Notes on an Appearance (2018) - full transcript

A brief hello from Milan.

We've had a very nice time.

Madeleine is well set-up here.

She told me to extend an invitation.

Maybe next summer?

Looking forward to New York
and to seeing you.

There's a lot for us
to talk about, too.

See you soon.

David.

But, if you see,
then from here did you see

this is Jonathan's study.



Very necessary.

Are those the same dimensions
that are there now?

Didn't even exist.

We just four-walled
part of the living room.

Oh, right.

Yeah.

And that's where we're standing?

Correct.

This door, which will no longer
be here, that is the door

right there.

- I know.

- Remember that.

It's the last time
you'll see them.

- Are you on a blood thinner?



That's fine.

Start with 20 milligrams and
go up to 25 after a week.

Yeah, yeah, sometimes dizziness,

sometimes nausea,
but usually nothing.

Only once.

No.

30 days.

This is very safe.

It's a very safe drug.

No one ever gave me money.

I left my parents' house early,

because I remembered what it was

like to have to wait between trains.

I wanted to deposit
the check someplace,

since I didn't like the idea

of carrying it around in my wallet.

But I hadn't seen Todd in a long time.

And I worried it would be in
bad taste to talk about money.

I'd known Todd since college.

He moved to the city a few years ago,

and he was living off a fellowship

that allowed him to work full time

on a biography he was writing

of an American political
theorist named Stephen Taubes.

I knew little about Taubes
other than that

Todd and his roommate Brandon,

who was helping him
with the biography,

thought very highly of him
and were working closely

with his estate.

Todd's work could take
years to finish, he told me.

There was much to be
cleared up for the record,

and a good deal of intellectual
rehabilitation was in store.

I didn't ask him what
he meant by this.

But when he offered to bring
me on as a research assistant,

and after he mentioned in passing

that Taubes's history
had been contentions

for many years and weighted
down by controversy,

I quickly learned that some things

were better left unspoken.

And then we were at Don's,

and we used to know this
guy who worked there.

And he came up to us
and started talking,

and Casey and I were all of
a sudden taking directions

to his apartment.

And we must've been wasted,

because it was four in
the morning, and then,

all of a sudden, he was there,

and he was telling us
what he was selling.

It was so weird!

What time did you get back?

I don't know, like 8:00.

I was so tired!

Was Mandy there?

No.

Mandy thankfully was not there.

Who's Mandy?

You met Mandy.

She's the girl with
the really long hair.

She's kind of tall.

No, you know!

She was at Conner's thing in April.

Is this the one
who faked the abortion?

She is such a wreck.

Very strange.

Very fun-house.

So, do you even know
what this thing is?

What does this guy do?

I think it's a video installation

based on '90s TV shows.

And then he syncs them up to
old clips of Waco and O.J.

Shows?

You mean sitcoms?

That sounds good.

I had two job interviews.

My brother gave me
an old suit to wear,

but it didn't fit me well,

and I needed to find
a tailor who could

shorten the arms and legs
by the end of the week.

There was a box of
videotapes on the floor

among the papers in Todd's apartment.

When I mentioned this, Todd told me

that Taubes kept video recordings

of all of his travels during
the last 20 years of his life.

Most of my work would be devoted to

itemizing these tapes and
describing their contents.

We watched one of them
for a few minutes.

Sometimes voices were
heard and faces were seen.

But I didn't understand
what the tapes were for

or why they were made.

Usually, the camera stayed put,

or else the video cut
abruptly to a different view.

I rarely saw anyone in
any of these recordings.

Their importance was unclear.

- How do you know each other?

- From Bard.

We were in the same program.

- Is this your first time here?

- No.

I came last summer to
look for an apartment,

but I ended up staying
with my parents.

Where are you from?

- Chappaqua.

- And you already found a job?

Not yet, but I have
two interviews next week.

- Where?

- One is for a part-time
clerical job at a law office.

The other's in Tribeca,
at a restaurant.

Have you thought about tutoring?

- I've never tutored before.

It can pay well.

You're a good enough writer.

I'm sure you can find
something through an agency.

What do you write?

I haven't written
much since school.

I'm writing some short stories now.

- Have you published anything?

- Not yet, but I'm trying to.

Oh, you should.

At your age, you should
be placing pieces

in as many outlets as possible.

- Do you write?

- Sometimes.

I'm finishing a dissertation
and I translate,

so that takes up most of my time.

I can introduce you to someone,

if you're interested in tutoring.

Thanks.

I don't want to be a bother.

- It's not a bother.

He may have some ideas.

- Should we go?

- Mm-hmm, do you want to walk?

- Yeah, that's fine.

Let's walk.

I made a pot of coffee and wrote

for a little while after they left.

From the fifth floor,
you could see the rest

of the neighborhood.

There was a big construction
site across the street,

for a new apartment
building, I think.

Todd told me that the whole area

would be unrecognizable in a year.

I tried to imagine the new view.

He's farther away here.

We can crop it later.

This one's clearer.

Something like this?

Is that one recent?

I have a few more from April.

This one's from last winter.

