Portnoy’s Complaint

"Don't the boys say 'fuck' up in the mountains?"

"No," she answered, condescendingly, "not the way that you do."

"Well," I said, "I suppose they're not as rich with rage as I am. With contempt." And I lunged for her leg. Because never enough. NEVER! I have TO HAVE.

But have what?

"No!" she screamed down at me.

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Then," I pleaded, as she began to drag me by her powerful leg across toward the door, "at least let me eat your pussy. I know I can still do that."

"Pig!"

And kicked. And landed! Full force with that pioneer's leg, just below the heart. The blow I had been angling for? Who knows what I was up to? Maybe I was up to nothing. Maybe I was just being myself. Maybe that's all I really am, a lapper of cunt, the slavish mouth for some woman's hole. Eat! And so be it! Maybe the wisest solution for me is to live on all fours! Crawl through life feasting on pussy, and leave the righting of wrongs and the fathering of families to the upright creatures! Who needs monuments erected in his name, when there is this banquet walking the streets?

Crawl through life then-if I have a life left! My head went spinning, the vilest juices rose in my throat. Ow, my heart! And in Israel! Where other Jews find refuge, sanctuary and peace, Portnoy now perishes! Where other Jews flourish, I now expire! And all I wanted was to give a little pleasure-and make a little for myself. Why, why can I not have some pleasure without the retribution following behind like a caboose! Pig? Who, me? And all at once it happens again, I am impaled again upon the long ago, what was, what will never be! The door slams, she is gone-my salvation! my kin!-and I am whimpering on the floor with MY MEMORIES! My endless childhood! Which I won't relinquish-or which won't relinquish me! Which is it! Remembering radishes-the ones I raised so lovingly in my Victory Garden. In that patch of yard be- side our cellar door. My kibbutz. Radishes, parsley, carrots -yes, I am a patriot too, you, only in another place! (Where I also don't feel at home!) But the silver foil I collected, how about that? The newspapers I carted to school! My booklet of defense stamps, all neatly pasted in rows so as to smash the Axis! My model airplanes-my Piper Cub, my Hawker Hurricane, my Spitfire! How can this be happening to that good kid I was, with my love for the R.A.F. and the Four Freedoms! My hope for Yalta and Dumbarton Oaks! My prayers for the U.N.O.! Die? Why? Punishment? For what? Impotent? For what good reason?

The Monkey's Revenge. Of course.