1. art and entertainment
2. books and literature

The 23
Our family eagerly awaits the birth of our
newest member, a child due today according
to the calendars. My wife’s contractions are
strenthening, but not regular enough to be
considered early labor. We entertain ourselves
while waiting. It’s too cold to venture out.
The temperature dropped throughout the day
and never was above 5 below zero with thirty
mile an hour winds.
The atmosphere led to this silly conversation with our son Daniel who turns four in
March:
Dan: I’m eating French Toast
Dad: Did you say fence post? How can you
eat them without getting splinters?
Dan: (laughing) Not fence post, French
Celebrating Richard Brautigan’s
birthday with the writing of a public
book really seems to have struck a
chord. I don’t think any single event
at the library to date has generated
such warm enthusiasm and memories
for Richard Brautigan.
It is clear that Brautigan’s flame
has not gone out yet. Many people
shared with us personal encounters they
had had with Mr. Brautigan. One that
sticks out in my mind is the letter we
received from a woman who had visited
Brautigan’s San Francisco apartment
with her mother in the late sixties. She
was eight years old at the time.
Brautigan excused himself and
disappeared into a bedroom in the
apartment. After a few minutes he
reappeared with an autographed copy
of Trout Fishing in America with a
trout fly attached to the front cover.
That’s the kind of impression he left
on people.
But the most striking thing about
the public writing project was the
attitude of the writing we received.
People instantly understood what this
book was about: that it wasn’t about
publishing or careers. Instead, it was
about telling one’s story, sharing a
moment. Writers of all varieties got
into the spirit of it. January 30th was
a day of giving, not getting.
The Brautigan Library continues
to attract people from around the world
who believe in the symbolic importance
of what we’re doing. If you spend too
much time trying to find the practical in
the Brautigan, you’ll miss the real purpose of it. We’re fulfilling a need that
cannot be explained with numbers.
I am pleased to announce that
library Trustee Robert Cham has been
elected by our board to assume the role
of President of The Brautigan Library
Foundation. Bob has been with the
library since it was founded in 1990.
Katherine K. Wilder, a writer from
our area, has just joined the board of
trustees.
As usual, we are deeply indebted
to our volunteer librarians who make
(continued on page 4)
(continued on page 3)
A publication of the Brautigan Library
Volume 3, Number 2
A Very Public Library
March 1993
Birthday Greetings
On January 30, the Library celebrated
and honored Richard Brautigan’s birthday
with a very special event: a “Public Writing.” The contributions were to comprise
a Brautigan Birthday Book, which would
be placed on a special shelf in the Library.
Dozens of people came that day to create a
piece of writing on the spot, via one of the
computers or typewriters set up for the occasion. Chittenden cider and cider doughnuts
were served, as has become a Brautigan
Library tradition.
Burlington newspapers and television
stations covered the event, and word leaked
out across the country as well. Over the next
week or so, we received hundreds of letters
and packages from people with offerings for
the Birthday Book, an outpouring beyond
even our wild imaginations.
Lots of writers asked if we would be
printing the book and making copies available for purchase. Much as we’d like to,
that is not within our financial means at this
time. What we can do is share some of the
writings in these pages, like the ones that
follow. And for those who are able to visit,
the Birthday Book (two volumes) will be
available at the Library just as soon as we
have it gagged, er, compiled and bound.
— P.P.
Traveller’s Advisory
For those using the casement window
rule to select motel accomodation: Recent
travellers in the midwestern states have
reported that the presence of casement
This newsletter is published quarterly
by The Brautigan Library, Burlington,
Vermont — America's only library of
unpublished writing. “The 23” is the title
of a chapter in Richard Brautigan's novel,
The Abortion: An Historical Romance
1966, describing the unpublished works
of 23 unknown American authors.
Founder’s Message:
Striking a Chord
Woodcut by Dean Bornstein
windows cannot be considered a reliable
indication of a good cheap motel unless the
aroma of spicy food can be detected in the
lobby. Motels whose lobbies smell like airfreshener should be avoided at all costs.
Ray Ott
Plains, KS
__________
Waiting
Letters We Have Known
Dear readers,
If you’ve wondered why the letters
we’ve been printing are not more recent, it’s
because the Brautigan Library has received
so many since its inception. Though we don’t
intend to print all of them, we still have lots
to get through because the library was in
existence about a year before we started this
newsletter and thought to share the letters.
So there are lots to look forward to. Hope
you enjoy reading our mail as much as we
do.
January 17, 1992
Dear Mr. Lockwood,
I just wanted you to know how I enjoyed
reading the last issue of The 23. It was most
interesting to peruse the letters and synopses
of the books, however, I was appalled at
what terrible spellers some of these authors
are!! How can anyone write if he/she cannot spell? Anyway, the columns which are
apparently written by you are excellent as
to spelling and syntax. I would like to call
to your attention one minor error, a mistake
made by many — Bottom of p. 1 — should
read “each in his own way” — as “each” is
singular. Pardon me for mentioning it, as
otherwise the Founder’s Message is excellent.
