Requiem for a Dream

by Hubert Selby Jr.

I believe that to pursue the American Dream is not only futile but self-destructive because ultimately it destroys everything and everyone involved with it. By definition it must, because it nurtures everything except those things that are important: integrity, ethics, truth, our very heart and soul. Why? The reason is simple: because Life/life is giving, not getting.

But to believe that getting stuff is the purpose and aim of life is madness.

It seems to me that we all have a dream of our own, our own personal vision, our own individual way of giving, but for many reasons we are afraid to pursue it, or to even recognize and accept its existence. But to deny our vision is to sell our soul.

What happens when I turn my back on my Vision and spend my time and energy getting the stuff of the American Dream? I become agitated, uncomfortable in my own skin, because the guilt of abandoning my “Self/self,” of deserting my Vision, forces me to apologize for my existence, to need to prove myself by approaching life as if it’s a competition. I have to keep getting stuff in an attempt to appease and satisfy that vague sense of discontent that worms its way through me.

Yet I know, absolutely, from my experience, that there are no free lunches in this life, and eventually we all have to accept full and total responsibility for our actions, everything we have done, and have not done.

Ya gotta take care a necessities before ya fuck with luxuries.

Sara sat back and smiled, and relaxed with the inner knowledge that everything would be alright. Her Harry is a little mischief some times, but hes a good boy. Everything will be alright. Some day he/ll meet a nice girl and he/ll settle down and make me a grandmother.

you got to remember baby, beautys only skin deep, but uglys to the bone,

They were all suddenly silent as they listened through the dream on lines, each in their own way thinking they didnt need anyone to dream on, that this boss shit did the job just fine.

an event of such prodigious proportions and importance that it infused her with a new will to live and materialized a dream that brightened her days and soothed her lonely nights.

Wow, is it that long ago? Tempus really fugits, eh? Sometimes. Sometimes it seems to stand still. Like youre in a bag and you cant get out and somebodys always telling you that it will get better with time and time just seems to stand still and laugh at you and your pain. … And then eventually it does break and its six months later.

If the lights prevented you from seeing the heavens, then perform a little magic and change reality to fit the need. The street lights were now planets and stars and moon.

They refilled their coffee cups and lit another joint and luxuriated in the feeling of deep and all pervading satisfaction, a feeling of knowing absolutely that all was well with the world and them and that the world was not only their oyster it was also their linguine with clam sauce. Not only were all things possible, but all things were theirs.

Life was no longer something to endure, but to live. Sara Goldfarb had been given a future.

Thats just it, it doesnt need words. Thats the whole point. Like whats the use of all those words when the feelings arent behind them. Theyre just words. Like I can look at a painting and tell it, youre beautiful. What does it mean to the painting? But Im not a painting. Im not two dimensional. Im a person. Even a Botticelli doesnt breathe and have feelings. Its beautiful, but its still a painting. No matter how beautiful the outside may be, the inside still has feelings and needs that just words dont fulfill.

Its not just the outside thats beautiful, but they dont know. Its hopeless. Thats why you cant be worried about the world. Theyll just do you in anyway. You cant depend on them because sooner or later theyll turn on you or just disappear and leave you there alone.

she gently moved with the flow and felt his words and kisses and feelings flow through her, easing away all her problems, her doubts, her fears, her anxieties and she felt warm and alive and vital. She felt loved. She felt necessary. Harry felt real and substantial. He could feel all the loose pieces starting to fall into place. He felt on the verge of something momentous. They felt whole. They felt united. Though they were still on the couch they felt a part of the vastness of the sky and the stars and moon. They were somehow on the crest of a hill with a gentle breeze blowing Marions hair flowingly; and walking through a sunlit woods and flower studded field feeling the freedom of the birds as they flew through the air chirping and singing and the night was comfortingly warm as the soft filtered light continued to push the darkness into the shadows as they held each other and kissed and pushed each others darkness into the corner, believing in each others light, each others dream.

