1. in an otherwise indifferent and infinitely expansive ocean. He was right to throw out the poets—He was wrong to have stayed in the empire reading Tolstoy or Joyce, etc., etc., etc…]
2. Demagogue hated libraries. Sickened by silence, he wobbled to his feet belching yeast and sweating misogyny. “Nothing will change until every one of you sonofabitches—and I mean every one of you—burns these goddamn artifacts! Torch em! Tear em up! Change is not change, because it is nothing else, and is therefore nothing in itself!” he said. D, opium-sick, mumbled “you’re talking nonsense again. (3.) And furthermore, even if you had a ticket, the plane doesn’t have an engine and has no destination, not even a runway or an ALTITUDE TO FLY AT—NEVER MIND THE PILOT.” [pause]
4. “Medieval cartographers had the uniquely honest prospect of defining the edges of a flat world” D droned on, his noticeable hangover doing erotic justice to the affect of his words.
5. H (raped/killed) the Demagogue’s wife. It wasn’t an act of violence. It was an act of detachment. It was action through inaction. Static penetration; the meaningless comedy of blood-streaked bedding. He recited his favorite Demagogue speech; slapping, thrusting, fading.
6. D was in the parlour while it happened, loading his gun to fulfill the paradigm assigned by cable television portraits of brimmed hat blackness. “She had it coming,” he professed while Demagogue’s Ford pulled into the driveway with the rolling crunch of impending events unnamed.
7. [If H was right, we could have no true access to meaning. We exchange generalities, we fuck, we sleep, eat, piss, shit, and die. And there is no particular order. Life is one extended piss
8. The Demagogue wheezes through phases, consulting his pocketwatch for pressure and his flask for motivation. These confines are a dreamstate; he’s run dry.
9. “Demagogue is the Poet,” He says. “Although his aims are apolitical, the product is decidedly political.” H mopped blood from the hardwood.
10. The moment the smoke grenades went off, H tried to mentally map the scene: pavement, light, howling sound, feet running, fear embodied, fear without body, fear in body.
11. “There is NO FUCKING PLANE. And if there was a plane, you would’ve forgotten your goddamn ticket anyway. So shut the fuck up.”
12. H was puking into the toilet (or so he thought). The toilet lid was closed. He was saying something to the nature of “the poets should remain apolitical”, or, “the poet ceases to be, when”—more puke—“poets should remain apolitical”—“or else the murder takes precedence in the story, when in fact, the murder is anterior to the conditions of possibility”—choking—“that stage the event itself.”
13. He persisted through the continuum of misunderstanding, bad judgment and academic psychobabble. He was the only passenger on Pequod who really knew the truth. Just as you can never kill the whale, you can never pierce the barriers of language.
14. D cursed the position that destined him to do right—destined him to unwrong the very functioning of the times. Things were bad (time is out of joint). D knew this. “To know is to act,” D said to himself with a faded art so typical of a self-hating politician.
15. H listened from a distance of three continents, receptive in ways that Demagogue couldn’t understand.
16. D agreed: “the poets should always remain apolitical,” flashing his piece (a semiautomatic 9mm glock with short-range stabilizer).