The 23
A publication of the Brautigan Library
Volume 5, Number 1
A Very Public Library
THE BAY OF THE
ORPHAN
Winter 1995
By Genevieve Jacobs
I have lived all of my chosen life on the
water, and a good part of my mandatory
one as well.
Dinner arrives. In spite of the arguing,
or maybe because of it, I took extra care in
the preparation. You can't cook goodfood
with bad vibes. We eat but it doesn't help
him. "Hif you ave listen to me we will ave
a pressure cooker, but no, you ave to do it
de ard way, chust to contradict me."
I put my bowl down, no room in my
throat for focxl to pass by. When I tilt my
head up I can see the sky, because I always
sit next to the companionway hatch, for
cooking, smoking, reading, talking.
"I tell you Hi frop hoff dese cat on de
island, I will do dat!"
The clouds seem mainly to collect and
drift over the razorsharp spines of the mOWl­
tains, but right over me there are stars. New
stars, shifted, unfanliliar on the rim of the
southern oeean.
"You carmol hexpect me to keep live
wit dese cat aboard. Hokay for you, you ave
grow up in de barn."
Upstairs, those stars are blinking. The
strength of the wind, the distortions of the
jet streanl flowing overhead, tears. We've
been over this ground about the cats, the
kittens, again and again. Why wouldn't he
let them go to Gus in the Galapagos? I saw
this coming. Why didn't I listen, fight?
This newsletter is published quarterly
by The Brautigan Library, Burlington,
Vermont — America's only library of
unpublished writing. “The 23” is the title
of a chapter in Richard Brautigan's novel,
The Abortion: An Historical Romance
1966, describing the unpublished works
of 23 unknown American authors.
The Brautigan Library gets letters from
all over the world.
"Hi know what you link, bad tot, but hall
it mean is you dont care ow Hi feel, and dat
Hi ham habout to explose because Hi cannot
STAN it anymore, not hanodder minute-let
me finish! Don't illterrupp me! You tink dis
is bad, it will be worse an worse an you have
not see notting yet, hif something dont be do
about dese cat."
"No. I already told you, no way are you
dumping them ashore and pretending they'll
be fine."That's how I ended up with 13 cats
in Miami... Mama cat, then kittens. then 13
strays altogether... Olle swam from the spoil
island, one crawledfrom the engine o fa car,
one drowned after nursing 3 days, a boy's BB
gun bullet in its spine, paralyzed. "No. Keep
them to give them away, or kill them if that
will make you a happy man. But you won't
take them ashore mld abandon them, no
way."
You saw the kids, thrOWing stones-the
dogs, sick alld starving. They goferal ifthey
survive at all. Decimate the birds, the ro­ dents,
the little ground animals. In the wild, they go
wild, ifthey live, 110 love, notpets. and their
instincts all messed over by domestica­ tion
for generatiolls...they eat the birds. starve. get
injured. wounds. "Just a few more
(continued on page 4)
APOLOGIES: Due to circumstances
beyond our control (life ), we were forced to
combine the winter and spring editions of
"The 23" -- hence known as " The 46."
FOUNDER'S MESSAGE:
FAREWELL
With the Brautigan Library approaching its fifth birthday this spring, those of us
who have served on its board can now take
a moment to look back on our extraordinary
journey. Since 1990, we've watched a glimmer of an idea become transformed into a
dream of international proportions.
Literally hundreds of newspapers,
magazines and broadcasters have helped
plant the Brautigan seed in the minds of
millions of individuals around the globe.
It's amazing to think that if you walk up to
someone on a busy street almost anywhere in
North America, there is one chance in 10 that
they've heard of the Brautigan Library — a
humble little place with about 300 volumes
and seating for six.
A couple of years ago, my brother was
flying from Denver to Boston. He noticed
that the passenger sitting next to him was
working on a lengthy manuscript. "Are you
a writer?," my brother asked.
"1 like to think so," she answered.
Then he added, "My brother is involved
in a library for unpublished writing." "Oh.
you mean the Brautigan," she replied rather
matter-of-factly.
It's just amazing to me how compelling
the Brautigan Library dream is. The news
of its existence still rings in the minds and
hearts of so many people. A few months ago,
we received a nice letter from a Buddhist
monk in India. He wanted to send us his
manuscript, but could not figure out how to
pay the book registration fee since monks
don't use money.
Richard Brautigan must have sensed this
potential when he wrote, 'There just simply
had to be a library like this.' Indeed, there
does have to be a library like this. The last
five years have made that quite clear. The
next five years will determine whether the
library can live up to the dream.