Keep it up —
Sincerely —
L.L.
Oswegatchie, FL
(no date)
Hello —
I read about your library in an article in
a Japanese magazine. It’s sounds arcane and
delightful. I’m sending $2.00 for a ‘writer’s
application’.
By the way, could you tell me who reads
the books? I hope I hear from you soon.
Thanks,
J.P.
Kobe, Japan
1 January 1992
Sir/Madam,
With reference to your advertisement
on November/December isue of Youth 91
inviting anybody to send manuscript of unpublished books to your library which you
will give a hard cover binding and put it out
for public display for a $50 fee.
I hereby write to inform you that I am
interested in the advertisement, because I
have many unpublished books which this
advertisement will serve as a relief on me. In
reply of this letter, I will like to know more
about this advertisement and its conditions
within a short period of time. Please use the
above address when replying.
I promise to be co-operative in all our
future dealing.
Yours faithfully,
K-A. E.
Owerri (country unknown)
January 28, 1992
Dear Sir/Madam:
I had read on the Youth 91 Magazine that the
Brautigan Library is a library exclusively for
unpublished books and that you are accepting
compositions and manuscripts. Eventhough,
I’m a marketing management student, I always find time in composing literary pieces
and it’s always been my favorite past time.
Please send me informations about the requirements and procedures needed.
Thank you.
Very truly yours,
M.M. G. B.
La Union, Philippines
February 9, 1992
Dear Friends of the Brautigan Library,
I came upon the Brautigan Library the
way Richard would have liked — happenstance! Soon after I’d read of its existence in
the NY Times, my family planned a camping
trip to Burlington. I assumed, however, that
surely the Brautigan Library would be tucked
away in some obscure corner of UVM so
why waste our family vacation time looking for it? Imagine my surprise and delight
when I saw the sign — a very public library
— sticking out of the greenery right there on
College Street. We returned at the appropriate
hour to visit the one-of-a-kind establishment.
For me it was love at first sight from the big
Hellman’s jars to the pleasantly muddled
librarian who looked as if she’d stepped right
out of a Brautigan novel. Bravely I left my
trepidation at the door and came in.
When I was in college in New Hampshire
twenty years back, an assignment was to do an
oral report on an American poet. Ever true to
my alternative aspirations, I picked Richard
Brautigan. I wrote to him to suggest he attend
my presentation. He responded sending his
regrets along with a humorous comment or
two. I’ve searched my old red trunk twice
over hoping I had sense enough to save his
reply but so far nothing has turned up.
Still and all I’ll be honored to return to
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Burlington someday and see my manuscript
right up there with the Hellman jars.
Thank you for turning an innovative
idea into reality.
Sincerely,
N.D.
Stroudsburg, PA
15-06-92
Dear Sir/Madam,
I was reading a copy of the magazine
“Youth 91” (November-December) when I
saw the subheading — A library with your
book in it? — and I decided to write to you
for some information.
I am a fifth form student in high school
and will be graduating in less than two weeks.
I am very interested in writing and I hope to
pursue a career in Journalism.
Your advertisement appeals to me very
much and I would appreciate it very much if
you could send me all the details I need to
know concerning me sending a manuscript
to you. Include details that inform me as
to whether I can send you a manuscript of
poems, short stories (grouped together to
form a novel) or just one long story to form
a novel.
Thanks for reading my letter. I hope to
hear from you very soon.
Yours truly,
N.G.
Hanover, Jamaica
1 September 1992
Dear Sir/Madam,
REMOVAL OF THE BRAIN TRANSMITTER IN MY HEAD
I have learnt that your company published
books concerning deadly “Mind Control”
experiments (1).
For 5 years here in England, I’m also a victim
of this sinister brain manipulation technique.
Without my consent or knowledge, the British
secret police M.I.5 implemented in my head
a brain transmitter by being brain heated with
Laser from my next door.
Since then, I’m kept unlawfully under electronic house arrest, being subjected to daily
mental torture, sex persecution, unwanted
publicity through the B.B.C smearing my
character, background, motives and blaming
me for yet another MI5 fiasco.
Indeed, as it could appear, it’s not a science
fiction, but reality.
There’s a complete black out of my story,
conspiracy to silence and a false appeal to
patriotism to hide my scandalous dreadful
situation and cover-up a huge fiasco with very
damaging political consequences.
It’s one of the biggest political scandal of
the century.
In 1988, MI5 wanted to kill me for espionage.
I was sentenced to death penalty during a
theatrical secret trial.
