The Beginning Of An American Companion

American Authors In Exile — Morning Papers V

I just hope America isn’t only that: Reverence had only in Memory.

Aside from the alluring title — I do have substance behind the superficial representative of words; last night, or whatever time calculates to the setting of this Earthlybound sun, I was reading through the last remarks of Bell of No Country For Old Men — and with the recent death of Cormac himself, it befittingly touched me so, even welding this sense of despair at the current status of American Words; not only now, but since the last true golden age of American times, circa around the 19th Century.

One of such Grand ideas — Harsh realities, trying battles, and such brutal carnage, sought on the grounds of their forefathers and paid with the sanguine ties of Brother to Uncle — Father to Son; Enslaved to Enslaver — to the pure apathetic to the Cause. With such grand sons of Oratory and the Woven art of Ideas — Lincoln; Douglas; Emerson; Dickinson — how could I not reply to all of that, for time immemorial of all the Yesterdays to all the coming days of Today and Tomorrow — and tomorrow — and even, Tomorrow.

Out in Texas is the Novel set — not far from the Mexico-Americo Border. Of the gaslights, burning pious as they are bright; Even Monolithic as Mammon is fit, the landscapes beset into this gripping piece. Gripping in the sense of not bright hooks, but rather a compulsion between Faith — or rather, Conviction of all lines that intercross one another and the Faithlessness or, if you prefer the brooding, highly-hot blooded word of Nihilism — which, in fact, I don’t believe the Hunter: Chigurh — doesn’t truly represent, rather a new conviction over the beholden lots of the Old.

Tho’ of course, Chigurh is no young man, rather a man at the age when his final lots are decided for him — thinking of Lincoln, and the turning point it slowly became to be, but, perhaps I’m putting my own Faith much for the show there, by saying so.

Tho’ to use the word, Hunter, would inflict much stress and wrongdoing on my behalf — rather, the word or sobriquet applied befittingly would be: Confidence Man. Man as the Mammal as the transferring Animal goes — that is He. Confidence being in Conviction — but Confidence cannot be welded into being without some understanding of the loss of Control; all good Preachers would fear this, the losing of the crowd over the Conviction and Writ.

But this is all morning breath-induced thoughts — I must give him so much more of me and the wider surroundings; rather, it is a raw springboard for your own spitballing of thoughts and ideas.

Bell, is one of the most likable and accompanying characters I have witnessed and read! — He is a Man, tired, utterly to say in the sense of never finding such answers to his major questions; wishing that some informer would come and tell him perhaps, like his old Uncle Ed. He transposes so. [I’m getting into the stark and brutally short sentence style of writing as Cormac here — watch out!] He regrets. He lives on so. He contains himself to a memory of conviction perhaps rather than something being Purely Right over the Purely Wrong. Tho’ I’m spitballing here — as this is pure jetsam in the morning for me, over a night that contained so much!

Let me consider it — consider all this further, much further in greater scopes, and let us both contemplate upon that. What it is, to be or was it to be — An American Author. Perhaps these here Northern States of America are akin in maturity and nature as a desperate fourth child to show their worth and all that sudden education wasn’t in vain and perhaps to break through for Identity, that oh so sad, ill, and complex word: Identity. I and America of the United States variety have a long History — Ah! Goodness, can I recall all the wind-fed senses and sensations you have given me dear! — I tilt my head back in reverence to that memory; I just hope America isn’t only that: Reverence had only in Memory. I’m hoping also it won’t turn itself asunder again; such might, grace, and dignity it stood for — turning to pale and ale so to speak under the lines of Treacherous lines. But again, that is too stark and foolish to say here so briefly.

Await my American Discourses — and I, like Tocqueville and all the Outsiders to her, will tell her who she is and was and were to some — Like a Doctor, as I am the Doctor — and like Tocqueville, European in nature, Tho’, Mate, I’m primarily from up North! Await that a further day or two — or perhaps a year or two-thousandth more. And may you and I, enfold her further. The complexions of all founding are deeply betrayed and portrayed in all threads it has almost become impossible to deny whilst unthreading it all!

Ta-ta for now — Never before was such Libertry sown into the fabric of a country; never again will you have such first impressions of it.

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