August 31, 1974
"And soon Job's pastures dried up and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth so he could not pronounce the word "frankincense" without getting big laughs."
November 30, 1974
(The following is a sample of some of world literature's more imaginative creations that I am anthologizing in a four-volume set that Remainder and Sons plans to publish pending the outcome of the Norwegian shepherds' strike.)1
A selection of the writer-director's satirical writings.
Madness is a relative state. Who can say which of us is truly insane? And while I roam through Central Park wearing moth-eaten clothes and a surgical mask, screaming revolutionary slogans and laughing hysterically, I wonder even now if what I did was really so irrational. For, dear reader, I was not always what is popularly referred to as "a New York street crazy," pausing at trash cans to fill my shopping bags with bits of string and bottle caps.
It has been four weeks and it is still hard for me to believe Sandor Needleman is dead. I was present at the cremation and, at his son’s request, brought the marshmallows, but few of us could think of anything but our pain.Needleman was constantly obsessing over his funeral plans and once told me, “I much prefer cremation to burial in the earth, and both to a weekend with Mrs. Needleman.” In the end, he chose to have himself cremated and donated his ashes to the University of Heidelberg, which scattered them to the four winds and got a deposit on the urn.I can still see him with his crumpled suit and gray sweater. Preoccupied with weighty matters, he frequently would forget to remove the coat hanger from his jacket while he wore it. I reminded him of it one time at a Princeton Commencement, and he smiled calmly and said, “Good, let those who have taken issue with my theories think at least that I have broad shoulders.” Two days later, he was committed to Bellevue for doing a sudden back somersault in the midst of a conversation with Stravinsky.