Love, Here Is My Hat
Jan. 13th, 2002 02:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
judecorpThis is one of my favorite stories, even though the course I read it in (Freshman English Composition 2) was arguably my least favorite. I'm not a big fan of the Classic Short StoryTM but I've always been a big fan of this one.
It was on my mind just now, and I'm procrastinating reading about Minuchin's Family Structure theory, so I thought I would type it out for posterity.
You... you will be mean. (No, I won't!)
And I... I'll drink all the time!
We should be lovers! (We can't do that.)
We should be lovers, and that's a fact.
Love, Here Is My Hat
by William Saroyan
When I woke up I didn't know what time it was, what day, or what city. I knew I was in a hotel room. It seemed to be either pretty late or a small town. I didn't know whether to get up or go on lying on the bed in my clothes. It was dark.
I knew I was feeling the same.
Love is absurd, always has been, always will be. It's the only thing, but it's absurd. It's too good for anything but birds. It's too splendid for any form of life that's cluttered up with all the crazy things the human form of life is cluttered up with. It's too fine for creatures who wear clothes, which inhabit the world, who must work, who must earn money, who cannot live on air and water.
It's too good for animals that can talk.
I woke up and remembered where I was and why. I was in a room in the Riverside Hotel in Reno and I wasn't in Reno for divorce because I wasn't married. I was in Reno because she was in San Francisco.
I'm not a canary, oriole, dove, quail, robin, hummingbird, or any other kind of feathered creature that lives in or near trees, and exists only to love another canary, oriole, dove, quail, robin, or hummingbird, and sing about it. I'm an American. Fun is fun, but I know the difference between good wholesome fun and love, and love is too good for me or anybody like me. It's too wonderful. I can't fly and I can't sing and I need honest-to-God nourishment. I've got to have rare roast beef at least once a day and when I'm in love I can't eat.
I can't be that nice, either, and not feel ridiculous. It isn't my nature to be that nice. That may be all right for an oriole, but it's just a little absurd for me. I can be that nice when I don't mean it, but when I mean it, it's just too wonderful for words. Being that nice is all right for some good-looking dope in a movie, but it's just too wonderful in San Francisco.
I was in Reno because I wanted her to start eating regularly again and let me eat regularly too. I wanted her to get well, so I could get well too.
Look, I told her in San Francisco, I'm getting awfully hungry. Will you excuse me while I leave town?
Leave town? she said. If you go, I go.
Nothing would please me more, I said, but if you go with me, we won't be able to eat and what we need is food. We're both undernourished. Look at me. I'm scarcely a shadow of what I was three weeks ago.
You look wonderful, she said.
No, I don't, I said. I look hungry. I am hungry. You look hungry too.
I don't care if I do, she said. If you go away, I'm going with you. I can't live without you.
Yes, you can, I said. What you can't live without is roast beef.
I don't care if I never eat again, she said.
Look, I said. You've got to get some food and sleep, and so do I.
I won't let you go, she said.
All right, I said. Then we'll die of starvation together. It's all right with me if it's all right with you.
It's all right with me, she said.
All right, I said. I won't go. What shall we do? I mean, first?
It was a little after eleven and we had just gotten home after a movie and an attempt to eat sandwiches that wouldn't go down, except dry. We ate the pickles and drank the coffee.
Let's stay here and listen to the phonograph, she said.
Or shall we go out and have a few drinks? I said.
Wouldn't you rather stay here and listen to the phonograph? she said.
I guess I would, I said.
So we went to bed.
It might have been a couple of orioles.
Three days later, though, we decided to let me go away. We laughed and she said she wouldn't try to find out where I had gone to and wouldn't follow me and I said I wouldn't write, wire, or telephone her.
I feel sick, she said.
Don't be silly, I said. Get in bed and go to sleep and when you wake up, have them bring you a big tray of food. Keep that up for a week.
All right, she said.
I rode to the airport in a cab and two hours later I was in Reno. Fifteen minutes later I was asleep in this room in the Riverside Hotel. I slept like a baby and when I woke up I didn't know what time it was, what day, or what city. Little by little I began to remember.
I got up and yawned. Then I went downstairs and ate a hearty but sad supper of rare roast beef. I don't think it did me much good. After supper I took a walk around town. It was bright and pleasant, but I didn't feel right. I wished I was back in San Francisco, so I got into a cab and rode out of town to The Tavern where I had eight or nine drinks. When I got back to the hotel it was a quarter after two. The desk clerk handed me the key to my room and eleven slips of paper asking me to telephone 783-J. That was a local number. I went to my room and telephoned 783-J.