I learnt about it only by april 1989 when
they were practised long distance hypnotism,
psychic warfare and brain manipulation on
me.
I did have no right to consult a lawyer about
my deadly cse; I was not present at the trial
and I didn’t even know about it though it’s
held at less than 3 miles away from my
house.
The British security services have never
interrogated me; they have never found
explosives in my house; they have never
seized espionage equipement or incriminating documents on me.
But how did they convict me of espionage and
decide the death penalty as punishment?
Being an innocent victim, I did expect to
regain my normal life and justice being done
to my cause.
Instead, the secret police’s using the doctrine
of national security to violate my human
rights and abuse the International Law.
And so, in 1989, they even fabricated ludicrous exotic evidence against me to convict
me for the second time in absentia to capital
punishment. . . . I’m banned from having sex
with ladies. . . .I’m kept isolated, on my own
and no female friend is allowed to visit or
stay with me for. . . 5 years.
All friendships or contacts with all people
are being made impossible. They are doing
what ever they wish to reinforce this isolation, promoting strange behaviour.
I will get my freedom when the British Labour
party win the next general elections. As they
did lost the last one on april 1992, I have to
wait until 1996 or 1997 to know if they could
win and then set my freedom.
I’ll be 40 years and have spent 10 precious
years of my life prisoner of MI5 without any
legal or moral justification.
And my wife could do also as the daughtersin-law of the Queen of England, find comfort
in the arms of another man.
At the beginning, it’s a classic criminal case
of espionage which ended-up in disaster.
Because I did have no support or assistance,
it’s becoming now a matter of sex and result
of british general elections.
They are commiting a crime by manipulating
my mind with a brain transmitter.
All people are sharing my inner most feelings,
thoughts, hearings, images, and vision. It’s
an intolarable violations of my basic rights
and freedoms.
In Britain, the media, human rights groups
and the politicians are remaining silent to
my never-ending dreadful situation.
I’m surviving as during the dark era of “sanguinaire” Josef Stalin in Russia.
This is why I have been campaigning tirelessly in American and all over Europe.
I do appreciate that you use your power to
make public my story, influence the removal
of the deadly brain transmitter in my head.
It’ll be very grateful to look into this matter
urgently.
Yours faithfully,
K.N.
London, England
Born: 25/DECEMBER/1957
Education: Electronics (University of Reims,
France)
Sept. 30, 1992
Dear Mr. Lockwood,
I was sitting in the library this morning at the
American International School in Egypt reading the International Herald Tribune when
I came upon an article about the Brautigan
Library. As head of the English Department,
I have been subjected for the past six weeks
since this school year began with countless
department meetings, accreditation meetings, and staff meetings. Even though I
hold the esteemed position of Department
Head of English, I have never been much
interested in joining any “educational” or
“literary” societies. As a refugee from the
sixties, Yuppiedom has held no appeal for
me nor have any organizations associated
with it in any way. But after reading of the
Brautigan Library, I realized that I had finally
found something worth joining.
I too, am one of the unsung (and unpublished)
writers of the world. I arise every morning
at five to write before my school day begins.
And if the past is any guide, my present work
(when completed) will adorn the bottom of
my closet. Thus I am interested in learning
more about the Brautigan Library. I believe
I meet the criteria: I am unpublished and I
have read Richard Brautigan (Trout Fishing
in America and A Confederate General at
Big Sur are my favorites).
The Tribune article stated that there is a two
dollar application fee. . .Once my manuscript
is completed and after it has wandered the
literary agents of the U.S., I imagine it will
need a home in your library.
3
Thank you for your time and cooperation.
R.M.
Cairo, Egypt
02 October 1992
Dear Librarian:
You would think I would have remembered or at least written down your name with
this address, wouldn’t you? Well, I didn’t.
Nor do I recall now where I read about you.
Probably in the “Expatriate Bible” (aka “The
IHT”).
No matter. Of more consequence is the
enclosed check in the amount of USD27.00.
Yes, it’s good. (Assuming you cash it
promptly, before American Express cashes
theirs!).
Why am I being so generous? Because I
want, I need, I absolutely must have an application and complete details and instructions
on submitting a manuscript for classifying,
cataloguing and shelving in the Brautigan
Library!
The extra USD25.00 is to keep this place
running until Kilgore Trout shows up with his
last novel. Please consider me a “supporting
member” if you will.
Sincerely,
J.E.B.
Bangkok, Thailand
(Founder’s Message, cont. from page 1)
it possible for us to open our doors to
the public. Many of our librarians have
been with us for several years, helping
define the personality of the library and
its purpose.
If you plan to visit New England this
summer, I hope you will stop by and see
us. There is nothing quite like a summer
afternoon in the Brautigan.
— Todd Lockwood
(Birthday, cont. from page 1)
Toast.
Dad: Oh, fence ghost?
