Image result for haunted moon outside the haunted window

When things become too deliciously beautiful, they stop,

As when even the verbose Mozart pauses for what seems an eternity

During passages found in the slow movement of piano concerto number 17.

It is the natural outcome when extremely beautiful music is slow,

The music wants to stop itself so it can listen.

The werewolf disappears when she has no place to go.

Time resumes after love, and we realize life will go on and love will not.

Where was the music during the love?

Music belongs to time, but love does not.

Music exists in time, in itself, and so it never has time for itself.

Music laughs at its predicament and invents new tempos in which to die

But love only becomes offended. Love hates waiting, marching, watching. Love hates time.

Music stops and resumes. When love stops, it does not resume.

Love exists outside of time.

The werewolf disappears when she has no place to go.

I waited for her. She was either absent or slow.

I might as well confess what you already know.

She turned into a werewolf

And allowed me to love her,

But only when she was a werewolf.

Love made her for me a werewolf completely.

I loved her falsely but completely.

The sadism inside her masochism grew,

Fed by my masochism. Her sadism knew

I was not a werewolf; the werewolf grew

Enraged when I pleaded, I want to love all of you!

I was the innocent one who turned

Her into a werewolf and I burned

For her—as a werewolf

And loved her—as a werewolf.

My masochist loved her sadist

And since there is some sadism

In every masochist, I delighted

In the dilemma of our love

In which our sadism and masochism,

Fiendishly intertwined,

Made me delight in her body

And the strange inconsistencies of her mind.

But when the werewolf was away,

I was afraid; I needed her to eat my flesh

And the music to resume.

I spend long nights staring out the window at the beautiful moon.

It is almost as beautiful as music.






  1. May 17, 2018 at 1:44 am

    I had to stop myself
    . . . and listen
    to the music
    of a moon mission

    Tom Wolfe has gone
    but the bonfire is still hissing

    • noochinator said,

      May 17, 2018 at 2:08 pm

      Kudos to editor Jann Wenner for commissioning Wolfe to write pieces for “Rolling Stone” magazine. The 2017 bio of Wenner by Joe Hagan, Sticky Fingers, has much on their collaboratiion.

    • noochinator said,

      May 18, 2018 at 11:41 am

      “The intellectual had become not so much an occupational type as a status type. He was like the medieval cleric, most of whose energies were devoted to separating himself from the mob—which in modern times, in Revel’s phrase, goes under the name of the middle class. … Moral indignation was the main thing; that, and a certain pattern of consumption. In fact, by the 1960s it was no longer necessary to produce literature, scholarship, or art—or even to be involved in such matters, except as a consumer—in order to qualify as an intellectual. It was only necessary to live la vie intellectuelle. A little brown bread in a bread box, a lapsed pledge card to CORE, a stereo and a record rack full of Coltrane and all the Beatles albums from Revolver on, white walls, a huge Dracaena marginata plant, which is there because all the furniture is so clean-lined and spare that without this piece of frondose tropical Victoriana the room looks empty, a stack of unread New York Review of Books rising up in a surly mound of subscription guilt, the conviction that America is materialistic, repressive, bloated, and deadened by its Silent Majority, which resides in the heartland, three grocery boxes full of pop bottles wedged in behind the refrigerator and destined (one of these days) for the Recycling Center, a small, uncomfortable European car—that pretty well got the job done.” —from Tom Wolfe’s Mauve Gloves & Madmen, Clutter & Vine

  2. noochinator said,

    May 17, 2018 at 11:47 am

    “It is the natural outcome when extremely beautiful music is slow,

    The music wants to stop itself so it can listen.”

    As in this piece:

  3. May 18, 2018 at 11:53 am

    Yes, the P.C.Scribes
    and the New Age Pharisees
    have taken over. Art, music,
    literature… western culture
    has been on the decline since
    the 60’s. Computer games,
    reality T.V., antisocial media,
    all fitting preperation for a
    humanity ready, willing, and
    worthy of Armageddon.

  4. thomasbrady said,

    May 18, 2018 at 7:52 pm

    The world Tom Wolfe describes seems quaint now.

    No longer does the intellectual exist in his cool little world apart from the Middle Class. And I don’t believe it was ever that simple.

    Now the intellectuals are aggressively courting and transforming the middle class into sorry versions of themselves, through counseling, psycho medications, loony p.c. in the schools, a whole universe in which the person is made to think and say the right thoughts, with no regard to actual accomplishment or excellence.

    • noochinator said,

      May 18, 2018 at 9:30 pm

      Matthew Continetti wrote of that Wolfe excerpt, “Replace the brown bread with gluten-free bran muffins, the CORE pledge with a Bernie bumper sticker, the Beatles albums with Spotify, the Dracaena marginata with a rescue beagle mix, and the New York Review with Jacobin, n+1, and We Were Eight Years in Power by Ta-Nehisi Coates, and you too can qualify as an intellectual today.”

    • noochinator said,

      May 19, 2018 at 10:36 am

      What once were vices now are habits — what once were called bohemians now are called intellectuals

  5. noochinator said,

    May 21, 2018 at 9:14 am

    From a John Derbyshire review of Wolfe’s novel I Am Charlotte Simmons:

    I don’t know how the future will rank Tom Wolfe as a novelist, but he is a simply terrific journalist. Oh, sure, he exaggerates some when writing fiction to get the effects he wants; but you could put a Wolfe novel under a steel-mill press and not squeeze a single drop of sentimentality out of it. Wolfe’s authorial tone to the reader is: You don’t have to like this, and I’m not too crazy about it myself, but this is the way it is, and we both know it. Our society is awash with the grossest kind of sentimentality — in movies and TV, saturating the sappy nostrums of the Sunday magazine-supplements and corporate mission statements, pouring in from self-help cranks, victim-industry moaners and weepers, love-the-world useful-idiot politicians and Oprah-fied pain-feelers. Wolfe is the antidote to all this sugary glop. There isn’t enough of him to have much effect, unfortunately; but when you’re drowning in treacle, the merest squirt of lemon juice is refreshing. Wolfe worships the God Kipling worshipped, The God of Things As They Are.

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