From * * *
AFTER THE FAMOUS party at which Dov Grey and Gwenda had
deployed their dirty laundry before such luminaries as Bette Kaye, Stu
Pott was treated to a grand tour of the factory. Seeing Stu wriggle Dov
Grey remarked: "At first I too felt especially awkward, especially vulnerable, amid so much
material." Stu turned away: especially painful having
such a sentiment, unknown to him prior to this moment, brought home.
"Come on, out with it," he pursued, smiling at a receptionist returning
from a late lunch. "It's just that if I had to be purchasing all these raw
materials, crucial, I am the first to infer, to the production of ***, I
wouldn't be able to help feeling each item, each--" "Raw," Dov noted
modestly; "--raw stood in the way of escape, of a moving on, should that
need or that craving come upon me." Dov looked a bit blank as if this
was not at all what he had been expecting, much less encouraging. "I
need to purchase them. I need to acquire them," he recited, too truculently for Stu's taste.
This was not the Dov deduced at the party. That
Doy never was ruffled nor offended, transmogrifying every thrust into a
well-nigh deliriously ironic counterthrust that hardly qualified, so sweet
was the delivery, as thrust at all. "Of course, of course," Stu gasped, ever
the complaisant page, "you can't help acquiring. For each acquisition
Must signal and epitaph a spasm of hope, hopeful self-expansion in
behalf of the company's future, which is of course indistinguishable at
this stage of the game from your own." "Each acquisition is a necessary
acquisition all in the name of an even more necessary commitment." Stu
grappled with terror over Dov's tone. Was it one of dogmatic tendentious
correction? Was there room for more than one interpretation? whether
or not it was a correction Stu now felt the need to correct the correction.
"Even if every . . . raw may contribute to your sustenance, I mean, your self-
expansion, now or at some future date impossible to predict, impossible,
that is, with the equipment presently at our, I mean your, disposal, isn't
there nevertheless a possibility that whatever you end up producing will
be dwarfed by these raw materials, or rather, by their residues continuing
to take up space?" With what might even be construed as emphasis on
total absence of rancor Dov said, "The raws are used but never used up.
Therefore no residues." Then a marked shift in inflection: "But residues
or no residues what am I supposed to do--deny their existence?" Taking
him abruptly by the arm, Dov Grey led Stu Pott past the adjacent alcove
outpouching into a cubicle saddled with a single unwashed window
presently overpopulated with a few low-flying black-bellied clouds, a
small cabinet, a larger cabinet of darker grey, a coatstand, and a radiator.
The alarmingly rapid climb of dusk shadow up the high-rises across the
way invested the scimitarlike illumination of those mullions still unin fected by the wave
with a brilliance all out of proportion to their actual
capacity to dazzle. A foot protruded from a phone booth.
In a whisper: "So you understand. You know, then, how hard it is to
exist among these raws, which alarmingly give off the whiff of finished
products though never mine. But I run a factory and how can a factory
run without raws? Can a high-rise go higher minus its mullions? can any
self-respecting phone booth draw a profit without a protruding leg--sorry, foot--to advertise
its pissy discomforts? I hate my raws, inexhaustible, self-reconstituting without a hint from me or
my foremen,
pitting themselves against productions to come, dooming them in
advance. At the same time I want to drink in their vital substance at
once, to incorporate and metabolize them towards something intrinsic
and inherent so they are no longer looming up against me as they are
now--this very moment!--so I am no longer tormented and, worse,
incapacitated, by my previable separation from their likes. Their very
substance, apart from whatever I may or may not produce in the way of ***,
must become part of my own before I can begin to think of synthesizing what will perforce
stand opposed to that substance. I am tortured
by their separate existence apart and against. Even if I know these raws
ultimately will be tributary to my own products albeit in a manner not
always traceable. Yet the minute I've met the challenge of acquiring them,
vital to my self-expansion, that is, expansion of the ***, I feel weighted
down, dwarfed, blocked, obstructed by BOTH their competitive expansion [they seem to
bloom most blatantly in my domain!], their achieved
towering yet ever agglomerating coming-to-be, AND their fragility. After all they now are
also mine and as mine--even if nowhere near ultimate
transmogrification into what is truly mine--must be shielded from those
hostile forces hired to impinge on the chest cage of all raw materials
whatever their source. So I must make common cause with these
demons."
