‘Wuthering Heights: Book Two - Margery Kempe’, by D.M. Rice

Wuthering Heights is an experimental redaction in the style of the William Burroughs cut ups. The source texts are The Odyssey, The Book of Margery Kempe, The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, and Stoner by John Williams.

Love and charity – she had been sleeping in a stable. Joan rummaged in her—came to Dover, each fistful of clippings.

‘Here, have a look.’ He wanted to help her.

Therefore she set, with black-shadowed eyes and sorrowful and grieving [      ] couldn’t imagine where such a [        ] did not know the way. She was poor men’s clothes, unbuttoned, come to the door like imitation stars. SCHOLARSHIP GIRL MISSING – she would reward him for his picture in our Lord’s name, [        ] Canterbury. White blouse, she left a note, sent her help to succor Miss Greenwood with many a devout tear. Her mother called the town—nearly every place that she came [       ] . The next clipping showed a picture of my mother and occasion for it all in our backyard and smiling. Find out where your father’s white sneakers are. To wring his secrets [    ] how must [     ] approach him if you want some family snaps I think you will get anything. Mrs Greenwood asked but Telemachus was weary. How shall [       ] practice in making ‘Telemachus’ replied Athene, about a dozen moon-faced heavens will inspire you. People at the end of the row watched your progress until they realised they were not Pallas Athene, used in search for a missing girl. Machus followed in the steps—the spot doesn’t look good.

Actually, it wasn’t the covering her face with her hands that bothered me.
Her grief; ‘Alas, my child, people sleep with each other. Zeus must - in men, god-fearing though you may be. Gone out for the Thunderer—so many fat sacrifices as you used to stand, that you might age in comfort and purity. 

‘Prince, you are the only one of my house that bitches here? What does your mother think?—spare yourself.’ 

That week-end my wise Queen has given me the [   ] amazingly close. I will bathe your feet, both for quoting what she said about [       ] and women, and about virginity for men. She gave [        ] look, and I knew she was trying to the dull course as he moved. So that it seemed, criticism is also sadly at lack. Never still. Her flesh, that had Shakespeare even red and pale, beneath a warm light flowing beneath a milky translucent flesh. The calm and poise friendly and contemporary, who thought herself, masked, less Greek. Whose intensity was this side of idolatry, not disguised—lack. On the contrary, he wished what others soar of Shakespeare before that burning of the midnight—love and rule. Shakespeare was not born out of sweetness on the desert air; and they knew each other from that source whence all poets go they need the immortal bard to be found in a grammar, in repose. 

The [    ] of distance, all sorts of ruddy others, and any other [     ]. And like the most interesting reserve, he had slept with somebody, myself—warmth and playfulness and then thought no more about it. Buddy’s pretending I was so sexy. In his forty-third year, William—he’d been having much younger, learned love. Love at first is not the person. Love is not an end but a process.

I asked to know another. They were both very shy. He was always slowly, tentatively between a man and woman both. When I first went queer, I was a virgin—same age as your master. Yes, feet are like our guests by fortune. Nothing could come of the old woman—burst into tears and gave voice to you and unhappiness for me. It seemed impossible. 

‘There shouldn’t be a thing that I could feel, anything but—’

Indeed I have hated you above all, for no one ever burnt as awkwardly as a boy. He prayed and sat beside her. Tentatively, see your son grow up like a strained embrace; and for a long, terrible [     ]. 

A single grasp.

‘Well, I am most willing, be they dark brown or black.’

They caught the dim light and glittered moistly, the eyes beneath. I was perhaps selfish. I felt for Odysseus this awkwardness for [     ] blankets and clean sheets and saying farewell to the snow. You know my—circumstances. We will lie just as I have often lain and [      ]. That you could—that you [      ]. Many’s the night I’ve spent on the gold light of the blessed Dawn. A foot-bath appeals to me very much. I come, over here. Your maidservants here to touch my [       ], found myself trembling around the coffee table, old and respectable dames as I have had. If there is such a one, clumsy, their hands awkwardly handling my feet. Time together passes so [      ]. 

My dear friend - as this house has ever [       ], let escape, decent soul, that [       ]. They held between them an unhappy husband and brought him arms the moment he was born. Her eyes were a deep violet. Sometimes, this service [     ] for one who is of [     ], of a lamp in the room and no doubt Odysseus’ hands and his head one way. And now, men age quickly in mist.

Even if he had read [      ], needs not the embarrassed Mother or whatever. After he became used to his [      ], at twenty-one, perverse admiration stealing as imprecise, the man’s powers, always saying how his mate was real, was something. 

‘What a man is - is an arrow into something desperately cautious.’ 

His mother still in presence of a bluff so colossal and wasn’t that wonderful for dealing with it. She really knew what was what. For it was clear even Buddy was entirely impromptu. S., that genius, unique and a law in such “tradition” as capped the hills of Crete. So, whether it be generically Latin Genius, soaring and free, must...keep vigil in the past. For unseemly prospect shouldn’t care for any of rhetoric and invention. Feet, however grotesque, as experience. Cold and calculating and needlessly reckless and yet wise Penelope became aware that she [     ] from abroad. 

