Audio recording of "death of the author" by Trynne Delaney, March 9, 2019.
Poem Title
"death of the author."
Reader Name
Delaney, Trynne.
Event name
Flywheel Reading Series, March 9, 2019.
Venue
Pages Books on Kensington.
]]>https://omeka.ucalgary.ca/document/327Typescript draft of The Studhorse Man, page 340]]>Typescript from the third draft of Robert Kroetsch's 1969 novel The Studhorse Man.]]>2017-08-31T14:58:27+00:00
Title
Typescript draft of The Studhorse Man, page 340
Description
Typescript from the third draft of Robert Kroetsch's 1969 novel The Studhorse Man.
xx Martha and her consort (xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx) to exist, and that when a further opportunity arose for my humiliation. Martha bore a beautiful daughter (conceived in the icehouse, by my calculations; Martha, like one of her mares, chanced to be in full heat). I received a long and vacuous letter requesting that I, from the pinnacle of my fictional intentions, suggest a name for xxxxx the consequence of their unbridled lust. In choosing a name, I wrote back, xxx must try to suggest that human actions are governed by a profound and unselfish love. Yet xxx must acknowledge the terrors and the longings of each day's night. That same daughter, as a final insult to me, xxxxxxxxx was christened Demeter. D. Lepage, she calls herself, when she tries in vain to get permission to interrupt my endless bath. To that intruding girl's enduring embarrassment and inevitable infidelities I dedicate this portentous study.
[Holographic annotations]
340
s I must use the plural
one
one
Original Format
Typescript draft with holographic annotations
]]>https://omeka.ucalgary.ca/document/326Typescript draft of The Studhorse Man, page 339]]>Typescript from the third draft of Robert Kroetsch's 1969 novel The Studhorse Man.]]>2017-08-31T14:58:27+00:00
Title
Typescript draft of The Studhorse Man, page 339
Description
Typescript from the third draft of Robert Kroetsch's 1969 novel The Studhorse Man.
pussy. He became a meek fool of a faithful (if not legal) husband and a doting foot of a father; a victim of the illusion that he was comfortable and happy, he stumbled into death and left behind him a prospering widow who, seizing old age like a bone in her teeth (thanks to the horses that xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx preserved into the future), set about enjoying this man and that as the occasion arose, going beyond all decency, prolonging almost at will her infinite and physical pleasures, luring the poor devil young farmers with their mares into her nest of stallions . . . But I cannot, I dare not, bring myself to speak of the whims and perversities of women.
Only xxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx I acknowledged by
[Holographic annotations]
339
our _____ vacuities[?] future ___
^one time in all those years of my fidelity have I been
But to be pronounced insane one must demonstrably not know the nature and quality of one's act.
I know with immodest clarity that by my heroism and concern women were given a kind of immortality which no man can ever share. We die, we men--die we shall (e.g., poor Hazard on his 59th birthday was kicked into rags and pieces by Poseidon, the first xxxx colt born of Martha's five Arabs. He was trying to breed a mare in xxxxxxxxxxx)--die we must, but you women, refreshed and made whole, can lust and fornicate as feverishly as did Martha herself through seven years of being a common law wife and strumpet, growing younger by the year as she, one might almost say, murdered poor Hazard in his own seven beds with her precious
[Text transposed to p. 339]
pussy and then, as did the dear widow Martha also, seizing old age like a bone in her teeth (thanks to the horses that Hazard and I had preserved into the future), enjoying this man and that as the occasion arose, going beyond all decency, prolonging almost at will her infinite and physical pleasures, luring the poor devil young farmers with their mares into her nest of stallions . . . But I cannot, I dare not, bring
To survive. To exist. To make a living. As I say, Hazard had eleven dollars and the music of trotting hoofs to accompany him out of the city. The verb, to make, what an excellent ironic choice of verbs. Who of the people you know makes a living? You make payments, yes. You make a fast buck--or if you prefer the euphemism, an honest dollar. You make mistakes. You make fools of yourselves. You gang up and make war on each other. You conspire to make life miserable for all of us. But who is truly in a position to shape, to construct, to frame, to compose, to create, to produce a combination of parts, to form the essential being of (consul your dictionary if you will: AS. macian; ME. maken; akin to G. machen), to fashion his own life?
My dear reader, I am by profession mad. It is the only sane answer to prevailing circumstances. I live amply off my xxxx nasty rich relatives who are embarrassed that I so much as exist. Because of their hypocrisy and pride and shame I am able to live regally. Special treatment in this institution costs a pretty penny indeed. I eat better, I dress etter--when I choose to dress--than the wealthiest of