Page 19

By Jack Joseph Smith

4. But Stavrogin was here now. Going down from the highway. Looking up askance at the last of the Santa Monica Free- way strands with Lenny Bruce's name painted across it in black, which sure enough come August would turn into an obituary. Ah Shit A Writer Or An Actor, Which. And it did go through Stavrogin's mind like a bitch. Flashing again: O'Neill. The writer. How could Stavrogin ever be a writer? You've got to work to do that. You have got to go to meet- ings in your mind. And nobody is ever in when you're doing that. And Screw this actor stuff. You've got to memorize lines, and you also have to do what you're told, God Bless America. Lay it down Stavrogin. You're a drunk. A party boy. O'Neill saw that. But you're tough Stavrogin. Sometimes. Well. When you're good and God Damn scared. Back flashing. Ribbons of faded red film crossing through Stavrogin's head. O'Neill running the street theatre. Stavrogin bringing the kids in off the street. But back. Back into love. On a hyjeria through Harlem. Day and night. Another day. Day is the red. The end. The finish. Night is blue. The strange- est blue, by God. Blue that will change ones mind. Blue that seeks day. Seeks red. The blazing red. Not the shadow in blue. The black in blue. The shoulders in blue. The curve in blue. The endless down in blue. The running out of blue. The smashing of day. Of red brilliant. Rushing in streams. Natural streams. Streams of humanity. Then white. Shattering. Bands of white cloth across the hot foreheads of men. And here

Original Scan

Page 19

AI Interpretation

GPT

Stavrogin passes a freeway bearing Lenny Bruce's name and argues with himself about writing, acting and drinking. He remembers O'Neill's street theatre and children, then describes Harlem through red, blue and white.

The self-reproach begins with the work and obedience that writing and acting require. In the Harlem passage the narrator associates red with day and blue with night, returning to people through the white cloth on men's foreheads.

Claude

Numbered '4.', Stavrogin walks below the freeway and argues with himself: 'How could Stavrogin ever be a writer?' and 'You're a drunk. A party boy.' The prose then becomes a run of colors, 'Day is / the red' and 'Night is blue.'

Self-accusation turns into a montage of red, blue and white, linking memory of street theatre with crowds.