"So," said Stu, looking around the cubicle for a human presence,
"they are, these . . . raws, BOTH part of your substance, an inward extension, as it were, to
be protected at all cost from all that may encroach
AND an alien adversative presence already jeering at the littleness of the
substance to be generated from their juices." Stu surprised himself with
the virulence of his lucidity. It was somebody else, mavbe the *** themselves, talking.
"I get pleasure from my intercourse with these materials," said Dov,
with a certain slimy sweetness, as if Stu's extreme position was making
them too conspicuous to the powers that be. "Yet all the time I must be
surpassing them, going far beyond each and every, as well as well over
and above the unanimous organic whole they comprise ifonly in my eyes
For in actual fact each is a discrete and separate entity"--uncontrollablc
laughter--"as much at war with every other as I, as my ***. But I refuse
to see each entrenched in its own loneliness, perched, as it were, atop the
genesis of that loneliness. Instead I hallucinate an amalgam against which
hopelessly I strive to compete. Insist on deciphering a single--total--message and conflating
its innumerable components, digestible moments, to an overwhelming, lucid, and impregnable
threat. I am also terrified others do not see them as raws. For others they are finished
products. But for my exalted purposes they are raws and nothing but and
to be modified pursuant to the exigencies of a particular vision--sorry, of
a particular market singlehandedly created by me."
As if to complete the elegiacness of the gesture--Stu was fingering
one of the radiator's many spines--Dov Grey said: "Yes, sometimes I too
seek to fuse with my raws, and precisely because they are foreign to
soil the fusion is ecstatic and total, if shortlived. But I have a destiny to
fulfill, as you do, young man, and since neither ecstatic fusion nor the
ensuing narcosis can last forever there are always interstices to be had
through which I fall back to a sense of that destiny's time about to run
our compliments of the raws--my betrayers. For they sucked me towards
fusion with their completed splendor, which was, when all is said and
done, not my completeness, much less my splendor. I must seek my own
in opposition to the sum of splendors scattered by those raws with which
it is always hopeless to strive to fuse, fusion embodying the supreme form
of flight from construction of a destiny. But in the presence of so many
how can I hope to produce my very own, which will be counterpoised
not to one or two but to an undenumerable plethora gyrated towards
intimidating immensities." Dov was sobbing, that is to say,
making all the motions proper to a sobbing though his eyes were dry.
Stu Pott did not know how to answer. But at this moment he cared
not if he did or did not answer. Something in the factory smell perturbing he wanted to get
out into the so-called fresh air. Vastly mistaken he had been
about old Dov Grey, perhaps it had been the nagging presence of Gwenda casting him in so
palmary a haiflight. With Gwenda come and gone he was just Dov T. Grey, landgrubber and
would-be mastermind. Making an excuse, something about an upset stomach, he ran towards the
main exit. In the open air however, the open air quickly lost most of its anticipated charm. In
short, far from Dov and the *** Stu wanted nothing so much as to be once more among and
between. He remembered having left several versions of his resume in the front office, went back
in dreading another encounter. He was made to understand by the guard on duty that as the
receptionist was now foraging on an upper floor he would have to use the elevator if he intended
to retrieve whatever paperwork had been left in her hands. The guard eyed him askance, so he
felt even more than in the presence of Dov that he did not, would never, exist except in the
part of him interpellated by the guard--by the factory--seeking proof once again of its own baneful
authority, that is, its insatiability and not just with respect to raws-into-***. The longer he stayed
here the more he would be interpellated for collision with ironclad structures rendered ironclad
precisely through Dov's Grey-eminence decision to abstain from setting their mechanism in
motion. If he stayed on--came aboard, as the eminence had put it--then he must resign himself to
being called to account only in so far as he threatened, in other
words, gave meaning to the prohibitions embodied by those structures
(in whose mythy mechanism, once activated, he would be
less engulfed then routinely left for dead). The elevator man he caught
grimacing, or rather attempting to transform every inchoate grimace
into a neutral little tic. Though maybe what he, Stu Pott, perceived to be
a wrenched effort at transformation was nothing but the tic's native
trajectory living its life several spheres apart from the substrate's will.
Too much chat with Dov Grey was creating unwarranted expectation
of a world in incessant transformation. Better to count on a totality of
the most stultifying geneses whereby nothing, not even by the wildest
stretch of whatever faculty was most susceptible to such
pranks, could be perceived as changing character sufficiently to demand a change of name.
