Mr. Wilson (if indeed such a Jared come lately can even be called “mister”) has suggested that I am obsessed with bodily fluids. He alludes to an incident that once occurred at my Missolonghi pied-a-tierre regarding a woman with a tattoo of a dagger in a particularly sensitive anatomical region. Understand that I was not the one in the bedroom who embarassingly asked for a user’s manual, nor was I the one who propositioned the tattooed stranger at a watering hole located on the edge of the Gulf of Patras. If Wilson wants to evade the issue here (namely, the poor quality of his novels), rather than address my wholly legitimate concerns about his continued assaults on the written word, then it’s only fitting that he should throw the arc, as it were, upon bodily fluids, a pivotal element of Wilson’s unpardonable disgrace.
Allow me to quote you a stanza from Wilson’s abominable poem “She Stabbed Me in the Heart, She Kicked Me in the Ass” (inexplicably published in The Paris Review #121, where George Plimpton took momentary leave of his fine sensibilities):
In the shade of the glade, her boob had a blade
But the real brain bared was my own
If she stopped with her mouth, and her body swayed south
Then my nightstick might harden to stone
That such doggerel, with its childish rhyming scheme, its crude metaphors (“nightstick,” the “brain bared” ) and the preposterous allusion to the unnamed woman’s body swaying south, would hold any regard among today’s MFAs is yet another telling indicator that the apocalypse is upon us and that Jared Wilson is one of its chief instigators.
I know that my critics have taken me to task about the incident involving the tatooed B-girl (who spoke not a word of French!) and have assumed that my riff with Mr. Wilson stemmed from this unfortunate incident. Regardless of this calumny, my ultimate concern here is over Mr. Wilson’s skills as a novelist. I trust that this puts the matter at rest.
What if you threw a feud and nobody came?
And by “came,” of course I mean “arrived.”