1995 will begin a new chapter at the
Brautigan. Will Marquess and myself, both
board members since the founding of the
library. will retire from the board as of the
first of January. Will has been a model
(continued on page 6)
FROM THE
LIBRARIAN'S BOOK
On the Anniversary of
Susan's Death
Susan made days into peregrines
Flights quiet and intense
Shaping the days with sharp creased turns
Susan's precisions
Susan made nights into star dappled pups
Barking giggles as they romped
Quilting together chaos and joy
Susan's passions
Maker of medicine, music and love
Of presents, provocations and love
Susan who made pain leave and love
Who made moments, healing and love
All she made twined together
With passion and precision
And when Susan was unmade
And the sirens stopped wailing for susan
And time stopped passing too fast for susan
I made the hawks fly south
The pups stay in their pens
And made myself silent
Twined together with passion and precision
November 26,1994
It looks like everyone is playing
in the new fallen snow because no one has
come in oh, except someone looking for
Will but she didn't seem to like the snow
anyway. From the howling wind, I can tell it's
probably pretty cold outside. It seems "like
yesterday" the fanner's market bustled under
a warm sun as little children played in city
hall park's leaves. Now, we have to worry
about shoveling snow and leaky roofs (hint,
hint). To all you skiers—have a great time
and get on the slopes as quickly as possible!
If you don't like this weather­—first of all,
why in the heck are you in VT? But go out
and build a snowman. I made about forty
last year—there's something about sculpting
snow that makes you start to like it! Peace,
happiness, & a warm wool sweater to all of
you.
-Bethie
P.S. Have you heard Bob Dylan's new song
"Desire?" It's really good!
I need juice, all sorts...
No one came in.
December 3rd-I think
Juice? That makes me thirsty. Or could
the writer mean juice as in "free the juice."
Yes that juicy trial of O.J...America's latest
soap opera. Another day in the life of a
Brautigan Librarian. I arrived late (about
5 minutes, had to have that second cup of
Joe — Java Joe, that is). I was greeted by a
sigh that said OPEN and wondered if I had
arrived on the wrong day. But alas it was
left from Saturday. I then caught up on the
librarian's book, "the lifeblood" as Pamela
coined it. As I closed volume 2 I reflected
on the self clean oven question and washed
the front door window and WOW what a
difference.
The library desk then transformed into
studio space as I created a year of the dog
1994 piece for my housemate for Chanuka.
(We do need a pocket dictionary here for us
speller disfunctionals.) So I must go, for
April is here.
Jennifer X-cme Koch
January 21-95
Saturday, Saturn day. Across the way,
on Pomerleau's grandiose greco-roman
rooftops, wet pigeons huddle under the
temple eaves—there's a word for those roof
corners—what is it? Someone? Anyone?
Comices? Crenellations? Crepusculations?
Come on! Help me out!
With that, a visitor appeared. We considered him a visitor even though he was
looking for the gallery mentioned in VT
Times last week, to hang 2 photos in the
"graphicattic"—I, hazily, said wasn't that
111 or something? He made a call & found
out it was One Eleven College—& I don't
even know the address # for the B'gan.
So there you go! I haven't lost my grip
entirely.
We should hang this place. I mean make
use of our walls here for visual art, why not?
How about only art that incorporates the
written word? Hmmm. We'd probably want
to re-paint. I think it'd be great. Bring people
to the site. Both are compatible—­reading,
gazing. Lots of wall here.
Today I'm in some conflict about where
I'm supposed to be. My son's revo­cering
from a tough week of sickness, strep, & so
obviously we should be having a cozy home
day. That's thing one. Thing two is that my
boss has organized a massive City Hall
pro-choice rally on short notice, & there's
no doubt I should put in an appearance to
2
escape to the Brautigan — when Lori
Colburn cheerfully called me last night, &
no guilt trip, I'd just turned down flat three
other bids on my time, two political, one
personal, & I didn't have it in me to say no
to another thing.
But I long, long for a — a — a vacation. Whatever that is. Somehow I'll have to
ease my conscience on this Brautigan duty
over the "Movilize for 'Women's Lives" duty
— well, maybe there's some connection or
saving grace in the Historical Romance (The
Abortion). Or maybe not. Maybe I'm splitting
hairs & atoms over it because what's really
ravaging me is the fact that I should be home
plying my boy with ginger ale, books, card
games, like that.
Yesterday we were driving his buddy
home in the dark rain past the Intervale. I
pointed out a house & said, 'hey, that's a place
I checked out for you to go to daycare years
ago'...He said "So did I go there'!' Oh no, I
said. "Seems like everywhere we go you're
always seeing places that you thought about
for me & didn't pick." I said 'yeah, I guess.
You picked a picky picky momma when you
picked me, kiddo.
