The Theory

The Theory
By Russell Edson

The big one went to sleep as to die and dreamed he
became a tiny one. So tiny as to have lost all substance. To have
become as theoretical as a point. 

Then someone said, get up, big one, you're not doing
yourself any good. You puddle and stagnate in your weight.
Best to be up and toward. It irrigates you. 

What, said the big one, have I not disappeared? Have you
not mistaken a cloud for me? Perhaps some local hill fulfills
your expectation? 

No, it's no mistake, it's you; those interconnecting puddles
of flesh pulling at your bones, attempting that world-weary fall
toward the great waters of the world. 

How you manage against gravity is one of the greater
triumphs of nature. 

Do you think, said the big one, there's a woman who
would like to marry me? 

Yes, had such a woman done everything in the world except
marry you, she might think it worthy before dying to complete
her catalogue. Or having done everything, go meekly
without decision or care to such a consummation. 

Then you really feel, said the big one, that this woman
could come to care very deeply for me? 

All is theoretical. Who knows enough to say the outcome
of any event, save that it was past us, and we saw the back of it
moving slowly into the Universe, seeking other settings to
repeat the fall of fate. . . 

That sounds wonderful, that a woman like that could be in
love with me, said the big one. 

But in a few moments the big one was back asleep, dreaming
that he had come to such enlargement that he constituted
all the matter in the Universe, which must include the earth
and the woman he would have loved. . . 

The Man Rock

The Man Rock
By Russell Edson

A man is a rock in a garden of chairs and waits 
for a longtime to be over.

It is easier for a rock in a garden than a man 
inside his mother. He decided to be a rock when 
he got outside.

A rock asks only what is a rock.

A rock waits to be a rock.

A rock is a longtime waiting for a longtime to be 
over so that it may turn and go the other way.

A rock awakens into a man. A man looks. A man sleeps 
back into a rock as it is better for a rock in a 
garden than a man inside himself trembling in red 
darkness. 

The Autopsy

The Autopsy
By Russell Edson

In a back room a man is performing an autopsy
on an old raincoat.
His wife appears in the doorway with a candle
and asks, how does it go?
Not now, not now, I'm just getting to the lining,
he murmurs with impatience.
I just wanted to know if you found any blood clots?
Blood clots?!
For my necklace . . . 

The Death Of A Fly

The Death Of A Fly
By Russell Edson

There was once a man who disguised himself as a
housefly and went about the neighborhood depositing
flyspecks.
Well, he has to do something hasn't he? said someone to
someone else.
Of course, said someone else back to someone.
Then what's all the fuss? said someone to someone else.
Who's fussing? I'm just saying that if he doesn't get off the
wall of that building the police will have to shoot him off.
Oh that, of course, there's nothing so engaging as a dead
fly.
I love dead flies, the way they remind me of individuals
who have met their fate . . . 

The Ox

The Ox
By Russell Edson

There was once a woman whose father over 
the years had become an ox.

She would hear him alone at night lowing 
in his room.

It was one day when she looked up into his 
face that she suddenly noticed the ox.

She cried, you're an ox!

And he began to moo with his great pink 
tongue hanging out of his mouth.

He would stand over his newspaper, turning 
the pages with his tongue, while he evacuated 
on the rug.

When this was brought to his attention he 
would low with sorrow, and slowly climb the 
stairs to his room, and there spend the night 
in mournful lowing. 

The Lighted WIndow

The Lighted Window
By Russell Edson

A lighted window floats through the night 
like a piece of paper in the wind.

I want to see into it. I want to climb 
through into its lighted room.

As I reach for it it slips through the 
trees. As I chase it it rolls and tumbles 
into the air and skitters on through the 
night . . . 

The Changeling

The Changeling
By Russell Edson

A man had a son who was an anvil. And then sometimes 
he was an automobile tire.
I do wish you would sit still, said the father.
Sometimes his son was a rock.
I realize that you have quite lost boundary, where no 
excess seems excessive, nor to where poverty roots hunger to 
need. But should you allow time to embrace you to its bosom 
of dust, that velvet sleep, then were you served even beyond 
your need; and desire in sate was properly spilling from its 
borders, said the father. 
Then his son became the corner of a room.
Don't don't, cried the father.
And then his son became a floorboard.
Don't don't, the moon falls there and curdles your wits into 
the grain of the wood, cried the father.
What shall I do? screamed his son.
Sit until time embraces you into the bosom of its velvet 
quiet, cried the father.
Like this? Cried his son as his son became dust.
Ah, that is more pleasant, and speaks well of him, who 
having required much in his neglect of proper choice, turns 
now, on good advice, to a more advantageous social stance, 
said the father. 

But then his son became his father.
Behold, the son is become as one of us, said the father.
His son said, behold, the son is become as one of us.
Will you stop repeating me, screamed the father.
Will you stop repeating me, screamed his son.
Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of 
flattery, sighed the father.
Oh well, I suppose imitation is the sincerest form of 
flattery, sighed his son. 

The Position

The Position
By Russell Edson

They let me in. I went right up to the nursery 
and climbed into the crib, and assumed the famous 
fetal position.

They didn't know what to make of it. They stood 
by the crib looking down at me.

They were young. This was their house. Instead 
of an infant, a grown man is in the nursery.

Of course they hadn't planned on anything like 
this. It never occurred to them that anything 
like this could happen.

I had made my move. All I could do was to keep 
the position, pretending to sleep . . . 

The Closet

The Closet
By Russell Edson

Here I am with my mother, hanging under the molt 
of years, in a garden of umbrellas and rubber boots, 
together always in the vague perfume of her coat. 

See how the fedoras along the shelf are the several 
skulls of my father, in this catacomb of my family.

The Bridge

The Bridge
By Russell Edson

In his travels he comes to a bridge made entirely of bones.
Before crossing he writes a letter to his mother: Dear mother,
guess what? the ape accidentally bit off one of his hands while
eating a banana. Just now I am at the foot of a bone bridge. I
shall be crossing it shortly. I don't know if I shall find hills and
valleys made of flesh on the other side, or simply constant
night, villages of sleep. The ape is scolding me for not teaching
him better. I am letting him wear my pith helmet for
consolation. The bridge looks like one of those skeletal
reconstructions of a huge dinosaur one sees in a museum. The
ape is looking at the stump of his wrist and scolding me again.
I offer him another banana and he gets very furious, as though
I'd insulted him. Tomorrow we cross the bridge. I'll write to
you from the other side if I can; if not, look for a sign . . .