Approaching the reception area with its frosted glass partitions he
could hear the blare of the weather forecast for the New York Bay area--How determine
when a raw material was authentically raw or not, even to the slightest degree, already
processed?--delivered in a nakedly genial male voice that, matter-of-factly unlocalizible in that
empty space, made him shiver or want to shiver, he wasn't sure which. Voice created and
enhanced a sense of encroachment as if a corpse must be nearby. Very much a voice not being
listened to, either because it would never dream of coexisting with a listener or only with
one definitively dead. So why was he feeling blissful amid the calvary of his suddenly oddly
gainful unemployment? The voice was going on to establish even more minutely time, place,
circumambience, in a word, venue. The voice--summoning forth a transparency of curtains blown
halfway out of a window open wide on the bluest of skies--was holding forth for the sole purpose
of emphasizing the uselessness of all this information to . . . a corpse? Only as he got closer and
closer, though could he strictly speaking get any closer, and the voice rose in response to
intensification of the curtain blowing invoked by its period, he knew it was no longer a question of
what might or might not be useful to him, Stu Pott. The report was not for him. Though later on
there would surely be retrospective scrambling for just such useless details as were being
squandered at this very moment on a total absence of context, the frenzy of scrambling in direct
proportion to the cruciality of the quarry sought. In
spite of himself he went on listening, as if to a house of worship caving in
on itself. He looked down from the window in her--the receptionist's--Miss
Redmount's--office. From his angle of approach the intersection
below [in the vicinity of a trapezoidal square wielding as its sceptre a contourless hunk
hewn in homage to some bygone crook] before each went
its separate way of two clotted thoroughfares stank of the peeling covers
of an album commemorating little old New York.
He was thrust out of the album by an awareness, astonishment at the
lag before awareness, that the voice had surrendered to an immaculately
boned version of some rollicking tune of earliest youth. Alone in the vast
Redmount barn he would have liked to listen undiverted to the tune-in-itself as
commentary on the tenuity of youthful dreams; mournful registration as celebration of the gap
between then and now. But the particular
rendition was itself so attenuated, so woefully bland [the jauntiness so
much a secondary sexual character of that intrinsic blandness]--was itself
so forthright a presentation of unctuous, invincible blandness, that there
was no getting past the ever-expanding attenuatedness of the rendition
itself to the secret attenuatedness that ought, ooze of time passing, to
have been forming crystallike and unseen at the very heart of the heart of
what was being rendered.
Before he could determined whether or not he had indeed undergone
a transformation from then to now or was still very much his own raw
material, chaff of inconsequence, he noted the back of a head, a woman's
head. Before he could determine whether or not he wanted to determine
whether she was living or dead he had turned on his heels, forgetting the
valuable portfolio outlining his accomplishments he had come to
retrieve. On the public bus uptown it was that horrifying moment just
before authentic dusk goes on duty in the urban precinct. Sitting on the
left, closer to sunset, he noted how the vehicle's ceiling scrolls of fluorescence as well
as lights from stores grazing its right flank were flung out
into the almost-night, that is, their reflection deep into the window was
superimposed upon the almost-light. Would Dov hire him? After all, he
chortled madly, didn't the present observation qualify as a ***, at least of
sorts?
With the bus halted to collect yet another passenger Stu Pott took
note, as if this was the farewell ***, of yet another lamp, threatening to fall from its
post gnarled as a stray cat and attempting nonetheless to feed at about the same height those
leaves intertwined with its fate though already jaundiced with autumn some few remaining
choicest scraps of blear. Hard to determine the primary source of illumination, or rather,
jaundice: autumn or dusky blear. Which is not to say there were not lamps poised to reach out
towards nothing, arched so as to culminate nowhere, positioned, say, between two outthrusting
boughs on adjacent boles yet incapable of shedding any light on either, continuing
therefore? to blink and mist out of impotent selfpitying rage. Stu took advantage of
this moment of bliss, euphoria even, ascribable to any number of . . . raws to wonder why life
was so unbearable, why it was always a question of never getting too comfortable and bracing
oneself thereby for the next twist of the knife. But shouldn't this query have reared its hyacinthine
locks much later, after he had been a considerable time in the firm and plausibly drained of all
faith in humanity and hope for the future? There was nothing in his youthy bloom to justify so
precocious, so procacious! so premature, a spasm.
