dr WH: I think he’s still … Hunter? (Very loud) Mr Thompson! HST: (quietly) Back off, man. I’m awake.

      TRANSCRIPT ENDS.

      Patient FJ

       Recovery Diary 5 (let’s just say it’s 5 anyway, and stop splitting hairs)

      I was staring into the mirror and admiring the black eye that Ernest Hemingway gave me when I realised something very strange.

      Wait, I’ve got to do the bit about how I’m feeling first. In all the lively confusion as the therapy session broke up, Hatchjaw still managed to remind me about the discipline I have to follow in this diary: before writing anything else, express your feelings, reflect on your progress, etc. I still don’t like Hatchjaw but he can handle himself in a fight. God, that was fun. I’ve been to a few recovery meetings where fights have broken out – having started many of them myself – and it always restores my faith in human nature.

      Okay, how do I feel? I feel serene. It’s not just the usual calm that descends on me after a good fight, or the satisfaction of being punched in the face by a very good writer. It’s something else. The part of my brain that should be gibbering with terror as it tries to process what the fuck is going on here seems to have shut down. It reminds me of something that used to happen to me when I was about 12, in bed waiting to go to sleep. I would suddenly be overwhelmed with dread. My mind would try to jump out of itself, like a terrified horse tethered to a tree in a forest fire, as I apprehended the full enormity of the following information:

      Time is endless. The universe is infinite. I am going to die.

      I would try to imagine what it would feel like to be dead. Try to understand the endlessness of time and space, knowing I would never reach the limits of a limitless void. I would become more and more hor­rified by the inescapable facts of eternity, infinity and death, willing them not to be true, and despairing because I knew they couldn’t not be true. And then, slowly, a wonderful serenity would begin to spread like rich, warm syrup flowing through a system of pipes inside me. There is nothing I can do. Surrender.

      I began to associate all this with the idea of God. I became convinced that what I was experiencing, after the tempest of discombobulation, was ‘the peace which passeth all understanding’. After about a year I seemed to grow out of these attacks, although this cycle of feelings – terror followed by tranquillity – continued to recur in various circumstances, often involving the threat of violence or the promise of sex. And that’s what it feels like now. Whatever’s happening, there’s nothing I can do, so why worry? Once again, I am filled with that

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