Dan: No dad, I don’t like fence ghosts because
ghosts say boo to people. Actually, Dad, I
said bence boast.
Dad: Fence toast? I can’t imagine how you
could fit a fence in a toaster to toast it.
Dan: No, Dad, bence boast, I mean French
toast.
Dad: Oh, you’re a French ghost.
And on it went.
P.S. At 10pm, a winter storm warning was
issued by the National Weather Service. At
4am, Sunday, my wife’s contractions were
about 10 minutes apart and we drove to the
hospital to avoid the worst of the snowstorm.
At 8:06am, our daughter, Rachel Hannah,
was born.
Michael Levine
Middlesex, VT
__________
Where poems come from
It is night, I am driving
home from my uncle’s summer place
when suddenly
down by the accelerator
a moth flusters around my calf.
I am glad to be in shorts
and ready for this.
As his wings dust the hair on my thigh
I am reminded
of a woman’s eyelash
fluttering against my cheek.
I cannot see him by the dashboard light
but I believe intensely that he is there
and so I light a match
to draw him into sight.
Anticipation changes the shape of the air.
The moth, after all, being mine,
ascends straight
to the flame
and bursts
into verse.
S.P. Kiernan
Ferrisburgh, VT
__________
January 30, 1993 Happy Birthday Richard
Brautigan. Thank you for being the inspiration for this library for officially upublished
writers who, as we both know, are really
published in their hearts and souls. I hope
you are Trout Fishing in Heaven and getting
a good catch. Sincerely, M. Katherine Layton
[Burlington, VT]
__________
The other day someone asked me why I do
the things I do: found weird libraries, start
companies, write software. This kind of question stops most people right in their tracks,
myself included. It is odd to consider that I
spent about 10 years of my life (age 25 to
35) wondering when I would begin to really
live my life. It seemed, during that period,
that everything was being done for the benefit of tomorrow. Today was only a means
of getting there. I spent many hours hoping
that I would suddenly discover the things
that were really important to me. I couldn’t
for the life of me articulate the things that
were really important to me.
Years later, I still don’t know exactly why I do
these things, but I do them. It feels right.
Todd Lockwood
Burlington, VT
__________
Dear James moved into this place a couple
of years ago. He never really meant to stay;
he just thought he’d idle for a while, get to
know some of the residents, see what there
was to see and clear out. But it turned out
to be a hell of a genial place, so he stayed.
I guess I shouldn’t say “he,” really, because
Dear James includes women, men, some
in-betweens and a cat. Dear James, I fact,
is a book. This place is the Brautigan Library. I never thought my first novel would
live among a bunch of other unpublished
manuscripts. But hell, I never thought my
first novel would live at all. Why not here?
People I hardly know stop me at parties
and tell me, “Hey, I read your novel. Here’s
what I think.” How wonderful. Some day
Dear James’s younger brother (or sister or
in-between) will probably move in, too: Dear
James was an early draft. An older sibling.
I’ll be glad to add to his family.
Will Marquess
[Burlington, VT]
__________
Single Women in Strange Times
Or do I mean Strange Women in Singular Times? It is the late, late 20th Century.
I’ve been reading about myself for decades.
When I was a child, I read about myself in
The Secret Garden, Alice in Wonderland,
4
Mistress Masham’s Repose, Grimm’s
Fairy Tales, all the Oz books, in a child’s
version of Wagner’s Ring and in the tales
of the Olympian gods and goddesses. Later,
I read about myself in The Second Sex, in
The Way of All Women, in The Feminine
Mystique, in Passages, then in Pathfinders,
in Ms. (sometimes), in Lear’s (well, hardly
ever) and uncomfortably often in New Age.
But at the same time I stopped reading and
starting writing about myself when I stayed
single for 20 years, 1973-1993.
In 1985 I entered a San Francisco
Chronicle contest in which we were to write
500 words on “the joy and horror of the single
life.” I called my essay “The Happy Hermit,”
and it did not win. One of the things I wrote
was, “The true horror of a single life, in my
opinion, is not hating to be alone, but loving
it too much.”
Women who love being alone too much
— well, I guess we do form a support gorup,
my single women friends and I. Understand,
please, we are not reacting against men.
We singular women in strange times have
distanced ourselves from the feminists’ antimale anger while appreciating the boldness
of their lust for female values and attributes.
I consider one of the joys of being a woman
my unique opportunity to deeply and purely
appreciate maleness.
I am single in the conventional sense because I am in love with a mysterious driving,
pulsating, penetrating inner force: my urge
to create. My imagination fills me with life.
Through my imagination I am also in great
company, male and female, embodied and
non-embodied. The abundance of dreamtime
breaks through into daytime. I am never
alone.
Sometimes I speculate that I am really
just a consummate escape artist, creating an
extraordinary reality to avoid ordinary reality.