Are they coming here?

- His father might.

I don't know.

Did he know
anyone else in the city?

- I spoke to his cousin.

Maybe he can help.

- Can we talk to him?

He knows I'm here.

I can call him again.

- Do you know where he lives?

He lives in Queens.

- I work now.

I don't have the time
I had five or six months ago.

Even if he did,

I doubt I'd have
a chance to see him.

We're both working overtime.

Diana's parents
have had to help us.

My father's trying
to get my foreman

to renegotiate my contract.

But I'd still be taking home
less than I did last year.

David's parents made things very

difficult for me and my wife.

They cheated my
parents out of a lot.

My grandmother was very sick,

and they refused to take her.

I know my father doesn't
speak to them anymore,

and we don't ever hear from David,

but I never stopped him
from trying to call us.

- Do you ever talk to Julius?

Not a lot.

I don't think he kept
in touch with David.

Who's Julius?

He was a good friend
of my brother's.

He went to high school with David.

Should we talk to him?

- He doesn't live here anymore.

I haven't seen him in years.

I can try to find the address,

but I'd really prefer it
if you didn't tell him

you came here.

How you doing?

How are you?

Man, I had to
work since nine or 10.

Really?

Yeah, last time
I went in, I went in.

This was last time.

Where at, here?

No, the lake on Cathcart,
I was carrying my son.

- We'd like to get started.

Thank you for coming.

This is the first of three
panels on translation.

In October, we'll be joined
by Natasha Wimmer,

who will discuss her experience

translating Alvaro Enrigue's
Sudden Death,

which was put out by
Riverhead Books in February.

Tonight, we're fortunate
to have three very smart,

very talented translators,

whom I'll introduce,
starting with Keith Cohen,

to my left.

Keith's translation of
Danilo Kis's Early Sorrows

is forthcoming with
Dalkey Archive Press,

and he's a frequent contributor
to n+1, The Believer,

Tin House, and Bookforum.

In July, Keith was named one
of our most promising young

translators of fiction
and poetry into English

by the New York Times,

and in April he received
a Guggenheim fellowship

for his work in literary criticism.

To Keith's left is Christian Haley,

an editor at Triple Canopy
and a frequent contributor

to The New Inquiry, Bookforum,

the London Review of Books,
and n+1.

In March, Archipelago Books
will publish his

translations of Kleist's
poetry and prose.

Christian is also a
professor of German Studies

at Sarah Lawrence and is
currently editing a volume

on Friedrich Schleiermacher
and 19th-century

German theology, expected from
Princeton University Press

in January.

To his left is Karin Apter.

Karin is a doctoral candidate
in Comparative Literature

at Columbia University

and has written extensively
on Latin American literature,

poetry and politics.

Her work can be found in
the London Review of Books,

Jacobin, Harper's, Dissent,

Cinema Scope, The New Inquiry,

the Times Literary Supplement,

and most recently in n+1,

for which she's translated
poems by Roberto Bolano.

In December, her translations

of García Lorca will be
published by New Directions,

and she's currently
preparing a book

on Fernando Solanas
and Argentine cinema.

Our format tonight
will be three talks

followed by a brief
question-and-answer session,

during which we'll open up
the floor for discussion.

Please join me
in welcoming our panelists.

And I was just sort of wondering,

because you mentioned
Danilo Kis, right?

This thing that happens where
writers become more famous

in countries than their own,

is this just a problem
of publishing in general?

- Because all of us read more
than one language, right?

So, I wanted to ask
if you could speak

to this issue of displacement,

when you have this slippage
and when you want

to say something but somehow it...

Do we think of this
as just another failure

of late capitalism,

or as another homogenizing
impulse of capitalism

as it expands?

Please join me
in thanking our panelists.

Do you think this is uninteresting?

- I think it's beneath you.

Why are you
so preoccupied with it?

Because he's a friend of mine.

- But what does it matter?

You did what you could.

Do you think he's going to
come back and scold you?

- No, I don't think that.

Then why do you
feel guilty about it?

- I don't know if I feel guilty.

You shouldn't.

But I don't even know
where he is or if he's safe.

I think it's pointless
to talk about this.

He's gone.

If he comes back, then he does.

This is really so stupid.

You're not even making
an effort to be helpful.

- Oh, get over yourself.

You sound like a wounded mother.

Some of us have been
working very hard

this past year on something

that's incredibly important
to the direction

we want this country to go in,

and what you're telling me
has absolutely no importance.

It's a non-event.

It bores me, and I wish
we wouldn't talk about it.

It's a distraction,

and as far as I'm concerned,

it's something that
never even happened.

What time did you leave?

Super late.

God, I went home with Dane.

What a horrible idea.

Which one was Dane?

He was the one that
went to the Cooper Union.

He came with Shane and Zerlina.

You went to his place?

No.

We couldn't.

I was like,
"Dude, my place is all the way

"out in Fort Greene."

"My roommate's going to be there."

And he's like, "No, no, it's fine."

"Don't worry."

So, we end up at my place.

Shannon's door is already shut.

We go into my room.