About a half hour later when we got
home & he peeled off his wee coat & left it
lying atop muddy boots in the middle of the
floor, fuzzy side out, I predictably barked out
"OK, take care of your coat now" & when I
came oput from the kitchen I saw him grinning, hugging the coat & talking sweetly to
it — "there's my coat, only the BEST nursery
school for my little coat, yes..."
I looked down at him totally NON­
PLUSSED. His eyes all sparkling & silly,
dimpled cheeks, he said "you told me to
take care of my coat, so I'm taking care
of mv coat..." What a joker. He absolutely
never stops.
Two visitors, very nice, "We've come to
read my mom's book. If I don't do it, she'll kill
me." We looked it up in card file by author
— when I asked what category he thought
he said "Tragedy." Tums out it's in "Family."
This woman did a phenomenal ouevre (sp?)
two volumes, immense, called Family Tree.
Written like a nova!. Subjccts: genetics, nursing, medicine, incest, fiction. Wow. They'll be
back, efven signed up a sliberian volunteers
— at my suggestion. Pushy, eh? At times,
yes.
Here are parts from memory of Joni
Mitchell's Brautigan song:
Last time I saw Richard it was 1968 (-63?)
He said you know all poets & drunkards make
the same mistake - end up cynical & drunken
in some dark café, dark café...Tell
me, when are you going to get back on
your feet & write of some love so deep...
love so sweet...in some dark café.
Richard, I said, I'm gonna blow
that damn candle out, you got some tales
to tell, you ain't gonna do it in some dank
motel...ain't nothing nobody's gonna tell
you about it anyway...???
All conflict is about where you
are supposed to be. There are so many
possibilities. Conflict — con, flegere.
"With" "striking." "Conflict" is from
"with-hit?"
Anyway, thanks, it may be a
while before I'm back, so all the best. ­
—Genevieve
1/22/95
George Washington once said,
"the true tragedies in life make crevasses
across time, gouging into todays, tomorrows and yesterdays." I wonder if the true
comedies of life turn those ditches of pain
into rivers and parklands. After all, isn't
that what laughter is, relief from pain.
I can spin this book on my finger.
Fast!! I just tried. It worked.
Bill
FROM THE BRAUTIGAN
BIRTHDAY BOOK
The Voice of the Brautigan
By Christy Johnson
I am empty and yet full. Full
of hope, inspiration, dreams, memories,
heartfelt pain, imagination, uncensored
wisdom and the desire to be embodied in
written form. I revel in my transformations; from dark and uninhabited, to lit and
heated with a solitary librarian, to inundated with a group of noisy visitors, to decorated for parties. I change and yet remain
ever unaltered The wind may howl menacingly outside or the sun may beat on my
windows but they do not change me or my
purpose. I reflect a myriad of lives. Within
me you will find all manner of things lived
or imagined, and then recorded.
My volumes asked to be written, read, and now loosely protected and
generously shared. Each has its own voice
which seems to subtly alter depending
on who is reading them. I wonder if they
ever get lonely or if they are glad to be left
here. My sense is they are at peace, having
found a place to rest and
to breathe easily that no one will tear a
single run-on sentence or an important theme
out of them. They stand in their own perfect
unedited imperfection, frozen in time like a
snap­ shot of someone's reality. The volumes
are my personal photo album and reflect my
connection with the human race.
Each tells at least two stories: one, the
contents themselves, and the other the often
unwritten one of its author.
My mayonnaise jars speak to each
writer's eccentricities and uniqueness. Do
something different, they beckon. The more
volumes that are filled, the more of their
mayonnaise companions that will join them.
Books sandwiched between mayo or is it vice
versa? Perhaps it is a Dagwood sandwich
of sorts; books piled on mayo on books on
mayo, almost impossible to choose which
to bite into next.
I live a private and a public life. The
private one is about being and waiting. A
librarian closes me for the coming week.
The trash is out, the lights are out, and the
doors are locked. I do a menta1 check: is the
furniture still mismatched? Are the mayo jars
still there? Now I wait. I do not know what
to expect. The silence requires my patience.
I sit, partially fulfilled with the structure, the
framework of volunteers and board members,
and the volumes that have accumulated thus
far. All of these things speak to me. I hear
the books whispering to each other sometimes. Listen! Can you hear their rustling?
Someone just sighed about a painful loss.
Can I resist the urge to cry? Ahh, I focus
on the undercurrent of laughter I now hear.
I relax into the awareness of another week
of being and experiencing these authors and
their works.
My public life is one of life and change.
Although I run comfortable knowing my
shelves are prepared with volumes and
mayonnaise, my true joy comes when live
people enter me. A keeper of the key will be
here shortly. Tins I can count on. The key
keepers' ongoing loyalty comforts me. They
remember. A librarian will be here shortly
too. I do not know who it will be but it will
be someone who cares. They may or may not
read the books or sit at the desk. However,
they will provide me with a heartbeat and a
soul to touch. They provide the kinship to
those who visit and even to those who don't.
