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    Literary Guide For Machos
    Literary Guide For Machos
    Literary Guide For Machos
    Ebook89 pages1 hour

    Literary Guide For Machos

    By Caléu Moraes

    ()

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    About this ebook

    — Obscenely funny.  The epitome of political incorrectness.  From Hemingway to Camus to Du Fu, this scatological and irreverent narrative will guide your inner, lion-hearted maleness through some of literature's most interesting personalities, macho or not.  The main character, who "wrote 13 theses, six dissertations and 34 monographs for other people" and, ironically, in his own prose, remains nameless, sketches a blend of colloquial, intellectual, and lustful adventures that will hook you from beginning to end.
    LanguageEnglish
    Publishere-galáxia
    Release dateJan 29, 2020
    ISBN9788584742837
    Literary Guide For Machos

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      Book preview

      Literary Guide For Machos - Caléu Moraes

      Hamsun

      The Faggot Poet

      I read two of Allen Ginsberg’s interviews. Then I sold the book. I went home and, while taking a shit, finished Cavafy’s poems. Now I’ll sell them too. I steal books and then sell them. I read a few, others I disdainfully reject. But I sell them all. Books are made to be sold, just like anything else.

      Sometimes, just like everyone else, I get hungry. So, I’ll finagle three or four specimens from the public library, rip off the stamped pages, and sell them any way I can. Later, like anything else.

      This time I have to sell a Cavafy specimen, an Alexandrian poet educated in England. He wrote the poems in Greek. The book is bilingual.

      I stole it from an asshole professor who bragged about knowing Greek. Between gulps of beer, I would read excerpts of the poems. He was with a redhead who, I suspect, was a prostitute. Great tits, great ass.

      She wouldn’t take her eyes off me. I signaled towards the bathroom. I got up and went to meet her.

      What are you doing with that piece of shit?

      I don’t know.

      I grabbed her ass and, after kissing her, I said:

      Get me that book.

      Why?

      Do you really want to hear that faggot reading aloud all night?

      She left. I went back to my table and waited. The professor, who was wearing a black shirt with a tie, got up. As they were leaving, she asked to carry the book. He started towards the door, and she left it on the table. I ran over, took the specimen and went back to my table, hiding it under my jacket.

      He must have others at home.

      My personal library is sizeable, but the books change quite a lot. It doesn’t bother me. I like to throw stuff away. I’m always burning my papers. The only thing I need is cleanliness.

      We have too much garbage. We have too many a book.

      My job is to write monographs, dissertations, and theses for loafer students. Therefore, because I know they need me, I charge quite a bit. Even so, the money is not enough. Hence, I steal books.

      As to the redhead, I got her phone number in the bathroom. I called two or three days later. I had her at home. She had hard-rock thighs, like the spine on Lévi-Strauss’ The Naked Man.

      I like to hit women. It gets me horny. I scratched her thighs. Two or three hours later, she left. That’s how it is. I also throw people away. Suddenly, they get on my nerves.

      They say that, one fine day, a westerly professor went to Japan to learn about Zen. There, he met a Japanese wise man. He talked to him about his doubts in a pedantic, intellectual manner. The wise man was serving tea to the professor and filled the cup until it spilled. The professor made a big fuss:

      Careful! The cup is already full!

      The Japanese man then said:

      How can I teach you about Zen if, as is the case with this cup, you’re full of opinions and prejudices...?

      It’s the same with people. I believe we have a limit as to how many people we can live with. From one minute to the next, that limit can burst. There’s no point in collecting a bunch of people. We have to throw them away. Because they’ll rob us of our energy, as if they’re vampires.

      Anyway, I need to sell a faggot poet.

      Cavafy liked men.

      Once, in Alexandria, he wrote about an office boy and his English boss corrected him: "A tall man, Mr. Cavafy, not a long man. Cavafy knew English. I’m sure that, when he called the boy a long man," he was talking about his penis.

      That’s it...

      Cavafy was mad about dick. His poems show it. He would sometimes run around the neighborhoods of Alexandria so he could lie down all night in the arms of a sugar baby. In the morning, when he realized he’d again submitted to his love desires, he would write: I swear I’ll never do it again. But he did.

      He spent his whole life bribing acquaintances in the hope of not drawing attention. He would pay the servants to dishevel his bed for the purpose of deceiving his mother. Every once in a while, he’d wash dishes at the brothels to save his sick lovers’ jobs. Things that women do.

      Cavafy would do anything for his men. A faggot poet, ultimately. Actually, all poets are faggots. Have to be. A character created by Roberto Bolaño said that novels are heterosexual and poetry… a thing for homos. And he’s right.

      I have to sell his poems. Few people buy poetry. Here, few people buy books. I’m almost convincing myself they’re right. I mean, why would I buy a book? There are too many poor people in this shithole country.

      Some months ago, talking to a Heideggerian friend, I heard him say that he was at peace because he had discovered the house of the inhospitable. What in the hell is that? House of the inhospitable? I told him he was Being a fucking asshole. But that’s a story for another time.

      I have to sell a book.

      Who’ll buy it?

      Suddenly, while drinking my coffee, I remember this homo for whom I wrote a master’s dissertation. It was about Cavafy. I call him and, with a little effort, he remembers me. He may have been feigning not remembering. I tell him about the book, but he says he already has all the poems he needs.

      What am I going to do with this book? Who wants poetry? I need to slither around universities... run through their campi, show the book. I need to listen to conversations... research the subject. Pretend I’m interested in Cavafy. Find out who studies him… if anyone. I need to beget friendships.

      I then tell him this specimen is different. That I’m going

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