The next morning, I get this really

passive-aggressive E-mail

that's telling me
I can't bring boys over

anymore because it's
rude and inconsiderate.

She said that to you?

I'm not kidding.

It's like, I'm sorry, I pay rent,

I'm 26 years old.

Get over yourself!

That's ridiculous, man.

You should get a new place.

Try to kick her out.

I wish.

You know what you should do?

You could kill her and make
it look like an accident.

Yeah!

I'll do it for you.

That's horrible.

These are horrible times.

Buying books?

- Hi.

We saw you through the window.

- Sorry, I didn't recognize you.

I was in Senegal for five weeks.

Do you know Gabe?

- I don't think so.

Hi.

- Nice to meet you.

- Were you on your way?

No, I just wanted to take a walk.

- Why don't you join us?

We're going to an opening.

- An opening?

- Gabe's friend's in a show.

There's going to be
a reception with drinks.

- Oh.

Do you have plans?

- No, I don't have plans.

- Come with us.

It starts in an hour.

- Do you usually do this?

Would it bother you if I did?

- I don't know.

Don't you think it seems impulsive?

I was bored.

Does it matter?

- No.

I'll be gone in a few weeks.

- Where are you going?

Hungary.

Maybe Romania.

What are you doing in Hungary?

- I don't know.

Just see what
it's like for a while.

A few friends are coming.

We've had enough of this city.

There's nothing really
keeping us here.

What will you do for money?

- I don't know.

A friend's cooking dinner.

If you come,
you could talk to them.

They'll all be there.

We'll be celebrating
our independence.

Do you live in the neighborhood?

- Nope.

- Just visiting friends?

- I was invited.

I don't know any of the artists.

We all went to school together.

- Oh.

- What do you do?

- I'm a student.

- In the city?

- Yep.

- Are you from around here?

- No, I grow up in Arizona.

- Do you ever go back?

- Not really.

Are you from New York?

- No, I was born in Boston.

My parents moved here
when I was in middle school.

- Your parents live in the city?

- No, my father died on 9/11.

My mother's very sick.

We're not able to speak.

- I'm sorry.

- It's okay.

Are you expecting someone else?

- No.

Why don't we go to the other room?

Most of this is gone now.

When were these taken?

At least 100 years ago.

Ceausescu destroyed most of this.

It isn't him.

Doctor Stephens,
Doctor Alfred Stephens.

Doctor Powers,
Doctor Edward Powers.

Doctor Sholom,
Doctor Stephen Sholom.

Doctor Braiden,
Doctor Anthony Braiden.

- Are you hungry?

I can't think of eating anything.

I don't want to do anything.

I want to leave.

- How do you feel?

I'm still tired.

Do you want to go back to sleep?

- No.

I think I'll feel better
when I'm on my way back.

I can't think of
anything else we can do.

I think we did everything we could.

- Part of me wants to stay.

- Why?

Because I don't think
I did everything

I could do.

- Could you do anything more?

He's not going to reappear
because you keep looking for him.

I know.

I'm frightened.

- Why are you frightened?

What's frightening you?

- I don't know.

I don't want him to be gone.

The idea of him not existing
anymore frightens me.

- But why do you think that?

You'll see David again.

I don't think
I believe that anymore.

- But you should believe it.

I wish I could distract myself.

- You can.

- How?

- By leaving.

It's not difficult.

Don't let this get to your head.

I think of the words

of the great Russian nihilist
Nechayev when he says,

Day and night,
we must have but one thought,

one aim, and that's death.

The death of individuals,
the death of consciousness,

the death of politics.

The true victory, the true freedom,

isn't appeasement and compromise,
but annihilation.

They say that liberal democracy

is the best of all possible worlds.

They spit in our faces
with their homilies.

They give us platitudes
about values.

They poison us with their talk
about the truth.

But who are they
to talk about values

when their wallets grow thick
each time they stab

us in the back?

Who are they to talk about truth?

Who among us
still believes in the lie

about the sanctity of human life?

Who among us can continue
to go on walking on tiptoe

for fear of offending
the hypocrites, the scum,

who have been peddling this garbage

to us for the last 30 years?

Let them suffer and disappear.

I'm not going to answer their
attacks on me by pleading.

Their language of reform is
appalling and unworthy of me.

What they don't realize
is that there are more

of us than they think.

One day, and I promise you one day,

and it won't be long from now,

this entire sickly order
is going to implode.

It won't announce itself outright.

It's not going to be a matter
of barricades or slogans.

But I promise, it will happen.

We are not going away.

- Hi.

Hi.

- Where have you been?

We thought something had happened.

No,

I was taking Madeleine
to the station.

- Everything all right?

Yeah.

- We're all inside.

How was the food?

It was fine.

Moroccan food is cheap.

We found these great
tajines in Chefchaouen.

Where's that?

This is the wall
of the Medina in Fez.

I'll see you when you get back.

- You sure?

- I'm tired.

It wouldn't make sense.

This may be our last chance to go.

I know, but I'd rather stay here.

What do you want me to tell them?

That I'm not feeling well
and need to sleep.

I wouldn't be good company.