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9780415317856_the_routledge_creative_writing_coursebook

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www.ATIBOOK.irDrama 171(Ibid: 69)and old Mr Wi<strong>the</strong>rs:VOICE ONE: Mo<strong>the</strong>r; mo<strong>the</strong>r; I’ve had <strong>the</strong> most unpleasant, <strong>the</strong> most mystifyingencounter; with <strong>the</strong> man who calls himself Mr Wi<strong>the</strong>rs. Will you give me your advice?Come in here, son, he called. Don’t mess about. I haven’t got all night I went in. A jug. Abasin. A bicycle.You know where you are? he said. You’re in my room. It’s not Euston Station. Get me?It’s a true oasis….My name’s Wi<strong>the</strong>rs. I’m here or <strong>the</strong>reabouts. Follow? Embargo on all duff terminology.With me? …You’re in a disease-ridden land, boxer Keep your weight on all <strong>the</strong> leftfeet you can lay your hands on. Keep dancing. The old foxtrot is <strong>the</strong> classicalresponse…. Up <strong>the</strong> slaves. Get me? This is a place of creatures, up and down stairs.Creatures of <strong>the</strong> rhythmic splits, <strong>the</strong> rhythmic sideswipes, <strong>the</strong> rums and roulettes, <strong>the</strong>macaroni tatters, <strong>the</strong> dumplings in jam mayonnaise, a catapulting ordure of gross andramshackle shenanagins, open-ended paraphernalia. … Mind how you go. Looksharp. Get my drift? Don’t let it get too mouldy. Watch <strong>the</strong> mould. Get <strong>the</strong> feel of it,sonny Get <strong>the</strong> density. Look at me.And I didVOICE TWO: I am ill.VOICE ONE: It was like looking into a pit of molten lava, mo<strong>the</strong>r One look was enoughfor me.(Ibid: 77–8)Any audience must surely think this bizarre. ‘Open-ended paraphernalia’, for sure. But isit open-ended? It is, but also anything but. The jumbled rubbish of old Mr Wi<strong>the</strong>rs’sspeech can be heard, and seen, as <strong>the</strong> old male chauvinist advice mechanism, springinginto action with any passing youth who gets in its way. The emblem of it is: ‘Look at me,and respect me’, <strong>the</strong> act of a substitute parent—a command <strong>the</strong> son can’t take at allseriously. To him, Mr Wi<strong>the</strong>rs is just ano<strong>the</strong>r old josser doing his stuff. The son’sresponse in telling this story is a shrug.But male advice revives again with <strong>the</strong> fa<strong>the</strong>r. He appears, <strong>the</strong> judge, admonitory. Hesits down between mo<strong>the</strong>r and son on <strong>the</strong> family settee. He speaks to each of <strong>the</strong>m withavenging playfulness, but his threat is serious; it has to be felt as such by <strong>the</strong>m and by <strong>the</strong>audience. Will <strong>the</strong> son’s response be ano<strong>the</strong>r shrug?VOICE THREE: I know your mo<strong>the</strong>r has written to you to tell you that I am dead. I amnot dead. I am very far from being dead, although lots of people have wished me dead,from time immemorial, you especially. It is you who have prayed for my death, fromtime immemorial. I have heard your prayers. They ring in my ears. Prayers yearningfor my death. But I am not dead.Well, that’s not entirely true, not entirely <strong>the</strong> case. I’m lying. I’m leading you up <strong>the</strong>garden path. I’m playing about. I’m having my bit of fun, that’s what. Because I amdead. As dead as a doornail. I’m <strong>writing</strong> to you from my grave. A quick word for oldtime’s sake. Just to keep in touch. An old hullo out of <strong>the</strong> dark A last kiss from Dad.

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