Thomas Murphy by Roger Rosenblatt Read Free Book Online

saw the gods as jealous and interfering, resentful of the successes and happiness achieved by mortals, which might hoist our mortality above its proper station. The gods did not want us to be gods, or to be happy. Even heroism did not breed happiness. In The Iliad, the sole reward for heroes is fame, not happiness. And people, helpless, feared their gods as agents of approaching doom. The powerful Apollo promised security to the humble. Understand your station as a man, he said in The Iliad . “Do as the Father tells you, and you will be safe tomorrow.”
    But Dionysus, bless him, had a different view, and a different power. He offered freedom. He was essentially the god of freedom, a singer of love songs, says Dodds, who was an Irishman, of course. Better educated, but we’re all the same bastards. Small wonder the professor took up this project in the first place. Who but my fellow mick would be drawn to the Master of Illusions? Not to mention the matters of trances, magic, and madness. Dionysus said, forget the distance between gods and men, and don’t concern yourself with safety. You never crash if you go fulltilt. Be happy today, he said. He was a god of joy, and also of democracy, which was deemed accessible to all. I’m sure I met him in the pubs in Inishmaan. Big lumbering boyo. Farmer’s hands, a roar of a laugh. The advocate of laughter. He didn’t want us to be and stay mortal. He wanted to live like a bourgeois and think like a god.
    Hard to say what to make of all this. But I am growing a deep affection for Dodds, and for Dionysus. They become the gods of ecstasy, out of this stasis, deities of the world’s not. I’ve always been a bad Catholic. I’ve worked hard at being a bad Catholic, and I don’t mean lapsed. The eunuch priest from the mainland. (We were grateful he was a eunuch.) The keening, the screaming statues, beads bleeding in your hands. The cows of heaven await you, children. The heart’s cross. I have faith in that.
    But I could be a good Dionysian. To the altar of that god I’d go daily, devout as my ma. I’d take the body and blood of Dionysus in one gulp. And I’d pray the Lord’s Prayer to Dionysus: Our Father, who art in heaven, let me out.
    AS IF TO REMIND ME that I’m not out yet, or likely to get there, Dr. Spector calls to inquire if I’ve finished the take-home yet. I ask her if she knows anyone I can copy the answers off. Planet Earth, Mr. Murphy, she says. Where’s that? I say.
    THOMAS MURPHY ON COOKING FOR ONESELF
    Hamburgers and steaks are fairly easy. Just plop ’em in the frying pan and see what happens. Eggs can be trouble. I’d stay away from eggs, unless you scramble them, because you have to keep your eye on scrambled eggs all the time, unlike hard-boiled eggs, which one may forget to watch, and then they bite you in the ass. Cold cereal is good. Special K is an old standby, but I also am developing a fondness for Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Speaking of which, cinnamon toast is no trouble either, if you purchase a container of cinnamon and sugar already mixed. I don’t eat cinnamon toast myself, but I make it for William when he visits. Zone bars too are easy. Just unwrap and eat. Also, fruit, as long as it isn’t a pineapple that requires carving up. Here’s a nice surprise: jellied cranberry sauce is tasty straight out of the can. Of course, the best way to go for most meals is takeout. No muss, no fuss. In the Belnord area, there’s takeout for Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Ethiopian, Indian, Cuban, and pizza at a place where you can get meatball subs as well. A few months ago, I got a call from an editor who was compiling a book of writers’ favorite recipes. I sent him seven phone numbers.
    THOMAS MURPHY ON CLEANING AND WASHING FOR ONESELF
    Dry-cleaning is a bloody cinch, as long as you know which of your clothes requires it. For dry-cleaning, just take the appropriate clothing to