I wrote this in 1985: “Being alone gets you
out of the habit and practice of compromise.”
This may be true on one hand, but on the
other, the habit and practice of compromise
will also just follow you around and get you
wherever you are — even in a mountain
cave.
Lifestyles are just that, clothing we
chose from a closet of illusions. Catching
myself in a moment of reflection in front of
my closet, the doors of which happen to be
sliding mirrors, I notice I am naked. I pause
for a moment to look me over. Is that who I
am? I am always so surprised.
Elizabeth Whitney
Olema, CA
__________
Anger and Admiration
Amidst the noise of the day
I pause to write this gift.
I give you both
anger and admiration.
Your being dead angers me
leaves me longing for
more
Trout fishing
more
Gothic shadows
more
Tacoma
more
metaphors
more
secluded librarians
more
I admire your
diction
ingenuity
style.
I miss you,
Richard.
SueAn Stradling-Collins
St. Johns, AZ
From the Librarian’s Book
Last year we installed a blank book at
the librarian’s desk in the Brautigan Library.
It was for our volunteers to keep a log, make
observations, doodle, write whatever they
wanted to write during their shift. When
the book is full it will join the other books
on the shelves of the Brautigan Library. The
following are excerpts from its pages.
11/22/93
29 years ago today
I snuffled home from 5th grade
Telling Todd Swenson that it must have
been the Russians
And that the FBI had surely caught them
All already.
WPAT-FM played a special tribute
Including Dvorak’s Sym #9
And I suddenly realized that classical
Music was not random nice notes
But that if you liked something you
Heard you might hear it again.
Today I braut my woodwind synthesizer
To make sounds of bells, helicopters, and
Gunfire in this high, quiet room.
— Robert R.
12/05/92
Drove here through the season’s first
“real” snow. It’s great to be here in the quiet
again surrounded by pieces of people’s lives
and souls. I hadn’t realized how much I
missed Burlington’s foghorn. It should be
a lonely sound but it is somehow comforting.
Only one person in this morning to pick
up a writer’s kit for her brother who supposedly had written us without reply.
Peace to all of you.
Bob
P.S. No relief from morning shift. Closed up
@ 3:45 p.m. due to other commitments.
12/19
Five visitors today — one who wants to get
a children’s section of the BL happening.
Have a cool yule, everyone!
— Pamela
12/27
Have you ever heard of Sisyphous, the
king in hell condemned to forever roll a rock
up a steep hill, and never get the rock to the
top, but when almost there the rock would
always overcome his efforts and roll back
down to the bottom, where old Sisyphous
would have to return and begin again?
Well, I had a friend named Cecilfuss.
Cecilfuss, from an early age (we met in
kindergarten) developed a bizarre habit.
Whenever he found himself idle he would
pull a marble from his pocket, a black shiny
stone marble from a bag of stone marbles
he said he’d found in the top drawer of his
fathers dresser. He told me the marbles had
once belonged to his great grandfather who
had bartered ten bushels of barley tobacco
to the Cherokees for the deerskin bag full of
different sizes of spherical stone marbles.
His great grandfather had given them to his
son, and on down the line they were handed
down, traditionally to the eldest son when
he reached the age of boyhood — six years
old.
However, when my friend Cecilfuss
was four he had an older brother named
5
Goldenboy, two years older than himself,
who recieved the marbles from their father.
Goldenboy was a well built, athletic beautiful
boy with gold hair and eyes emerald green.
Many people adored him, he was so bright
and charming, he made you feel like a spring
morning beside a pure bubbling brook when
he spoke to you. He was very active and loved
to find grapevines and swing on them in the
forests and to collect honeysuckle dew and
wild strawberries.
Goldenboy recieved the marbles and
treated them with intense respect. He made
a ritual out of a marble game he invented for
himself and which he always played alone,
with no one around within sight or hearing,
in a open bare spot in the forest, where he
cleared out a circular area of flat ground.
This ritual game involved singing the name
of each stone, each name sung in a different
pitch, while he played the game whose rules
only Goldenboy knew.
Somehow, by playing this game, Goldenboy learned to foretell the future, and he’d
return from the forest once a week and at the
supper table calmly predict, with great accuracy, the events of the coming week. One
week, at supper, he was silent, instead of his
usual gay voice telling his parents and his
older sisters what they would do, he quietly
ate his meal, seeming very sad and depressed.
His parents asked him many questions and
he would reply in one word syllables. He
said only one real sentence “Cecilphuss,
you better use three inner tubes instead of
one.”
No one knew what he meant by this.
