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Having returned from the Palmer River Riding Club, where Hawkes takes lessons, we had a couple of hours before dinner to sit down and to be honest get the interview out of the way. Maybe it was the muscadet—an entire bottle of which we consumed—but the conversation seemed to us exceptional. The batteries failed twenty minutes into the interview.
Persistent if depressed, we used the half hour before the dinner guests—Robert and Pilar Coover, Mary Caponegro and Sheffield Van Buren—were to arrive, to try to recover some of the best materials from the Lost Conversation. It was useless.
Coover brought fresh batteries and Albert Pic chablis, or Mercurie, and somehow during dinner collaborative spirit seized everyone while Jack flew off into an inspired monologue about how he wanted to be—yes—a swamp. I would like to apologize in public and on record to all present at that dinner for having shown such bad manners; the results are transcribed here. The next morning, Hawkes and I did sit down to attempt a more formal interview. That conversation is also here.
The dog followed them everywhere. But for Michael the dog is an image of obscenity He knows that it means dwarf. Through the thick green lens of the night I see only the brightest light. Not women. Although I see both. That film is set in the eighteenth century and involves a wife and her daughter who murder the husband-father and a draughtsman who makes drawings of the house they live in.
