You want some?
I'm gonna kill you!
Where the hell have you been?
-Mom, come on and eat!
-I'm not hungry.
-Then why did I cook?
-I don't know why you cooked.
I don't know why you bother.
Eat, Simon.
God! I want to get fucked.
You okay?
See ya.
Get up off your knees.
Where do you have to go to get
a six-pack of beer around here?
-Say something.
-She's mute.
What?
Kiss my ass.
Fucker.
Asshole!
Centuries ago,
it had an 'e' at the end.
-Where do you come from?
-Nowhere in particular.
I go where I will
and I do what I can.
That's why I'm in trouble.
I'm sort of
what you might call...
an exil.
Why are you in trouble?
An honest man
is always in trouble, Simon.
Remember that.
How do you know my name?
I am not retarded.
Yeah, well.
I'll take your word for that.
People...
I mean...
they think...
you know...
because...
I see.
Here.
Take this.
And...
this.
Keep them with you
at all times...
if you feel you've got something
to say and you can't get it out.
You stop
and write it down, okay?
What are these?
My life's work.
My memoirs.
My confession.
What have you done?
I've been bad.
Repeatedly.
But why brag?
The details of my exploits
are only a pretext for a...
far more expansive
consideration of general truths.
What is this?
It's a philosophy.
A poetics.
A politics, if you will.
A literature of protest.
A novel of ideas.
A pornographic magazine of
truly comic-book proportions.
It is in the end whatever
the hell I want it to be.
And when I'm through with it
it's gonna blow a hole this wide...
straight through
the world's idea of itself.
They're throwing
bottles at your house.
Come on,
let's go break their arms.
No!
I don't want trouble.
Once, I forget where I was,
Central America, maybe...
somewhere hot.
Stupid job, bad pay.
Dangerous location, the water was
so foul they wouldn't piss on it.
A crowd of drunken motherfuckers,
hired by the local drug cartel...
shows up at my hotel room and
threatens to tear me limb from limb.
And I say:
"Listen, 'hombres'...
You got me outnumbered 4 to 1.
You're gonna kill me here tonight...
and not a soul in this dimly-lit
world is gonna notice that I'm gone.
But one of you...
one of you is gonna have
his eye torn out."
Period.
Silence.
I repeat myself.
"One of you jerks, is gonna have
his eye ripped out of its socket.
I promise. It's a small thing,
perhaps, all things considered.
But I will succeed.
Because it's the only thing
I have left to do in this world.
So, just take a good look
at one another one last time...
and think it over
a few minutes more."
And then, what happened?
Well...
here I am...
still...
after all.
Did you throw up
all over some girl?
They were throwing bottles
at the house, you know.
She's got some ex-con
in it she met at the bar.
Tattoos all over himself
and big, red, bloated nose.
Did you take your pills?
You want me
to tell her to be quiet?
What's the use? She might
as well get it while she can.
She's not always gonna have the ass
she has now, you know? That's life.
Good morning, Simon.
A glorious day, huh?
Here, have a doughnut.
Can you lend me US$ 2O?
Thanks.
Where's the library
in this scrappy little burg?
Down the highway about
a mile and a half, then make a left.
Excellent. I'm polishing up the
final chapters of my confession...
and I need a
reasonably well-stocked...
reference section.
I thought...
I was...
I wanted to...
maybe...
Can I take this?
I'll correct the spell.
-Simon, who did this to you?
-I was gonna tear out their eyes.
-Who's eyes?
-I told them. Like you said.
I knew I could do it.
You should take him home.
He smells like a toilet.
Mr. Fool, what is this?
-It's poetry.
-Are you sure?
Of course I'm sure.
I've corrected the spelling myself.
It made my daughter sing.
-Keep still.
-Let me do it.
Fine. You do it, Simon.
I don't care.
Mom! Simon's got a broken rib
and dislocated shoulder...
and he won't let me disinfect
a gash in his head.
-Fay, just take him to the hospital!
-He won't go!
Simon Grim, you go to the hospital
with Fay right now, you hear me?
We gotta talk.
What the hell were you trying
to do when you wrote this thing?
-Nothing.
-You wrote it in iambic pentameter.
-Iambic what?
-Verse.
Look, in my opinion this
is pretty powerful stuff.
Though your spelling is Neanderthal
and your reasoning a little naive...
your instincts are profound. But the
thing needs to be more cohesive.
It can be expanded, followed-thru,
unified. See where I'm getting at?
Are you willing
to commit yourself to this?