‘For you talk so sensibly - I have the most inattentive students who faithfully nursed my [               ].’ 

In fact she took him in, engaged in a performance: she shall wash your feet. 

‘Come, Eurycleia, and doubt - or not.’

I thought Buddy was distinguished from me. He admitted [      ]. What proof is offered that? What did you say? Obscure Roman grammarian? 

‘I said Gladys was free.’

White: Ben Johnson—he hesitated for [      ]. Now I knew Buddy would Johnson himself. Shakespeare’s rudely that for my sake. 

He said he had little Latin and mother said, ‘What a man, who wants infinite security, and Shakespeare. Impute to his great friend the future and a woman to suggest the off from. It made me tired, was not attributable to oil, to a genius. Nature, mundane law. Every time I tried to argue pleasure out of unlike, lesser poets, people age. They must mean to blush unseen and wasteful.’ 

Well, I had just decided to partake of that mysterious sustenance, such stultifying rules as are moving.

The cold air swept S.’s hot face. She blinked several times, almost bold. At last she nodded. She did not smile.

One evening in the spring of no cloud the scent of budding shone upon a light snow that [      ]. The streets were deserted, broken by the dry snow. He stood—stillness: a loud, defiant clatter. [       ] house to which he had come, in the somnolence of a new green bud that glowed out. The cold numbed his feet, but he went into the curtained windows. A dim light fell like a yellow smudge; he thought—but he could not be sure.

‘You’re late,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said.

The unlighted bedroom open in the darkness, he murmured—someone’s been trying to get her, but his words were [          ] every hour. William took the receiver away impersonally. No one answered.

‘Hello?’ 

He closed his lips tight. The thin strange voice of a movement loosened this Bill S. He crumpled about her feet. Her arms shuddered as if from cold.
‘You don’t know me. I was in the other room. I’ll be ready. I’ve been trying all…’.

Put his lips to hers. They stared at candles that flickered in the midst of glass. It had the door to fresh water. Running candle-light glowed feebly, as if to comfort and assure some god he could not hear it was impossible to see ahead. Not a gleam of light upon her body fumbled, was obscured by clouds. She, among us, caught sight of the dimness in her eyes [    ] was beating up aground. It was not till they jumped out, shoulders bare, and waited for the blessed.

[     ] said, in a flat voice, ‘Go’. 

With crimson streamers he touched what we saw of her shoulder. She would order my company. In the sitting room the Nymphs, those Children over the remains of their bottle champagne, bows and our long spears poured a little of the wine and let fly at the game; and in ships, separated into three parties, down the path to the porch Providence had sent [       ]—were twelve ships in my squadron. S. had learned earlier, been widowed for a number of years. Long till the sun set we sat and and asked to wash down [      ] with fine white hair that twinkled, and she spoke of the company. She was telling secrets. S. sat, facing her. Land of the Cyclopses, we were covered with their fires, clung to their shoes; he watched the sun on the thick floral rug under the first rosy light and gave them their orders. 

‘For the time being, I want you to stay at the University, Mr S. I will to Ithaca with my own crew to find out of the harbour. There is a stream of [      ] in a grove of poplar-trees.‘ 

‘This is where we came to. The murky night, 1927, came in a thick fog, through the moon, flowers mingled and hung. In these circumstances not a man hummed in the shadows. In the island we see the raised dust and coast before our good ships ran [      ], lowered sail.’

He walked slowly, caught shore, fell asleep where we were bemused by the light of day.

‘When the fresh Dawn came and Edith lit the sky, we were delighted with the telephone. To her, Zeus set them, we fetched our growth, warm and sweetish.’

When he returned, Edith pulled her chin, her face a thin frown creasing her asleep. S. undressed.

‘We had doctor’s orals. It’s an impersonal thing. I told them, Edith, but they’ve been calling back.’

He put his hand upon the cloth of her night-gown and spoke into the mouthpiece, moved his hand upon her. He touched the softness of [       ] sharply and lifted her, passing by.

‘Your ma asked—’
No sound.
‘Afternoon.’

For several moments without satisfaction, there through the doorway nine goats fell to each, which she turned and looked at him and enjoyed this rich supply of meat, her pale eyes were speculative by mellow wine, since the ships had called for the red vintage. 

There was still some in the sacred citadel, a generous supply in the neighboring overhead. The half-moon smoke from voices, and the bleating of their sheep had fallen earlier in the down. Night fell, and we slept in the muffled silence of dawn. 

I assembled my company, crunching underfoot as, ‘My good friends,’ I said, ‘for the while I go in silence.’

What men are over there, did not move. 

From the [      ] upon the blue-white snow, he saw movement inside—deliberately, as if committing, with the covers turned upward, eyes closed. Silently, as if her name had got into bed beside her, for Emma Darley had laid with his desire, which had become—belonging to himself alone. He spoke, a short, plump woman for what he felt; she did not [       ] her and felt beneath the thin—softly and breathlessly as if the [                      ] flesh he had longed for; he followed her into the parlor, did not stir; her frown deepened her name to silence; then thick blue velvet snow had been gentle in its clumsiness. When it melted and formed damp patches her thighs turned her head to his feet.

‘Edith tells me you teach,’ Mrs Darley said.