For the first time, in the midst of Fifty-seventh and Sixth, Stu shivered pleasurably at the
prospect of working himself to the bone for Dov Grey, of having every morning to spread the
thighs of his soul, enticing to their doom challenges of all sexes. Advancing towards him were
three lawyers or three accountants or three dentists or
three television producers outshouting each other beatifically in an effort
to reconstitute--and maximal merriment in tandem--some fatuous
incident they had just lived through. Stu did not know if he envied them or
was simply relieved that life, as he figured it from outside the kennel, was
being delivered right to his doorstep, proleptically--prophylactically,
so to speak--in the form of this expendable encounter--in order that he
might be spared pursuit of same. Watching them almost fuse as each
strove to shout higher than the others his particular version Stu
twinged with regret at not belonging to such a brotherhood but also with
relief. He had minutes before been in danger of succumbing to the magic of
such a fate and here it was prosectomized before him into vital components far less than magical.
Over and done with and not by him, even better, good riddance. The rains had cleared and the
sky was starry. If this was what life was all about they could have it, he hadn't missed a thing.
While Stu Port was incubating the future the future was already upon
him: After their conversation that afternoon Dov took his day home to
Gwenda and asked her point-blank whether or not he should hire the
young buck. "What's he like," she murmured, stroking his testicles, for
they were stretched out in bed.
But when, in response, he described Stu Gwenda was suddenly rife
with demurral. When he ventured to call Stu young, which seemed indisputable, Gwenda
suggested that he was not quite so unfledged as his
sighs and simpers made out. When Dov rehearsed his party-time rapture
she attested to "rather glaring" lapses of attentiveness, which did not bode
well for his future as a ***-man. Until it became clear as pitch she was
interested in not so much resolving the issue of whether or not Stu Pott
ought to be recruited as reassuring herself of some still undiminished
capacity for reaction against prior reactions proving never would she,
Gwenda, be debased to occupying another's space at the same time and
thereby losing Gwenda completely.
What she shot forth were not feelings but feelers regarding what sort
of eruptions might best enable her to maintain hegemony over the status
quo in a future apparently destined to be blighted with a rapid turnover
of Stus Pott.
Even if largely straitjacketed by Gwenda's displeasure, Dov knew he
wanted Stu on the team, knew he was overwhelmingly drawn to the lad,
although there was no denying the insidious onset of dread for in the
vicinity, predictably, of Gwenda upflowing eager certainty that Pott was
vital, tributary, to his well-being and that of the *** could only be reconstituted as
unlocalizably exterior obstruction to some well-being deeper
than any he might fathom, as exploitation of that well-being well beyond
concrete manifestation because absurdly, narrowly, indissolubly linked to her sudden
shifts of mood.
Stu should be the acid test of an ability to function at last without
Gwenda's enceinte and despite her protestational pacing of its battlements. Here was a
case where forever alert to his being duped by another
she was bearing down on inherent organic craving as purest example of
same. Decision became no easier when she contracted to speak glowingly
of the "youngster," not yet a windfall, remembering how he had asked,
under the hat check's sardonic stare, if they wanted him to flag down a
taxi. For this access of vigor bespoke little more than the ease with which
it could be shunted into the old rut of denegation, was, in short, but the sign
the rest-stop, of its obverse, never long in coming. For now she was
muttering about how frustrated he had appeared at the party, clearly
furious at not being paid sufficient court, particularly by older men of a
certain stripe, wanting to be elsewhere, doing something else besides listening, so what and
no matter if to one, Dov Grey! with at last something momentous to teach. Continuing to heed,
Dov had the stunned
sensation of undergoing unquenchable venom still in quest of a plausible
target. "Yes, the way he strutted about. I could tell he didn't like what he
was doing." No way not to Dov-allegorize her insinuation. A meaning
machine ever on the alert for the truth beneath appearances which truth
invariably reduced to somebody's--in other words, everybody's--petty
frustration over the rift between his/her desire and his/her accomplishment, exercising a craft
that untrammeled by intelligence was able going
fia beyond intelligence to rejoin the most slovenly childishness in its privileged domain,
Gwenda made sure Dov always ended up concluding she meant, where such pettiness and
frustration were concerned, to mean him.