How many dreams could come true through this form? Where can it lead? Every day on the television she saw things suddenly work out for people. People get married. Sons come home. Everybody is happy.

Theres sorrow and pain in everyones life, but every now and then theres a ray of light that melts the loneliness in your heart and brings comfort like hot soup and a soft bed.

We/re going to do great things, baby, and show this world where its at because I can feel it in my bones, I mean I can really feel it, theres nothing I cant do, nothing, and Im going to make you the happiest woman in the world and thats a promise and a fact because Ive got something in me thats always been trying to come out and with you baby its going to come out and nothing can stop me, its right to the top and if you want the moon then its yours and I/ll even wrap it up for you

It was then, for the first time in her life, that she felt alive, really and truly alive, like she had a reason for existing, a purpose in her life and she had realized that purpose and would now pursue it and dedicate her life to it. All that summer and fall she painted, mornings, afternoons, evenings, then walked around the streets that were still echoing the music of the masters, and every stone, every pebble seemed to have a life and reason of its own and she somehow felt, though vaguely, a part of that reason.

Still half asleep she stood for a few seconds watching and listening to the whirling water in the bowl with joy because she knew that not only unwanted pounds were going down the drain and ultimately to the ocean, but an old life, a life of loneliness, a life of futility, of being unnecessary.

She wanted to simply, and directly, tell the viewer something about the painting with the attitude of the object whether human or otherwise, to transpose, her inner feelings to the surface of the canvas … to express her attitude through her art, to have her sensitivity seen and felt.

He was extra sharp and extra alert because he believed that this was his chance, his one chance and didnt think there would be another one. Twenty five years was a long time to live in the world he lived in and he knew that the chances to get out of it rarely, if ever, came along and this was one and he wasnt going to let it go. He wasnt sure how all this happened, how he happened to be holding so much stuff and takin in the bucks, it seemed like it came out of some sort of dream, but it was here and he wasnt going to let it go. And he knew if he didnt stay sharp jim it would be more than the dream that he would lose. And he was tired of losing.

I think thats one of the problems with the world today, nobody knows who they are. Everyone is running around looking for an identity, or trying to borrow one, only they dont know it.

Theyre just a bunch of schleppers—Harry chuckled at the way she spit the word out and the intensity with which she spoke—who have no idea what a search for personal truth and identity really is, which would be alright if they didnt get in your way, but they insist that they know everything and that if you dont live their way then youre not living properly and they want to take your space away … they actually want to somehow get into your space and live in it and change it or destroy it—Harry started to blink and stare as the anger mounted and flared out—they just cant believe that you know what you are doing and that you have your own identity and space and that you are happy and content with it. You see, thats the problem right there. If they could see that then they wouldnt have to feel threatened and feel that they have to destroy you before you destroy them. They just cant get it through their philistine heads that you are happy where you are and dont want to have anything to do with them. My space is mine and thats enough for me.

Sara beamed and blinked her eyes as her son kissed her and she put her arms around him and kissed him back and he kissed her again and put his arms around her and found a strange feeling going through him, a feeling something like a high, but different. He couldnt identify the feeling but it was a good feeling. He looked at his mothers smiling, beaming face and the feeling increased, flowing through him with an unexplained power and energy making him feel sort of … yeah, I guess thats it … sort of whole. Harry, for a brief moment, felt whole, like every part of him was united with and in harmony with every other part of him … like there was just one big part of him. Whole.

He had never seen his mother so alive, so involved with anything in her life. The only time he had ever seen anybody so enthused and excited was when somebody told an old dope fiend about some good shit and he had enough money to cop. His mother had a light in her eyes when she talked about the television and her red dress that he couldnt remember seeing there before. Maybe when he was a little kid, but he couldnt remember back that far. Something in her attitude was so strong that it simply overpowered him and made any continued resistance or attempt to change her mind impossible.