Cecilphuss was now almost six himself
— for months he’d been secretly following
Goldenboy to the forest and watching him
and listening to him. He wanted the marbles
for his own games but he didn’t dare to ask
for them. He hated his brother for being so
beautiful and bright and the morning star of
the family. So, from a neighborhood bully he
learned to make a slingshot from bicycle inner
tubes, and in the woods he made a huge one
using the growing fork of a young dogwood
tree.
He purposely found a tree only thirty
feet from Goldenboys marble circle. And
there he practiced pulling back the innertubes
and letting fly missles of stone. One night
shortly after that last sad supper he stole a
shiny black marble, a peewee, from Goldenboys marble bag he kept under his pillow.
The next day he followed Goldenboy to the
forest and when Goldenboy knelt to perform
his weekly ritual Ceciphuss attached his
innertube device, triple strong now thanks
to Goldenboy’s advice, to the fork of the
dogwood tree and placing the shiny black
stone marble in the center he pulled back
the inner tube with all his strength and let
fly the marble. It flew stright and swiftly
and smashed into Goldenboys right temple
and killed him instantly as he sang his songs
about his precious stones.
Cecilphuss ran and grabbed the shiny
black marble, which was stained with one
red drop of blood, but in his haste and fear
left the other marbles in the woods beside
Goldenboys crumpled body. The father found
Goldenboy late that evening at sundown,
and the whole community mourned but no
one knew or suspected the identity of the
murderer.
Cecilphuss from that day began a strange
habit. Whenever he was idle he’d put the
small marble on the floor or the ground (he
told people Goldenboy had given it to him
before his death) and would roll the marble
with his nose, always trying to get the marble
to the highest point in his immediate vicinity,
but never, ever succeeding.
Lawrence McGuire
1-31-92
A snowy day. While putting the shelves
in order, I discovered three volumes which
appear to be missing. A young man came in
looking for tax forms but not for mayonnaise.
And two young ladies looking for books
about the senses for a science project.
[no name]
To Our Librarians
Thanks for trudging through snow and
cold this winter to keep the Brautigan open
and user-friendly! If you are ever unable to
make your scheduled shift, please arrange for
someone to cover for you — or if there’s time,
call Will Marquess to reschedule: 865-2179.
We’re always happy to have more volunteers,
so tell your friends how great it is to be a
Brautigan librarian, especially since we tend
to lose a few of you in the summer.
Keep up the good work, and don’t forget
to share your thoughts in the Librarians’
Book!
FROM OUR CATALOG
The following excerpts from our catalog
were culled from information provided by
the authors.
Leo William Witz
(Glencoe, IL)
STRIVE FOR MEDIOCRITY
Family: FAM 1992.001
What follows is a potpouri of unusual people,
and a collection of anecdotes and happenings from the life and times of Leo Witz,
who was better than average at just about
everything he tried but not all that good at
anything. Hence my striving for the elusive
mediocrity.
Emily Trent Ballard
(Arlington, VA)
BLUE RIDGE
War & Peace: WAR 1992.001
BLUE RIDGE is a collection of three
interwoven stories of the American Civil
War, centered on the Shenandoah Valley of
Virginia in 1864 when General Sheridan's
troops laid it waste. "The Butternut" is the
story of an Ohio man who found an unusual
way to help his country. "The Yankee" brings
a Valley school teacher face to face with the
soldiers who would burn her home; and "The
Scalawag" tells of a Virginian torn between
loyalty to his State and to his country.
Mr. Raymond B. Mendez
(Highland, CA)
LOVE AND TREACHERY
Love: LOV 1992.001
Brad's heart was hurting; and seemed to
weigh a ton. His live-in-woman, Jonna, had
just ran off with an underworld thug, called
Capo. They took the three million dollars
from a drug sale and left him flat broke; in
a cheap hotel in Athens, Greece. His only
alternative was to call his Aunt Audrey collect
in New York, and have her bail him out. He
hated to do that. She always wanted him,
as payment for her favors; Audrey had the
morals of an alley cat.
Kenneth S. Blaine
(Pacific, MO)
SHADE, FOOTPRINTS, AND SHADOWS
Poetry: POE 1992.002
A collection of poems from my college years
(late 60's) thru Christmas (1991). Categories
include: Arizona, Beaches, Seasons, Humor, Despair, Death, Friendship, Love and
Christmas. Hoping that a few might relate
6
or identify with some of the experiences
and feelings which I share in my - collection of words.
Robert Joyal
(Burlington, VT)
LOVE, BOBBY
Poetry: POE 1992.003
LOVE, BOBBY by Robert Joyal is a collection of letters and poems compiled by family
and friends after his death in 1970. Bobby's
work covers the mid and late sixties. The
tumult of that time period and the struggles of
a young man to make sense in a chaotic and
often brutal world are reflected in his works.
As our collective memory of that piece of
history shifts and fades, this book is a little
time capsule, written and lived then, passed
through to now, to keep the picture clear.
