Pounding at the gates of American literature

Not a novel ending this time, but the end of a short story by Richard Brautigan. I’ll have to be particularly careful checking the spelling of this one.

You sur lik veel cutlets dont you Maybell said she was holding holding her pensil up her mowth that was preti and red like an apl!
Onli wen you tak my oder Carl said he was a kind of bassful loger but big and strong lik his dead who ownd the starmill!
Ill mak sur you get plenti of gravi!
Just ten the caf door opend and in cam Rins Adams he was hansom and meen, everi bodi in thos parts was afrad of him but not Carl and his dead dad they wasnt afrad of him no sur!
Maybell shifard wen she saw him standing ther in his blac macinaw he smild at her and Carl felt his blod run hot like scallding cofee and fiting mad!
Howdi ther Rins said Maybell blushed like a flower flouar while we were all sitting there in that rainy trailer, pounding at the gates of American literature.

– Richard Brautigan (end of the short story 1/3, 1/3, 1/3 from Revenge of the Lawn, 1971)


About James Steerforth

I am an author of poetry and fiction, translator and painter who loves to have fun with borrowed feathers.
This entry was posted in Creative writing, Fun, Life, Literature, Love, Writing and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Pounding at the gates of American literature

  1. maryt says:

    Lovely poem, James. Thank you.

  2. Dan Williams says:

    Brautigan’s greatest short story, no question in my mind.

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