They silently invite others to partake of my
bounty. I enjoy watching them. Some are
restless; others focus on their own writing
or reading or daydreaming. All leave as
3
different people than when they came
and this pleases me. I like knowing I run
altering people's lives. These guardians and
caretakers seem to feel a reward in it as
well. Sometimes mid-week I sneak a look
at the librarians' journal — it reminds me
they shall return.
They're here! Coffee cup in hand and a
small bag of belongings, it is a good sign. I
feel like yelling "Welcome!" but I settle for
a silent embrace. Yes! This is what I live for.
No one has to come, it is just knowing they
could come. I wish I could tell them my stories: everything from impetuous handstands
to the mice adventures to completely uneventful but nonetheless meaningful times!
I suppose it is a fair compromise to settle for
sharing the works on my shelves. Come in,
I beckon you. Come forth and sense what
others want you to know about themselves
and their lives. Please laugh! Please listen.
Please revere the silence. No! Please burst
out to share a funny passage from one of
my volumes with your friends. It does not
matter. I am here and ready.
January 29, 1995
Listen, America! I have a story to tell!
It's about the perfidy of the management
of the Cincinnati Reds, and therefore about
sports, and business — that is, America,
what. You.
No, I don't mean Marge Schott and her
stupid racist dog. I mean back in the sixties,
when a twelve-year-old kid in suburban
Cincinnati (that is to say, Anywhere) (and
Nowhere) had nothing to live for except the
fortunes of his beloved Redlegs (as they were
often called in the fifties, because "Reds"
were suspicious everywhere then ­ and of
course, in the sixties in Cincinnati it was
still the fifties).
We're talking about Frank Robinson
here. Rookie of the Year in 1959, Most Valuable Player in 1961, and a man who had the
gall to hold out for more money. And he was
a black guy from south Georgia who didn't
have a Satchmo smile like Willie Mays. He
was known to frequent nightclubs!
So, after the 1966 season, they traded
him. I remember still watching the news that
evening, and wondering if it was April Fool's.
Some people remember where they were
when Kennedy was shot. They traded him. To
Baltimore, for a bunch of American League
nobodies. Milt Pappas and a couple of Dicks
— Baldschun and Simpson. Not exactly
future Hall of Famers. What did the
(continued on page 5)
(continued from page 1)
days, at least to Fatu-Hiva, somebody
will want them I'm sure. If you can't handle
that, then hey, you choose."
The air in the cabin abruptly seems to
implode. "So. If you say one more word about
them, if you are that, that, that! Look, look,
they are soft, furry, purring, cute... they are
just, babies. What's your problem?" For a
moment I think it's going to be okay. I step
to go on deck, get out of the inside, but I'm
too quick.
"Chenevee! Hif you fucking tink dat Hi
ham going to live in dis filt of cat for one minute more, you hare wrong. I trow dem over
de side! Let dem fine de land demself."
I wheel around, "No. If you are going
to kill them, you kill them." I am vicious,
cold.
He pauses. "Ow? Hi mean, "ow you do
dat? Kill dem. Hi will, hif Hi chust know 'ow
to do dat." I stare at him, and wonder how
I could touch such a man, ever. He is silent
for longer than I knew he could be.
"You drown them."
So quick, he asks, "Yes, but 'ow? Hi mean
dat is all very fine an well for you to say, but
Hi don't see hold dem over de side wit my
and, wait for de shark come take it hall!"
All his anger seems to be gone. He is
just talking technique, like some Nazi wizard,
all interested humility, and inside me there
is a queasy, steely coalescing.
"Don't look me like dat, hit not my faute
dat Hi don't know ow do dis, Hi ave not grow
hup like you hon de farm wit de chicken an
de pig oo die every year!"
Salome and Diogenes and Camay, Arnold, Spiro T., Lucifer...offal, the butcher's
tipee, skinned under burlap, headless pig
screaming, calves stupid; Dad, "a blunt blow
to the head, they don't know what hit 'em."
Yellow chicks, easter chicks, under red light
on the porch, turned to roosters, machete,
long plank, "Jenny, you catch 'em, they're
less scared of you!" Boiling water, bodies
flopping, headless, spurting, "Let 'em run,
pick em up when they drop!" Brother, twirling them in the air to wring their necks snap,
doesn't stop them George in a cardboard box,
not to die, not to die...Dammy, Crocus and
Saffron, Gwendolyn; the blue tick hound
they shot out back...took to the dump...target
practice on the rats...just mice and snakes and
little birds, hoping, in my pocket, named,
touched, loved, fed...dead and maimed, oily
wings lifting in false wind, on the tar, dead
like roadkill.