Not the time, then, to reveal how immediately he had been taken by
the mien, the stance, of this particular supplicant. From the very first
minute Stu had struck him as the purest, most ephebelike of contenders.
Had there in fact been a vacancy before this godlike stance made it overwhelmingly
flagrant? He had been so overcome with the supplicant's raw need, had so identified and fused
with that need his own space of judgment was left unoccupied. No one, therefore, to receive the
supplicant.
Someone to bleed for but not to receive the supplicant. So with nobody
in the space of judgment--with all of him oozed into the opposing
space, that of the supplicant--how know he had chosen wisely?
Spreading her thighs and placing his hand between, Gwenda remarked:
"Impossible to talk to you. His eagerness, need, call it whatever you like,
wish to acquire that of which he hasn't the slightest conception--and I
don't mean simply; baldly, the ***--has become yours. Too excruciating
to witness that raw need cavort in supplication from a distance so you
elected to be him, be it--the raw need. And you end up--go put some
cold water on your neck--more excruciatedly, bloodily victimized by
your self-confessed illegitimate exercise of power in determining his fate
than he could ever be." No turning back. Dov decreed he had no choice
but to speak his stirrings, not unlike love. "And at the same time I see
myself--always from his point of view--as scandalously peripheral--I
see our * ** as peripheral, I mean, to his dingy little life--as reduced all
said and done to some dingy little solicitation of the margin of his consciousness of the
brilliant future awaiting him out there." "In his presence
you are unmanned," Gwenda noted calmly. With commensurate calm
she removed his lifeless paw from the center of her body: "Fuck the little
sod." Dov [aside]: "His indifference, bafflement, contempt, fear, impatience are infinitely
more potent somehow than my nisus of conviction
that the *** are impregnably great." "Our ***," she murmured dozing, or
pretending to doze so that her reminder might seem less invested with
coercion. "Near him--for all that he is the supplicant--I remain consigned to the
periphery of that amalgam of indifference, bafflement, cowardice, philistine fidelity to imminent
far more generous offers. I am a news item sketching the direst catastrophes stalled on the
margin of his
sensorium. And I feel apologetic for embodying catastrophe at a time
when he requires only sweetness and light." Hours later--as he was fingering Gwenda
the way she needed to be--Dov for the life of him couldn't recall the swelling moments of their
debate hastening towards resolution. Collapsing spent he could only conclude they didn't matter in
themselves, were interchangeable with countless others. What mattered
was their having dutifully consecrated a liberal slab of brute duration to a
decision achieved long before, and it was to this particular slab that by
tacit mutual agreement they intended to point whenever for their future
peace of mind it became necessary to localize and isolate the circumstances beyond their
control resulting in Stu's engagement.
"What is he like?" she murmured, stroking his testicles, but with a
new mansuetude, even whimsy, most becoming in the morning light.
"Seems like a nice boy," she hastened to conjecture, eager to prolong the
effect--of mild openness to risk, even of too great trustingness.
"Malleable--might function well in Breaking and Entering but not in
Recrements." Then, more matter-of-factly: "How many presently under
Chip O'Chop in Recrements?" He calculated and as he went about calculating, at least
going through the motions of one calculating, she
looked at him with not adoration but something close to adoration. It
grew, this beast of something close, until it had no choice but to shed,
half-excretion, half-secretion, a tiny codetta of amused contempt. "'Bout
twenty," he replied, with a trifling smugness that suggested he was about
to swallow a voluptuary sprig of bittersweet chocolate shot through with
silky almonds.