Where are you? I said.
I'm in Reno, she said.
I know, I said. But where?
I'm at Leon & Eddy's, she said. That number's the number of the phone in the booth here. I'm drunk.
I'll come and get you, I said.
Are you all right? she said.
I'm fine, I said. Are you all right?
I want to cry, she said.
I'll come and get you, I said.
Did you eat? she said.
Yes, I said. Did you?
No, she said. I couldn't.
I'll be right down, I said. How did you know I was in Reno?
The desk clerk told me, she said. I asked him if he knew where you had gone and he told me you had gone to Reno. He told the name of the hotel too. Did you tell him?
Yes, I said.
I didn't think you would, she said. Why did you do it?
I don't know, I said. I guess I thought maybe you might ask him. Why did you ask him?
I thought maybe you might tell him, she said.
I'll be right down, I said.
Leon & Eddy's was two blocks from the hotel, but I took a cab anyway.
When I saw her sitting at the small table, holding the tall glass and looking alone and lonely, I felt sick and happy again, only worse. It was goofy. It was the only thing, but it was crazy.
Come on, I said.
It was too good for me or anybody like me, but it seemed to be the will of the good Lord.
We walked to the hotel.
What we'll have to do, I said, is quarrel and hate one another. It's no use getting married.
I won't quarrel, she said.
We're bound to find something to quarrel about, I said. It may take another day or two, but we're bound to find something. It we don't, it'll just be too bad. This is terrible. I love you.
I love you too, she said.
We stayed in Reno eleven days. Then I told her what I knew she knew I was going to tell her.
Everything's fine, I said. I want it to stay that way.
All right, she said. But we didn't quarrel, did we?
No, I said. Would you prefer a small quarrel?
No, she said.
I'm glad we met, I said.
I took a train back to Frisco and was sick all the way. I knew I would get well, though, and I did.
It took me a long time, but after I got well, nothing was spoiled, and the next time I saw her, three months later, she was well too, so we had supper together.
It was the biggest and finest supper we ever had together, and we enjoyed everything.
Isn't is wonderful? she said.
It certainly is, I said.
It was on my mind just now, and I'm procrastinating reading about Minuchin's Family Structure theory, so I thought I would type it out for posterity.
And I... I'll drink all the time!
We should be lovers! (We can't do that.)
We should be lovers, and that's a fact.
by William Saroyan
When I woke up I didn't know what time it was, what day, or what city. I knew I was in a hotel room. It seemed to be either pretty late or a small town. I didn't know whether to get up or go on lying on the bed in my clothes. It was dark.
I knew I was feeling the same.
Love is absurd, always has been, always will be. It's the only thing, but it's absurd. It's too good for anything but birds. It's too splendid for any form of life that's cluttered up with all the crazy things the human form of life is cluttered up with. It's too fine for creatures who wear clothes, which inhabit the world, who must work, who must earn money, who cannot live on air and water.
It's too good for animals that can talk.
I woke up and remembered where I was and why. I was in a room in the Riverside Hotel in Reno and I wasn't in Reno for divorce because I wasn't married. I was in Reno because she was in San Francisco.
I'm not a canary, oriole, dove, quail, robin, hummingbird, or any other kind of feathered creature that lives in or near trees, and exists only to love another canary, oriole, dove, quail, robin, or hummingbird, and sing about it. I'm an American. Fun is fun, but I know the difference between good wholesome fun and love, and love is too good for me or anybody like me. It's too wonderful. I can't fly and I can't sing and I need honest-to-God nourishment. I've got to have rare roast beef at least once a day and when I'm in love I can't eat.
I can't be that nice, either, and not feel ridiculous. It isn't my nature to be that nice. That may be all right for an oriole, but it's just a little absurd for me. I can be that nice when I don't mean it, but when I mean it, it's just too wonderful for words. Being that nice is all right for some good-looking dope in a movie, but it's just too wonderful in San Francisco.
I was in Reno because I wanted her to start eating regularly again and let me eat regularly too. I wanted her to get well, so I could get well too.
Look, I told her in San Francisco, I'm getting awfully hungry. Will you excuse me while I leave town?
Leave town? she said. If you go, I go.
Nothing would please me more, I said, but if you go with me, we won't be able to eat and what we need is food. We're both undernourished. Look at me. I'm scarcely a shadow of what I was three weeks ago.
You look wonderful, she said.