"So, Chenevee. What is der way for do
dis?" He holds the light gray-striped kitten
by tile scruff, not even looking at it.
Bluff, I think. "Well, if you had a burlap
bag that'd be classic. But use the bucket."
"Hand? Den?"
"Hand, Den, you hold them under."
They breathe the water. They breathe
the water instead of air. The kitten squirms,
soft fur, long fur, mew.
"Hokay. Do Hi do dem hall at once or
one at de time?" He's serious. Calm. Even
pleasant voiced. He is not kidding.
Savage, I scream in a whisper, "Like
this." I grab the bucket, slog full of night
water, the deck heaving, seize the kitten from
his hand, plunge under one swift motion in
all, feel the throat moving, gulping, hear my
weeping and both hands now squeezing,
hurry! die oh god, it gulps and life goes out
and my throat closes, my back is on fire, my
spine reverses as if searing with poison,
You saw the kids, throwing
stones—the dogs, sick and starving. They go feral if they survive at
all. Decimate the birds, the rodents,
the little ground animals. In the
wild, they go wild, if they live, no
love, not pets, and their instincts all
messed over by domestication for
generations.
my jaws pry open to the sky and through
tile teary slits of eyes I see the mast arcing
arcing against the night sky and the ink;
black of the mountain ridges, like dragons
crests, razor sharp, and my bones don't bend
enough, to let this anguish out, this pain in
the marrow, this outrage which locks my
joints with little killing toxins.
When I uncurl my fingers from the backstay, there are purple spiraling lines burned in
my palm from tile grip. Claude is squalling
there, tile tiger kitten in his hand going down
in the bucket, matter of fact. As he drowns it,
he says "Hare you okay? Dat ave not be easy
Hi know." Speechless I go below. He asks
for tile third kitten. I make no move. Curse
the kitten hopping, clumsy, up towards his
query, onto the chopping block sink cover.
Claude's hand, disembodied, reaches into the
light through the hatch, collecting it.
"IIokay. is dere not one more down
derc? Chenevee? Hare you dere? Where is
4
diss lass one? Can you get hit for
me?"
"No."
"De black one, is it? De hall black? Can
you chust pass to me? Uh, plees?"
I am sitting on the settee over my clothes
storage. The black shadow kitten, Abbo,
is under me, under the cushion, under the
plywood cover, under my clothes, below the
waterline but dry.
Claude sighs and speaks some words
meant to comfort. "Hokay so we let dis lass
one, for now. What we do wit de...Chenevee?
What we do wit dem now?" After a while the
sound of water washing the deck subsides,
the bucket replaced in the wedge between
cabin and lifeline. "Hi suppose de shark an
de tide take care of dem now."
He hugs me and I just don't feel it, can't
collapse into it, as if I'm strung on strings
someone else holds taut.
"Don't take it like dat. We ave to do
dis. Hit ave be a good ting, der right ting to
do. like my modder ave always say, 'In de
war hit's like in de war.' En le guerre, c'est
comme le guerre.'"
(Editor's note: The above is a selected
passage from a Brautigan Library book. The
Bay of the Orphan is an autobiographical
account of sailing an 18-foot sloop from
Miami to Australia.)
The Brautigan Board of
Trustees
Founder: Todd Lockwood
President: Pamela Polston
Vice President: Robert Cham
Secretary: April Brisbee
Treasurer: Allan Kaufman
Lorrie Colburn**
Andy Colameco
Fran Stoddard
Steve Lidle
John Hinckley
**Volunteer Coordinator
Advisory Board
Robert Creeley, W.P. Kinsella,
Thomas McGuane, William Novak, Fred
G. Sullivan, Jerry Greenfield, Ianthe
Brautigan Swensen
(From the Brautigan Birthday Book
continued from page 3)
general manager (the infamous Bob
Howsam) think — "Hey, I'm getting three
guys for one! What a deal!" He said Robby
was "an old thirty."
Next season, the thirty-one-year­old
nightclubber won the Triple Crown for the
Orioles. I'm still getting over it.
All right, I'll never get over it. Why
should I get over it? We should cleave to
our grievances, I say.
Thanks. I feel better now.
Will Marquess
found three
green beans, one
for me and two for you.
no shirt
but a frog
on my belly.
not necessarily in this order:
1) scratch my head;
2) eat another one of those doughnuts
that Andy brought today;
3) drive my car really fast — or better
yet, somebody else's car that actually can
go fast,
4) talk to someone about time.
Time. Here's one thing I think about it:
it's moving faster. I don't know if this is some
universal phenomenon, or my imagination.
Or if growing older makes everything appear to go faster because a day is a relatively
smaller and smaller proportion of my life.