Its not the prizes Harry. It doesn’t make any difference if I win or lose or if I just shake hands with the announcer. Its like a reason to get up in the morning. Its a reason to lose weight so I can be healthy. Its a reason to fit in the red dress. Its a reason to smile already. It makes tomorrow alright. Sara leaned a little closer to her son, What have I got Harry? Why should I even make the bed or wash the dishes? I do them, but why should I? Im alone.

I see on the television how its always alright in the end. All the time.

It wasnt that they couldnt stop using, it was just that this wasnt the time. They had too much to do and they werent feeling well.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at Harry, You know, if I were to tell them about this theyd say it didnt happen, that I just made it up. She shook her head, It just amazes me how blind some people can be to the truth. Its right there in front of them and they dont see it. It just amazes me. Yeah, its weird. I dont know how they do it.

And whenever they started to feel the chills of fear and the grinding of anxiety they simply got off and melted all the cares and concerns away with its warmth. Sometimes they would fix up new cookers just for the sake of doing it. It was part of keeping house. The entire routine made them feel a part of something. It was something looked forward to with the greatest of joy and anticipation. The entire ritual was symbolic of their life and needs.

There was a voice, loud and clear, saying they were hooked, but good, and they tried to shrug it away but it persisted, more as a feeling than a voice, that permeated their every cell just as the dope they were addicted to had already done, and they tried combating it with another voice saying so what, it was no big deal, they could stop any time they wanted to, it was no big thing and what else was there?

When someone did cop he then had to make it safely to his pad, or some place, where he could get off without someone breaking down the door and stealing his dope and maybe getting killed, or killing, if he didnt want to part with something more precious, at that particular moment, than his life, for without it his life was worse than hell, far worse than death, death seeming to be a reward rather than a threat, because this process of lingering death was the most fearful thing that could happen.

The sections were like cities under siege, surrounded by the enemy trying to starve them into submission, but the enemy was within. Not only within the boundaries of the cities, of the neighborhoods, the deserted buildings and piss stained doorways, but within each and every body and mind and, most of all, soul. The enemy ate away at their will so they could not resist, their bodies not only craving, but needing the very poison that ground them into that pitiable state of being; the mind diseased and crippled by the enemy it was obsessed with and the obsession and terrible physical need corrupting the soul until the actions were less than those of an animal, less than those of a wounded animal, less than those of anything and everything they did not want to be.

Their disease made it possible for them to believe whatever lies it was necessary for them to believe to continue to pursue and indulge their disease, even to the point of them believing they were not enslaved by it, but were actually free.

Whatever chances they had to take they took automatically as their disease ordered and they obeyed, a small part of them wanting to try to resist, but that part shoved so far down that it was no more than an ancient dream from a previous life. Only the insatiable and insane need of the moment had any bearing on their lives, and it was that need that gave the orders.

He told me that with such an awareness, and my intelligence and talents, I should have no trouble coming to terms with my problem and being productive. His favorite word, productive. That and sublimate. Thats all they want you to do … sublimate and be productive. She chuckled, Just dont reproduce. Thats the other word! Just. Just do it. You ask them how you do it and they say you just do it. Now that you know the problem you just stop doing the things that get you into that problem. Thats all there is to it. All of them. The same thing. Just do it. Just!

Selby with Darren Aronofsky, who directed the film adaptation of Requiem for a Dream, in 2000. “I needed to make a film from this novel,” Aronofsky wrote, “because the words burn off the page. Like a hangman’s noose, the words scorch your neck with rope burn and drag you into the sub-sub-basement we humans build beneath hell.” Selby felt that Aronofsky’s film did justice to his work. After seeing it at the Cannes Film Festival he burst into tears. “It was so moving,” he explained. “It is such an emotional film, so powerful.” Requiem for a Dream is widely regarded as one of the best novels ever written about substance abuse. Selby’s profound understanding of addiction was surpassed only by his will to overcome the disease in his own life. The month before he passed away, doctors offered him morphine to help relieve his pain—but he refused. He wanted, he said, to retain his clarity.