To really work on it, to give it
it's due on the face of adversity...
and discouragement, to rise up to the
challenge you yourself accept?
And don't give me that wonder struck
'I'm only a humble garbage man'.
It hurts to breathe.
Of course it does.
Have a drink.
Do you find me attractive?
Yes.
-I look young for my age, don't I?
-How old are you?
How old do you think I am?
You look young.
How young?
I don't know. Young.
But how? Do I look more
like 2O or, you know, 3O?
Listen, you geek. After a couple of
drinks, people mistake me for 18.
Warren...
are you a registered voter?
Bug off, Vicky.
"Saving America from itself."
-What the fuck is this?
-About the upcoming elections...
and Congressman Owen Feer, the good
things he'll do for our country.
Yeah? Like what?
He wants to win back this
country for us Americans, Warren.
And restore a kind of cultural and
moral standard to our way of life.
What time does your
kid go off to school?
Nine o'clock.
How about I come over
to your house later?
I don't know, Warren.
I mean...
Come on.
I mean it.
I'm trying to change.
How dare you put something like
this up where anyone can see it?
-It's poetry.
-It's pornography!
A product of a diseased mind!
You ought to be ashamed, Sr. Deng.
You see, Simon,
there are three kinds of "there."
There's there...
T-H-E-R-E.
"There are the doughnuts."
Then there's their.
T-H-E-I-R.
Which is the possessive.
"It is their doughnut."
Then, finally...
there's they're.
T-H-E-Y, apostrophe, R-E.
A contraction.
Meaning they're.
"They're the doughnut people."
Got it?
If you're gonna read Wordsworth, you
better get a more updated edition.
This odoripherous tome you're so
attached to doesn't have a prologue.
And you need
notes, commentary.
I'll go to the library and I'll get
you the best edition they have.
Thank you, but that's okay. I'll
stop there on my way back from work.
From work?
You can't go to work.
Oh, yeah. Maybe not today.
But tomorrow, probably.
Quit.
-My job?
-Yeah.
Why?
You need time to write, Simon.
To study, to reflect.
But I like my job.
A vocation like ours, Simon,
is not a 9 to 5 thing.
You can't put a fence
around a man's soul.
We think and feel when
and where we think and feel.
We are the servants of our muse,
and we toil where she commands.
Can I read your confession?
No.
Not yet. Soon. We'll see.
-Is it almost finished?
-In a piece of work like this, it's...
avocation like ours, it's...
you can't put a fence around a man's
soul. What I'm trying to achieve...
takes a lifetime, really.
It's a life's work.
But soon. Don't worry about it.
I'd appreciate your feedback.
I gotta go.
See you.
What are you
doing here, Simon?
I'm writing a poem.
So what? It's not so great.
Is that him?
Pardon me, Simon.
Look, I'm the editor of
a high-school newspaper...
One of the editors.
-One of the editors. And we...
-You.
I...
wanted to know if we can print
your poem in this month's issue.
Why?
-Because I think it's great.
-I don't.
-Who cares what you think?
-Geez, you're a drag!
-Well known drag.
-Please?
Mom, did you
take your medication?
I guess so.
Good evening, Fay.
What do you want?
I've got these
library books for Simon.
Leave them there
on the cabinet.
Where is he?
Henry?
Mommy!
Simon, are you
a registered voter?
This year, when you go to the polls,
consider congressman Owen.
He wants to restore America to its
position of unmatched wealth...
power and opportunity.
To revitalize
American civilization...
and lead the human race to even
greater levels of freedom...
prosperity and security.
He's a good man.
Immigrant.
Listen...
I know a man.
His name is Angus James, and he is a
big shot in the publishing business.
Smart, adventurous,
tons of integrity.
When the time is right, I'll
recommend he read your poem.
He'll respect my opinion.
That man was here again
today looking for you.
A man? What man?
You know. That guy.
Why do they torment me like this?
Why?
-They're like a bunch of mosquitoes.
-What do they want from you?
They want to suffocate me, Simon.
To extinguish me like a flame.
-Why?
-They're afraid. That's why.
They're afraid of what I might do.
What I might say, think!
They're afraid of my ideas. You
and I are alike in this way, Simon.
We are?
We are outsiders.
We think and feel too much and...
too deeply.
And the world can't handle that.
Our mere existence is a threat
to its illusion of security.
Sure, they'll name awing of
a library after us when we're dead.
But now where we are alive,
they want to burn us at the stake.
Look, Simon...
