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Paul Slazinger says, incidentally, that the human condition can be summed up in just one word, and this is the word: Embarrassment.
And if an artist wants to really jack up the prices of his creations, may I suggest this: suicide.
“I can’t get over how passionate you guys are, and yet so absolutely unserious.” “Everything about life is a joke,” I said. “Don’t you know that?”
“Does it have a title?” she said. “Yes,” I said, and I gave it a title on the spot, one as long as the title Paul Slazinger had given his book on successful revolutions: “I Tried and Failed and Cleaned Up Afterwards, so It’s Your Turn Now.”
She said that she looked at all the Polly Madison books in Celeste’s room one time, and couldn’t believe she’d written them. “Maybe you’re a plagiarist,” I said. “That’s what I feel like sometimes,” she said.
“Hold your hand in front of your eye,” she said, “and look at those strange and clever animals with love and gratitude, and tell them out loud: ‘Thank you, Meat.’ ” So I did. I held my hands in front of my eyes, and I said out loud and with all my heart: ‘Thank you, Meat.’ ” Oh, happy Meat. Oh, happy Soul. Oh, happy Rabo Karabekian.
