Everyone agreed that Clevinger was certain to go far in the academic world. In short, Clevinger was one of those people with lots of intelligence and no brains, and everyone knew it except those who soon found it out.
In short, he was a dope. He often looked to Yossarian like one of those people hanging around modern museums with both eyes together on one side of a face. It was an illusion, of course, generated by Clevinger’s predilection for staring fixedly at one side of a question and never seeing the other side at all. Politically, he was a humanitarian who did know right from left and was trapped uncomfortably between the two. He was constantly defending his Communist friends to his right-wing enemies and his right-wing friends to his Communist enemies, and he was thoroughly detested by both groups, who never defended him to anyone because they thought he was a dope.
He was a very serious, very earnest and very conscientious dope. It was impossible to go to a movie with him without getting involved afterward in a discussion on empathy, Aristotle, universals, messages and the obligations of the cinema as an art form in a materialistic society. Girls he took to the theater had to wait until the first intermission to find out from him whether or not they were seeing a good or a bad play, and then found out at once. He was a militant idealist who crusaded against racial bigotry by growing faint in its presence. He knew everything about literature except how to enjoy it.
Yossarian tried to help him. ‘Don’t be a dope,’ he had counseled Clevinger when they were both at cadet school in Santa Ana, California.
Who is more pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policeman or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?
‘I’m not a drug salesman. I’m a writer.’
‘What makes you think a writer isn’t a drug salesman?’
the title image they did for my story is gorgeous and perfect – me in mental shoes 002
“So you want another story?”
“Uhh… no. We would like to know what really happened.”
“Doesn’t the telling of something always become a story?”
“Uhh… perhaps in English. In Japanese a story would have an element of invention in it. We don’t want any invention. We want the ‘straight facts,’ as you say in English.”
“Isn’t telling about something–using words, English or Japanese–already something of an invention? Isn’t just looking upon this world already something of an invention?”
–Yann Martel, Life Of Pi
If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.