I made love to your mother
about half an hour ago...
and now I'm beginning to think that
maybe it wasn't such a good idea.
I mean to say that
I think Fay may be jealous.
I don't want
to think about this.
Bad move, Simon.
A poet's gotta be able
to contemplate anything.
Am I really a poet?
Of course you are.
A great poet.
But you need experience.
You need to do something
to be ashamed of once in awhile!
Come on. Let's go out.
Have you got any money?
That man is a bad influence.
To whom?
Simon.
-Hey, Simon. Wake up.
-What's that?
It's a computer.
You write on it.
-Here's the manual.
-Where did you get it?
I stole it. Now, listen. Remember we
discussed the need for cadence...
...to the readability of form.
-Shit. Not you again.
-I cannot work on these conditions.
-Yeah, get out of here, you freak!
-Get a life!
-Eat shit 'n' die, Henry!
Beast! Fiend! Rapist!
Oh, shut up, mom.
I am not a rapist.
Shit. Come on. This way.
Keep a lookout.
What's going on?
What's wrong?
I doubt.
So, you're an honest man.
Why beat yourself up about it?
I don't know if there are grounds
for faith. Is my vocation relevant?
Does it make a difference?
-A difference in what?
-The world. The way it is.
Is this away to
help relief suffering?
-Your vocation makes a difference.
-How can you be so sure?
Because vocation is the difference.
Only someone who cares doubts.
Listen, father.
Have you got any money?
Let's go have a drink.
-Are you a registered voter?
-I really don't know.
I could give you some information
about congressman Owen Feer.
This man will make a big difference
in the lives of every American.
-Pardon me, sir.
-Fuck off!
Right.
What time does your mother get off?
Fay, are you a registered voter?
Don't you dare talk to me that way.
And keep your hands off my brother.
-Pearl, what are you doing here?
-I'm watching her.
-You and Vicky got back together?
-I got a regular job now.
I saw this retard
on TV this morning.
He's gonna be the next
president of the USA, Fay.
Keep dreaming, Warren.
The guy's a nazi.
-I like him.
-Give me a light.
He's a decent man.
He takes complicated issues...
and he totally simplifies them.
I appreciate that.
-You still sell dope?
-No.
You know what the problem
with this country is, Fay?
Me. I'm the problem. We live
in a culture of poverty and crime...
where the work ethic
is undermined...
and male responsibility
is made irrelevant.
Come on, Pearl.
Let's go play at my house.
If she gives you any trouble,
just let me know, Fay.
-What do you mean, you quit?
-I quit my job.
-Why?
-For things I want to do.
Like what?
Opportunity will step out of the
way to let a man pass it by.
-Are you drunk?
-Now you have to get a job.
I'm not getting a job.
-Who's gonna look after mom?
-I will.
If you treat mom
like a sick person...
she's gonna stay like,
you know, a sick person.
Mom can't be left alone with
no one to keep an eye on her.
Who's been keeping an eye on her
while you're out getting fucked?
Simon?
What are you doing here?
Henry, your parole officer
came by again today.
He told me that if you don't call
him he'll put you back in jail.
-He wants you to call him!
-Simon?
He was talking to Mr. Deng too.
I was thinking...
Simon, just shut the fuck up!
Forgive me.
Forgive me, Simon.
Look, do me a favor.
Do you have a library card?
Check this out for me. Milton.
Seventeenth Century. English.
It's important my confession
dig up the past...
comb previous evidence, help chart
the historic and even the esthetic...
inevitability of my ideas.
This place is crawling with chicks!
Wander around.
Leer a little.
Feel them.
Pose yourself on them.
-Now, listen. I gotta go.
-Henry.
What did you do?
I got caught.
-How are you, Henry?
-Peachy. Get me a light?
Have you found a job?
How about those Alcoholics Anonymous
meetings? Have you gone over there?
What about that assistant librarian
position you were to set me up with?
I tried, Henry.
I really did.
-So, what happened?
-Henry, with your background...
I mean, your record,
they didn't think it would be right...
...to have you at the library.
-Why not?
They think you'd be
a bad influence on the kids.
Or worse.
So my word is not enough.
My promise, worthless.
The fact that I have served my time
Nothing but the emblem of my...
...continuing guilt.
-Apparently.
-What's that?
-Nothing.
I'm creating my resume.
This computer has got
a program especially for it.
Bought some special stationery too.
It's scented. Look.
It's roses.
Can you type my
poem into that thing?
-That's your poem?
-Yeah.