Maybe that's what Einstein really meant.
But is caffeine making my day go faster, or
making me move faster through
my day, or what? Either way, here's
another thing I think about lime: I'm ready
for decaf.
What would Richard have thought about
this? Happy birthday.
High temp: 28 degrees at 3 p.m.
Low temp: 1 degree at 6 a.m.
Lake Champlain: 34 degrees
96.5 feet
Mount Mansfield: High: 11 degrees
Low: 0 degrees
Summit: 23 inches of snow
January 29, 1995
High: 81 degrees at Miami Florida
Low: -15 degrees at Old Faithful,
Wyoming
Gale Lawrence
Huntington, Vermont
A short tribute: The world is still fishing.
Thank god for the hidden clear pools of
thought, like this library.
Roger Clapp
Burlington,VT
— Pamela Polston
have you ever
seen a great white shark?
if you've ever seen my girlfriend,
you have.
I wish I could get a
Mouse to hang around
My heart and attract rattlesnakes.
(no name)
Double Latte
I'm drinking a double latte, my second
coffee of the day. I don't know why, because
caffeine makes me nervous. The other day I
made some espresso out of my roommate's
hi-test beans because I'd run out of my favorite, decaf French Roast. I tried to dilute it
with loads of hot milk, but the caffeine wasn't
fooled. My heartbeat accelerated, I swear it
did, and I felt like I'd taken speed — which
I haven't done since I was 20 years old and
liked to make myself nervous. Now I'm 45,
which sounded really old when I was 20, but
strangely I seem to have more energy, not
less. Or is it just that my neurons have frayed
with age, and I simply don't need — or can't
handle — the additional stimulation?
That must be it.
So now my nerves are jumping around,
loosened from their usual moorings, and that
goes for my cerebral synapses as well. It
makes me want to do the following things,
Weather Report for the 3rd Brautigan
Birthday Book
I was tempted to wait until January 30
to take my annual weather walk so I'd have
three consecutive January 30 readings, but
in keeping with the idea of the time capsule,
I ventured out on January 30.
I walked half a mile down my road,
half a mile up my road, and half a mile into
my woods just to see what was happening.
Nothing. Only Camel's Hump everywhere
I looked. Where was all the action? Maybe
at the Brautigan library?
At least the weather was good — clear
and cold and winter — like after a wicked
January Thaw. It was 1 degree F when I
woke up and even warmer because the icicles
hanging from my roof were dripping and the
surface of my recently mud-destructed road
was wet. My new barometer read 30.2" and
rising, an indication of very good weather
indeed.
For the record: It's still the Year of the
Dog, but tomorrow it will be the year of
the Boar.
Also:
Sunrise: 7:15 a.m.
Sunset: 4:57 p.m.
ATTENTION LIBRARIANS --
and Brautigan Library friends in the area:
The Brautigan is turning five this year, and it's
time for a party! We'll celebrate our anniversary on JUNE 3 (also our "annual meeting")
— look for a flyer on that later on.
Meanwhile, we ask for your help in
giving tile library its spring cleaning and a
new paint job during the weekend of May
6­ 7. We'll provide snacks, entertainment
(boombox) and convivial atmosphere. You
provide a few hours of volunteer work on
one or more of the following tasks:
• dusting and vacuuming
• carpet shampooing
• painting
• raking back yard
• checking inventory and order of books,
card catalog
• taking photos for our scrapbook
We would love to get donations of paint,
brushes. pans, dropcloths, etc. Another great
contribution would be renting a carpet shampooer. If you're able to volunteer for any of
these tasks or donations, please call Pamela
at 865-9764.
Thanks! And be sure to mark June 3 on your
calendar!
5
Founder's Message
(continued from page 1)
board member, taking on more than his
share of responsibility. He will be missed a
great deal.
My retirement from the Brautigan has
been a gradual, though difficult, step for
me. I've always been involved in the board's
decision making, and not being involved in
that way will take some getting used to. But
I have every reason to believe that our new
board will carry the Brautigan library ahead
to a prosperous future, continuing to spread
the dream and pay the rent. We still have
about 30 volunteers in our local area and a
national membership who see to it that the
flame keeps burning. Please, please, please
keep your annual donations rolling in as I
intend to!
While my direct involvement in the
library will be somewhat limited in years
to come, I won't be far away. You can count
on me at various Brautigan functions and
perhaps even a spot at the librarian's desk
now and again. Thank you to everyone
who has helped make this an unforgettable
five years.