I present this book to the Brautigan Library
in Bobby's memory.
Margaret Joyal
Jane Lawrence Bickford
(Rockport, MA)
WE AND JAPAN
Adventure: ADV 1992.001
This book contains excerpts from a weekly
journal I kept when we lived in Tokyo,
1964-1966. I removed only travel pages,
adding many drawings of things Japanese
that I saw. In putting this together, I have
given my children a memory trip to enjoy
as they renew their acquaintance with this
unique country of Japan.
Sidney Rosenstein
(New York, NY)
IN HIS OWN IMAGE
Love: LOV 1992.002
Set in the mid-1930's, this novel explores the
lives and sorrows of five New Yorkers who
seek to escape their various heartbreaks- ennui, an overpowering love affair, a shockingly
sudden rejection, and in general, a deep dissatisfaction with life. They find themselves
on a bus headed West, and new lives.
Noorallah Downing
(Stroudsburg, PA)
THE VIEW FROM WHITE MOUNTAIN
Family: FAM 1992.002
I've always been a writer. As a child my
"novels" were take-offs on my mother's
REDBOOK magazine that I don't recall
impressed anyone but Uncle Harold, the
town dog catcher. Now I am an adult
woman, mother, wife, teacher, person, who
still enjoys writing. I use the written word
to share my vision. These pieces titled THE
VIEW FROM WHITE MOUNTAIN were
put together over the past ten years. Unlike
my childhood stories where the cardboard
ladies all wore frilly aprons and had at least
three sets of twins, these tales have a heart.
Ronny P. Kaye
(Int. Dept.#)
WHITE MAN'S DISEASE
Social/Political/Cultural: SOC 1992.001
WHITE MAN'S DISEASE is a condemnatory cinema-novel, a condemnation of Authority systems, most particularly those of the
White West. The narrative devices of "reels"
rather than chapters, and of songs, poems,
and quotations as transitional elements, are
inspired by the jagged narratives of William
S. Burroughs and the lyrics of extremist
musicians. The "disease" in the title is the
death-centered, profit worship of the Mind
Control set, known conventionally as the
Corporate Overseers. The graphic presentation of murder, torture, sexual mutilation,
and armed resistance locates the source of the
condemnation in the extreme present.
Ronny P. Kaye
(Jeddah, SAUDI ARABIA)
SONGS OF LOVE AND SONGS OF
FEAR
Poetry: POE 1992.004
The core of the poems in this collection were
conceived and composed (later refined) in a
single night in Fall 1982. The rest (e.g. the
minimalist works) date from earlier or later
periods (the sonnets being examples of the
latter case). The overall span of the collection dates from 1980-1990. The poems are
arranged collectively to indicate a passage
from origin to ending; their themes travel
a spectrum from introspection and politicization to war to metaphysics, and finally
to personal confrontation with the innate
imbecility of the Universe.
Lorraine Smith
(Auburn, NY)
MIRACLE PLAY/WHEN MOURNING
COMES
Social/Political/Cultural: SOC 1992.002
MIRACLE PLAY is an autobiography
about the dissolution of a professional nursing career and the so-called "burn-out" that
accompanied the downward descent.
Written in an alternative, anecdotal,
iconoclastic manner, it reads like a speeding
train that has lost it's brakes.
Searingly honest to the point of brutality, it may offend the sensitive readers that
continue to view the "helping professions"
as paragons of virtue.
WHEN MOURNING COMES is a reality/fantasy story of the dissolution of dreams
for the individuals that "rode out the storm"
of the Eighties--then achieves an eerie redemption at it's finale.
Barry Eisenberg
(San Francisco, CA)
DEEP FOOL
Meaning of Life: MEA 1992.001.A-B
The author of this autobiography is a fiftythree year old man who has imbibed freely
of the varieties of experience. The Zen Buddhist/hippie author's many and varied love
affairs are interwoven with the narrative as
are his several descents into homelessness
and the lower depths. The global background
from the late thirties to the early nineties is
related to the author's misadventures and the
style is light yet urbane, irreverent and humorous. DEEP FOOL recounts the spiritual
quest of a man intent on transcending the
bounds of standard middle class values and
his own dualities. It should appeal to those
interested in psychological growth, religion,
the love generation, life on the streets and
iconoclastic politics.
Ronald N. Lawruk
(Nepean, Ontario CANADA)
A SPY TOO CLOSE
Adventure: ADV 1992.002
It's the 1980's. The Soviets devise a plan to
control U.S. foreign policy. A woman agent
trained by the KGB is smuggled into Canada.
A Canadian Security officer joins up with
an FBI agent and trails her to Lake Placid.
A young woman, engaged to a Democratic
Senator from Pennsylvania who is running
for President, is murdered.
