God is alive. Magic is afoot.
The sound of this recording used to frighten me as a small child.
The song is music wrapped around the text suddenly dropped into the midst of a steamy sex scene at page 197 of the Bantam 1967 3rd printing of Leonard Cohen’s suffocatingly beautiful novel “Beautiful Losers”. I must admit that I last read it at least 20yrs ago. I have my Dad’s tattered paperback, sans outer covers, with this (among many others) section marked with a ”+” in the outer margin. I swear when I open it and put it to my face and inhale I can smell the vigourous ghost of my 1969 home on Stanton Avenue in Castro Valley. Not that that has anything to do with the book itself.
The narrator of the story, unnamed, is a heroin addict, grieving a dead wife and in love with his best friend, F. I'm working with mostly hazy memories, but it seems F is somewhat of a heroic sensualist, admired and envied by the narrator.
The narrator is also deeply in love with Catherine Tekakwitha , a Mohawk maiden who was sainted by the Catholic church and who died some 250yrs before the story takes place.
The story is just going along for 196.6 pages or so, then, when our narrator’s hand has just got to the point where it’s slathered in vaginal juices and sloshing heartily beneath a steamy skirt, suddenly and non-sequiturially:
Old friend, you may kneel as you read this, for now I come to the sweet burden of my argument. I did not know what I had to tell you, but now I know. I did not know what I wanted to proclaim, but now I am sure. All my speeches were preface to this, all my exercises but a clearing of my throat. I confess I tortured you but only to draw your attention to this. I confess I betrayed you but only to tap your shoulder. In our kisses and sucks, this, ancient darling, I meant to whisper.
God is alive. Magic is afoot. God is alive. Magic is afoot. God is afoot. Magic is alive. Alive is afoot. Magic never died. God never sickened. Many poor men lied. Many sick men lied. Magic never weakened. Magic never hid. Magic always ruled. God is afoot. God never died. God was ruler though his funeral lengthened. Though his mourners thickened. Magic never fled. Though his shrouds were hoisted the naked God did live. Though his words were twisted the naked Magic thrived. Though his death was published round and round the world the heart did not believe. Many hurt men wondered. Many struck men bled. Magic never faltered. Magic always led. Many stones were rolled but God would not lie down. Many wild men lied. Many fat men listened. Though they offered stones Magic still was fed. Though they locked their coffers God was always served. Magic is afoot. God rules. Alive is afoot. Alive is in command. Many weak men hungered. Many strong men thrived. Though they boasted solitude God was at their side. Nor the dreamer in his cell, nor the captain on the hill. Magic is alive. Though his death was pardoned round and round the world the heart would not believe. Though laws were carved in marble they could not shelter men. Though altars built in parliaments they could not order men. Police arrested Magic and Magic went with them for Magic loves the hungry. But Magic would not tarry. It moves from arm to arm. It would not stay with them. Magic is afoot. It cannot come to harm. It rests in an empty palm. It spawns in an empty mind. But Magic is no instrument. Magic is the end. Many men drove Magic but Magic stayed behind. Many strong men lied. They only passed through Magic and out the other side. Many weak men lied. They came to God in secret and though they left him nourished they would not tell who healed. Though mountains danced before them they said that God was dead. Though his shrouds were hoisted the naked God did live. This I mean to whisper to my mind. This I mean to laugh with in my mind. This I mean my mind to serve till service is but Magic moving through the world, and mind itself is Magic coursing through the flesh, and flesh itself is Magic dancing on a clock, and time itself the Magic Length of God.
Old friend, aren’t you happy? You and Edith alone know how long I’ve waited for this instruction.
—Damn you, Mary Voolnd spits at me.
—What?
—Your hand’s gone limp. Grab!
How many times must I be slain, old friend? I do not understand the mystery, after all. I am an old man with one hand on a letter and one hand up a juicy cunt, and I understand nothing. If my instruction were gospel, would it wither up my hand? Certainly not. It doesn’t figure. I’m picking lies out of the air. They’re aiming lies at me. The truth should make me strong. I pray you, dear friend, interpret me, go beyond me. I know now that I am a hopeless case. Go forth, teach the world what I meant to be.
—Grab.
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