January 30, 1993
Dear Brautigan Library:
Herewith my contribution to the
Brautigan Birthday Book in celebration of
National Unpublished Writers Day. Thanks
for the opportunity and the impetus. At the
risk of violating the canon of the Brautigan
Library, it would be great to make available
copies of tile finished product, at least to
tile contributors. I would be willing to pay
any price (well, maybe not any price — the
euphoria of the decline of ReaganBushism
got to me) to have a copy. Somehow I feel
that you are considering such a move and that
RB himself would probably approve.
Thanks again and Happy Birthday, RB,
wherever you are!
T.F. , N. Kingston, RI
critically assess the circumstances and is­
sues of the early period of my life. As such
I have preferred to put it under tile category
of "Meaning of life". But if you perceive that
the content of the study or the prospects of
enhancing tile readership of this manuscript
justify some other category, please feel free
to do so.
I shall be extremely grateful if you keep
me informed about the reviews and responses
after tile display of this work.
With regards,
S.J. R. B.
Jamia Nagar, New Delhi
India
May 27,1993
Dear Brautigan Library,
I've been a fan of Brautigan's works since Day
#1. I have all of his books (in print) and have
read each one probably 5 times. And now I
hear about your Library. This is great!
-- Todd Lockwood
LEITERS WE HAVE
KNOWN
January 30, 1993
Dear BBB...
I read all of Richard Brautigan's books while
attending Sierra Nevada College in Incline
Village, Nevada in 1973-1975.
When I left the college, I gave all of my
first editions, and also my first editions of
Vonnegut, to tile school library.
I never got a word of thanks.
These few words in The Birthday Book will
make me feel better.
JM
Marina, CA
2.9.1992
Dear Sir
Thank you for your prompt response. I
am sending, herewith, an application, duly
filled in, tile manuscript, the synopsis, tile
bio-data and tile fee 50 US dollar, for your
kind perusal.
The "Epicentre" and the "Epilogue",
containing one para each, represent the main
spirit of this study. Therefore I am sending
these two sheets which together would serve
the purpose of synopsis.
It is not actually an autobiography to be
put under the category of "Family". In fact
the autobiographical style has been adopted
to describe, analyze, evaluate and
6
I'm enclosing a check for $2.00. Please send
me your Writer's Package. I have a manuscript
that I'd like to put in the Brautigan Library.
Have you heard of KUMQUAT MERINGUE?
It's a small literary magazine devoted to the
memory of Richard Brautigan: P.O. Box
5144, Rockford, IL 61125.
Have you read RICHARD BRAUTIGAN by
Marc Chenetier? It's an excellent analysis
of his works.
Thanks,
T.D.
Redondo Beach, CA
September 29, 1993
Dear Brautigan Library,
Please send me the "writers package" my check for two dollars is enclosed.
I was also curious as to if you
could send me any other information on
the inspiration for the Brautigan library and
how it operates, I have been working with
a community of approximately 30 women
across the United States and in England
for the last five years. We call our project
"JUNE". Ten months of the year we share
our writing (and there is a broad spectrum
of work — fiction, short stories, poetry, segments or longer works, works in progress,
performance pieces — you name it — it
appears on our pages.
These monthly issues are not for
the general public, this is our sacred space
— our first year the word that came up
often was "safe", a safe place to write, to
speak, to dare — a place to learn and grow,
to experiment and explore. Members give
each other feedback on the pieces. We use
our pages as a community source, a place
for the creative life, a network system, an
information exchange.
The members have varied interests
— some wish to be published, for others this
is the first time to experience their "voice".
Once a year we do publish a compilation
issue, which in the past has contained one
piece from each member from the past years
work.
I am interested in introducing the
Brautigan library to the members of JUNE.
I am asking your permission to share the
information you send me with JUNE in the
context of our internal monthly issues. (I will
assume that the application should not be
shared but members could get one from you
for the $2.00 fee) I am particularly interested
in how the concept for the Brautigan Library
evolved into an actual place. Thank you for
your assistance.
With Warm Regards.
CA.
Somerville. MA
FROM OUR
CATALOG
E.J. Nickson
(London, ENGLAND W3)
MOON HARVEST
Social/Political/Cultural: SOC 1990.031
Atlantis sank beneath the waves in a single
day and night, destroyed by an asteroid striking the Earth. But supposing that had not
happened, that the calamity had been only
postponed, and that Atlantis had survived
to become the present-day dominant world
power? The world today would have been
both a familiar and yet very different place.
This scene is painted by an adventure story
which, while grappling with the race to
save civilization from destruction, gives
ample scope for exploring a diversity of
socialogical, theological, scientific and even
linguistic byways.
Ruth M. Sprague
(So. Burlington, VT)
VERMONT
All The Rest: ALL 1990.024
VERMONT is a musical play about Ethan
Allen and set in the time of the Revolutionary War and Vermont's struggles to become
one of the states. It tells of ordinary people
doing extraordinary things to maintain their
freedom and homes.