The KGB agent takes her place, undergoes
plastic surgery and marries the Senator. After
they move to Washington, she sets up a CIA
agent for blackmail. The CIA officer rebels
and is murdered by a KGB assassin. The FBI
and Canadian agents unravel the mystery
and foil the plot. The story involves some
hair-raising chases through Lake Placid and
Washington, D.C.
The 23
Editor: Pamela Polston
Contributing writers: A variety of writers
who contributed to the Brautigan Birthday
Book, Todd Lockwood
ATTENTION WRITERS! To receive
our writer’s package, including complete
information about the library and an
application to submit work, please send
$2 (to cover our postage and printing) to:
The Brautigan Library, P. O. Box 521,
Burlington, VT 05402.
The Brautigan Library is a Vermont
nonprofit corporation. It is governed by a
Board of Trustees made up of prominent
literary and media professionals from the
State of Vermont. Our Advisory Board
includes writers, poets and other creative
people from across America. We are
supported by fees paid by writers to submit
their works to the library, and also by the
generous donations of our Supporting
Members. We receive no support in the
way of local or state taxes.
You can become a Supporting Member
of the Brautigan Library with a donation
of $25 or more. Memberships may be
renewed annually. All members will
receive a one-year subscription to this
newsletter. For more information, write
to us at: The Brautigan Library, P. O. Box
521, Burlington, VT 05402
You can visit the Brautigan Library!
We’re located in the beautiful city of
Burlington, Vermont, on the shores of Lake
Champlain. Burlington is a university
town with a young, dynamic populous.
(At election time, our voter turnout is
about twice the national average.) It’s a
beautiful place to visit, though cold some
of the time. All the better for reading!
You’ll find us tucked in an alley at 91
College Street — just off the downtown
area. At the present time we’re open on
Saturdays and Sundays only. Please call
us at 802-658-4775 for a recorded message
with information about our hours.
Richard Brautigan's novel, The Abortion:
An Historical Romance 1966, is currently
out of print, although most used-book
dealers can find copies. We suggest trying
Gotham Book Mart in New York City
(212) 719-4448. Ask for Flip Ahrens.
(continued on page 8)
7
(continued from page 7)
Ronny P. Kaye
(Jeddah, SAUDI ARABIA)
DISTURBANCES
All The Rest: ALL 1992.001
DISTURBANCES is a collection of seven
stories sharing a common theme -- i.e., the
disruption of normality. The settings of
the stories range from near-future America
to Pharaonic Egypt, from the wasteland
of West Africa to the labyrinth of modern
China. The narrative motif is storytelling,
both simple and convoluted. The themes
vary from psychosis to odd criminalities to
mystical interference in human affairs. The
common denominator is a guarantee in each
tale of what the title implies: someone or
something will be "disturbed."
Ronny P. Kaye
(Jeddah, SAUDI ARABIA)
TRIAD
Future: FUT 1992.001
TRIAD is a trilogy of science fiction stories
centered on the theme of "biomechanics,"
a term borrowed from the Swiss artist H.
R. Giger, who conceived and designed the
title character from the 1979 film "Alien."
A "biomechanoid" is a being composed of
both organic and inorganic elements, an
improbable blend of Mammal and Machine.
The first novella, "Reptilicon," is a sci-fi
mystery; the second novella, "Opticon," is a
parody of the video game era; the last story,
"Roboticon (Tears in the rain...)," is the diary
of Earth's last, desperate human. TRIAD:
three parts of a unified whole.
Sandra Marie Bibiane Morin
(Edmonton, Alberta CANADA)
MICHELANGELO: BORN WITH A GIFT
Social/Political/Cultural: SOC 1992.003
In the beginning, a statue remains in the mind
with intrigue. How could anyone create the
most exquisite face out of a cold, hard, rough
stone? Many observations of photographs
at the public library lead to a familliar book
that was written by Irving Stone (The Agony
and the Ecstasy). That book deserved the
title because of the effort to get through to the
end. To make a long story short, I decided to
THE BRAUTIGAN LIBRARY
P. O. Box 521
Burlington, Vermont 05402
America's only library of unpublished writing.
ISS10
simplify a book for younger readers who are
eager to learn about a part of their history.
Each drawing has been selected to highlight
the different stages of development. I could
never begin to mention all the faces which
pass by through his life; some had an impact
more than others. The relationship, which
seemed to surpass all, appeared to be the
marriage with the stone. Perhaps, when we
learn about how someone great and humble
lived, we can develop our own character
and we can improve on a better way of life
for ourselves.
*** This book is dedicated to my Mom.
8
If you'd like to communicate with one
of our authors, simply send us your sealed,
postage-paid letter with the author's name
on the outside. We will gladly forward your
inquiry to the author's address. Copies of
manuscripts can only be supplied by the
author. However, many authors are pleased
to loan copies of their work to interested
readers.