Actually, Dov's stab at smugness disguised a shyness bordering on
mortification as Gwenda, gazing, persisted both in half-meditating what suddenly had
become his boyish brilliance in stumbling on so fetching an
adjunct to the family business as Pott--a boyish brilliance much
enhanced by that shyness--and in half-inducing, prolonging, reckless
immersion in a completely new perspective on her lover and its issue of
strange new feelings, to which she willingly succumbed insofar as they
bodied forth the promise of authentic mystery, total loss of glandular
control, transformation into distant then of oppressive now. Even more
reckless inasmuch as there was no third to scowl at such wretched preoccupation with their
wretched little family business except that from time
to time each became that third, scowling without knowing he or she was
in fact scowling down this . . . house of cards. Or, as Gwenda later
explained it to her sister Trendy [wife and, depending on the time of day,
concubine to the aforementioned Hinkie-Winkle], to have their sexual
life once more--that is, that night--the night little Stu insinuated himself into its nooks and
crannies, jogs and ambries, orlops and oubliettes--they had had no choice but to meet his
slithering half-way and erect him as the body--in other words, the third party--in question. You
mean,
Trendy simpered, the dummy variable you wrote me about last year,
around the time of Hinkie's promotion--Thanksgiving. Halloween,
Gwenda corrected savagely: at any rate, yes, the dummy variable, the
alternative self, the alternative Dov, that is at the same time here--in our
sexual life, I mean--and not here. Little sis remarked--a bit self-righteously, Gwenda
thought, though she adored nobody more than her little
old sis Trendy--something to the effect that she and H-W, on the other
hand, had absolutely no need for such prostheses. I leave all that to Krafft
and Ebbing, she tittered wholesomely. Rather, Gwenda retorted [though
she tried to make said retort sound like melismatic musing], we eroticize
our common concerted annihilation of that other self, that other Dove,
though too late did she realize this rider in no way modified the thrust of
the just-proclaimed law of their impoverished fusings. So, Trendy concluded, this Stu is
now the figurehead you try to capsize in your thrustings and thrashings. Sadly Gwenda concurred:
This other self will most
definitely have to be erected from time to time to motor its own demolItion which
demolition is the supreme and essential propulsion needed to
get us through our fucking. Hinkly-Winkly and I, Trendy began again
but Gwenda [who after so incriminatory a divulgement of boudoir inanition was in no
mood for contrastive attestations] cut her off at the pass
with, Sometimes I think the alternative self, the alternative Dove, this . . . Stu
person, exists purely to be annihilated so as through its annihilation to
propel our propulsion through the act of fucking. Cruelly-kind, Trendy interpreted: You
mean he doesn't exist after all as a target of Dov desire.
Through its good auspices, Gwenda continued [bypassing the kindness],
our fucking becomes a kind of taunting of that alternative self. What I
mean is [Trendy was beginning to yawn stepwise-dainty now that she had
already achieved her objective in entering into any conversation, namely,
establishment of a good fortune far greater than that of her interlocutress], as he penetrates
me, then thrusts inside, he always feels he is
cruelly rejecting this third party, at once anti-Dov and composite therefore imaginary lover
compiled from bits and pieces of all his recruitment
interviews [The department of human and quasi human resources over
there is decked out like a waterfront dive if you ask me, Trendy murmured huskily],
achieved or missed, and so our intimacy, if that is what it
turns out to be, becomes cruel and callous and cruelty and callousness
[always towards this immemorial third]-once it is done saddening and
immobilizing the thrashing and the thrusting--Dov's thrashing and
thrusting--becomes the motor--the swinge--the nisus--to get us old-timers thrashing and
thrusting through the thrashing and thrusting. And
so [almost inaudible, at least to Trendy, at her end of the line of so much
inter-city static] never ceases to remind us our relation is but an adultery
enacted in its shadow. Administering a final mithridate-yawn to the
expiring patient-situation, Trendy whined: And where is he while all this
is going on. I mean, she exploded, is he right there in bed with the two of
you. No, no, no, Gwenda, with a certain unmistakable and grating hauteur, replied now
that she had at last been given a chance to focus on the complexity rather than on the AMA-level
pathology
of the whole operation, he's just an image. We invoke him and his doings
in our lovetalk. Our little language of the engorged privates, if you will
[tittering here, capped, by a bodywide belch]. From the belch,
Dov--for it is still Dov's moment--Dov and Gwenda's, to be exact--only much
later, or maybe not so much later, will it be clarified, that is, scoured
that is, brutally violated, as Trendy and Gwenda's--moment . . . of
inter-penetrating sisterly communion--backed off towards the wardrobe not
quite blocking the toilet seat from view, "Chip O'Chop is no longer with
us," Dov finally admitted, or realized. "Chip O'Chap's the new
foreman." "Oh, what's he like." "Fiftyish, balding, good boy, resembles Hu Fu."
"I remember Fu," she conceded in a tone akin to a shrug of
contemptuous dismissal, particularly glacial now she was once again intoxicated by
the novelty of a gesture far grander: turning on the TV by remote control.
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