Ralph P. Sbraccia
(Browns Mills, NJ)
TALES OF WE THREE
Spirituality: SPI 1990.008
This book is a collection of short stories about
God, His Son, and the rest of their family us. Although he's a Christian, the writer does
not belong to any denomination and is not a
'church goer'. In fact, to be perfectly honest
with you, the writer is completely turned off
by what organized religion has done to the
true meaning of Christianity. This book attempts to show the true nature of God, Jesus,
and us in very simple, human terms.
(Continued on page 8)
7
The 23
Editor: Dan Gallagher
Proofreader: Pamela Polston
Contributing writers: Leslie Mills, Pamela
Polston, and the Brautigan Librarians.
ATTENTION WRITERS! To receive
our writer’s package, including complete
information about the library and an
application to submit work, please send
$2 (to cover our postage and printing) to:
The Brautigan Library, P. O. Box 521,
Burlington, VT 05402.
The Brautigan Library is a Vermont
nonprofit corporation. It is governed by a
Board of Trustees made up of prominent
literary and media professionals from the
State of Vermont. Our Advisory Board
includes writers, poets and other creative
people from across America. We are
supported by fees paid by writers to submit
their works to the library, and also by the
generous donations of our Supporting
Members. We receive no support in the
way of local or state taxes.
You can become a Supporting Member
of the Brautigan Library with a donation
of $25 or more. Memberships may be
renewed annually. All members will
receive a one-year subscription to this
newsletter. For more information, write
to us at: The Brautigan Library, P. O. Box
521, Burlington, VT 05402
You can visit the Brautigan Library!
We’re located in the beautiful city of
Burlington, Vermont, on the shore of
Lake Champlain. It’s a beautiful place to
visit, though cool some of the time. All the
better for reading! You’ll find us tucked
in an alley at 91 College Street — just off
the downtown area. At the present time
we’re open on Saturdays and Sundays
only, 11AM-5PM. Please call us at 802658-4775 for a recorded message with
information about our hours.
Richard Brautigan's novel, The Abortion:
An Historical Romance 1966, is now back
in print! The novel has been included in
a new paperback release which contains
three Brautigan works.
(Catolog - continued from page 7)
Susan Lyn Lummis
(Lahaska, PA)
DEN OF THE COCKATRICE
Love: LOV 1990.015
The story of three females, illustrating the
power women possess; how they use it constructively or destructively; and the belief
systems which prevent them from living
fulfilling lives.
Marshall Motz
(Santa Cruz, CA)
TO THERE BE IT NOT
Spirituality: SPI 1990.009.A-B
Virgil Hunt, aging perpetual student, comes
to Santa Cruz, in the early seventies, to
pursue a doctoral degree in “History of
Consciousness." He is seduced by the city
itself, a bizarre and completely unique place
where the sixties somehow still survive, and
he falls in with a group of middle-aged malcontents who live in the infamous St. George
Hotel, on the colorful Pacific Garden Mall.
Together they search for the “Total Truth,"
both on the Mall and at the newly created
and innovative experimental campus on a
nearby hill - and Virgil comes to identify
completely with these zanies as they come
increasingly to feel pressure from the local
police and the intimidated merchants. The
whole experiment, like a great illusion, seems
to die as the book ends in the earthquake of
'89, and the Mall itself lies buried beneath
the rubble.
R. J. Heale
(Marblehead, MA)
WHY LIFE CANNOT EXIST ON THE
OTHER PLANETS
Natural World: NAT 1990.016
In order to understand why life cannot exist on
the other planets, we need to determine how
life exists on our own planet. Therefore, we
need to study life on Earth from an overall
planetary perspective.
Felix G. Arnstein
(West Orange, NJ)
THE BRUCKNER VERSIONS
All The Rest: ALL 1990.025
Anton Bruckner, composer, teacher, organist, is dying. His young disciples Hugo
THE BRAUTIGAN LIBRARY
P. O. Box 521
Burlington, Vermont 05402
America's only library of unpublished writing.
ISS17
8
Wolf and Gustav Mahler do not want to let
go of him: they feel he represents a sort of
adoptive father to them and much more,
something intangible without which both
feel their respective careers would be cut
short at their very start. As for Bruckner
himself, someone is trying to 'improve' his
symphonies. Who? Why? Will Bruckner
discover all? Will wolf and Mahler succeed
in preventing Bruckner from dying? And
what about the Eternal Mistress...?
If you'd like to communicate with one
of our authors, simply send us your sealed,
postage-paid letter with the author's name
on the outside. We will gladly forward your
inquiry to the author's address. Copies of
manuscripts can only be supplied by the
author. However, many authors are pleased
to loan copies of their work to interested
readers.