No, I don't, I said. I look hungry. I am hungry. You look hungry too.
I don't care if I do, she said. If you go away, I'm going with you. I can't live without you.
Yes, you can, I said. What you can't live without is roast beef.
I don't care if I never eat again, she said.
Look, I said. You've got to get some food and sleep, and so do I.
I won't let you go, she said.
All right, I said. Then we'll die of starvation together. It's all right with me if it's all right with you.
It's all right with me, she said.
All right, I said. I won't go. What shall we do? I mean, first?
It was a little after eleven and we had just gotten home after a movie and an attempt to eat sandwiches that wouldn't go down, except dry. We ate the pickles and drank the coffee.
Let's stay here and listen to the phonograph, she said.
Or shall we go out and have a few drinks? I said.
Wouldn't you rather stay here and listen to the phonograph? she said.
I guess I would, I said.
So we went to bed.
It might have been a couple of orioles.
Three days later, though, we decided to let me go away. We laughed and she said she wouldn't try to find out where I had gone to and wouldn't follow me and I said I wouldn't write, wire, or telephone her.
I feel sick, she said.
Don't be silly, I said. Get in bed and go to sleep and when you wake up, have them bring you a big tray of food. Keep that up for a week.
All right, she said.
I rode to the airport in a cab and two hours later I was in Reno. Fifteen minutes later I was asleep in this room in the Riverside Hotel. I slept like a baby and when I woke up I didn't know what time it was, what day, or what city. Little by little I began to remember.
I got up and yawned. Then I went downstairs and ate a hearty but sad supper of rare roast beef. I don't think it did me much good. After supper I took a walk around town. It was bright and pleasant, but I didn't feel right. I wished I was back in San Francisco, so I got into a cab and rode out of town to The Tavern where I had eight or nine drinks. When I got back to the hotel it was a quarter after two. The desk clerk handed me the key to my room and eleven slips of paper asking me to telephone 783-J. That was a local number. I went to my room and telephoned 783-J.
Where are you? I said.
I'm in Reno, she said.
I know, I said. But where?
I'm at Leon & Eddy's, she said. That number's the number of the phone in the booth here. I'm drunk.
I'll come and get you, I said.
Are you all right? she said.
I'm fine, I said. Are you all right?
I want to cry, she said.
I'll come and get you, I said.
Did you eat? she said.
Yes, I said. Did you?
No, she said. I couldn't.
I'll be right down, I said. How did you know I was in Reno?
The desk clerk told me, she said. I asked him if he knew where you had gone and he told me you had gone to Reno. He told the name of the hotel too. Did you tell him?
Yes, I said.
I didn't think you would, she said. Why did you do it?
I don't know, I said. I guess I thought maybe you might ask him. Why did you ask him?
I thought maybe you might tell him, she said.
I'll be right down, I said.
Leon & Eddy's was two blocks from the hotel, but I took a cab anyway.
When I saw her sitting at the small table, holding the tall glass and looking alone and lonely, I felt sick and happy again, only worse. It was goofy. It was the only thing, but it was crazy.
Come on, I said.
It was too good for me or anybody like me, but it seemed to be the will of the good Lord.
We walked to the hotel.
What we'll have to do, I said, is quarrel and hate one another. It's no use getting married.
I won't quarrel, she said.
We're bound to find something to quarrel about, I said. It may take another day or two, but we're bound to find something. It we don't, it'll just be too bad. This is terrible. I love you.
I love you too, she said.
We stayed in Reno eleven days. Then I told her what I knew she knew I was going to tell her.
Everything's fine, I said. I want it to stay that way.
All right, she said. But we didn't quarrel, did we?
No, I said. Would you prefer a small quarrel?
No, she said.
I'm glad we met, I said.
I took a train back to Frisco and was sick all the way. I knew I would get well, though, and I did.
It took me a long time, but after I got well, nothing was spoiled, and the next time I saw her, three months later, she was well too, so we had supper together.
It was the biggest and finest supper we ever had together, and we enjoyed everything.
Isn't is wonderful? she said.
It certainly is, I said.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2002-01-13 12:31 pm (UTC)Is that to the tune of David Bowie's "Heroes" ?
Cos I love that song. =)
no subject
Date: 2002-01-13 12:55 pm (UTC)And most of that part isn't sung...
Just the last two lines.
But really. You should just get the song. It's beautiful.
no subject
Date: 2002-01-13 02:08 pm (UTC)Maybe I could ICQ it to you sometime, if we were ever on at the same time or something.
And yes, it's the same song.