Simon, mom's right about you.
A poem's supposed to be a small,
delicate thing. Feminine, gentle.
Look at this.
You made a fucking telephone book.
I was caught.
Yes. I was caught once.
In flagrante delictum screwing
a 13 year old girl named Susan.
She was an ugly
and mean-spirited kid.
But she knew how to play
upon my weaknesses...
which, I admit...
are deep and many.
You appear shocked.
It was a pathetic little conspiracy.
A transparently desperate attempt...
to discredit me and my ideas.
To label me a mere pedophile. As if
I'd be ashamed of such a thing.
As if Socrates himself hadn't
been taken out of circulation...
for corrupting
the youth of Athens.
Seven years.
Seven years for one afternoon
of blissful transgression.
But, what of it?
Who cares?
Prison is not so bad.
Particularly if one's free from the
conventional horror of sodomy.
They were not lost years.
I put them to good use.
I began my major
work, my Opus!
Believe me, Simon.
This incident with the girl...
prison...
pales to insignificance in the
wider context of my career.
Nothing in comparison to the day
my confession is unleashed.
We are told not to judge.
But to forgive.
Not to look into our neighbor's eyes
and find the bad. But the good.
This is difficult, I admit.
But having a good friend
isn't always easy.
Yes, I see.
But...
I mean...
do you ever think that...
that Henry is...
dangerous?
He needs help.
Our help.
Yours, especially.
The best parts of himself surface
when he's helping others learn.
Let yourself be taught. Show
your appreciation for his guidance.
In this way, perhaps...
Well...
there's hope for everyone.
Even Henry.
The greats all say
the same thing.
Little. And, what little
there is to be said, is immense.
In other words, follow your
own genius, to where it leads...
without regard for the apparent
needs of the world at large...
which has no needs of such,
but just moments of exhaustion...
in which it is
incapable of prejudice.
We can only hope to collide with
moments of unselfconsciousness...
...this divine fatigue, this...
-Push over!
As I tried to
make right in Paris:
"We know we have fallen,
because we know who we are."
-When were you in Paris?
-That's beside the point.
But did they listen to me?
Of course not.
-You okay, Fay?
-No, I'm not okay.
Your poem brought my period
on a week and a half early.
So, just shut up.
Everybody, just shut up!
-Simon, can I have your autograph?
-Never let yourself be flattered.
-What of your friend, the publisher?
-Who?
-Angus James.
-How about sending the poem to him?
Because it's not done yet.
When is it gonna
be done, Simon?
-I don't know.
-You ought to be home writing.
-Instead of hanging with groupies.
-I'm not a groupie.
-Pardon me. Is this your laptop?
-The thing to do is to send...
parts of it to different magazines
and literary channels first.
-You know, substantiate it.
-What scatological mean?
A preoccupation with excrement.
Why?
That's what the Board of Education
called Simon's poem yesterday.
-Hello.
-Yeah. I'm listening.
I'm Edna Rodriguez and I write for
the "Queens County Examiner."
I was just wondering if I can
have a word with Simon Grim?
Simon!
You can't talk too long with him,
because he writes all day.
That's all he does. Can you believe
that? Simon, get down here!
Simon, Edna.
She's from the newspaper.
The parent's association is
calling your poem pornography.
The teachers are defending
the students' rights to exercise...
critical taste and sensibility. The
county agrees with the church and...
considers the poem emblematic of
modern society's moral...
disintegration. How do you feel
about these reactions to your poem?
Simon, answer the woman.
-I need my prescription pills.
-Mom, Edna. Edna, mom.
Mrs. Grim, what was Simon
like as a child?
-We all thought he was retarded.
-Everyone did.
-Never said a word.
-Masturbated constantly.
-Had no friends.
-Till he met Henry.
"Dear Mr. Grim:
we here at the magazine consider
ourselves open-minded...
and consistently print the work
of the most brilliant young talent.
Every week we are forced to return
writing which we cannot publish...
and include a brief
but polite refusal.
But this tract you sent us demands
a response as violent...
as the effect your words
have had upon us.
Drop dead.
Keep your day job.
Sincerely, the editors."
"De gustibus non disputandum est."
"You can't argue with taste?"
About taste. You can't argue about
taste. My God, Simon...
The other 25 are almost as bad.
I don't know why I bothered.
What do you mean, you
don't know why you bothered?
You bother because you
know the poem is excellent.
Do I?
Of course you do.
I'm not so sure sometimes.
Can you sit there, look me in the
eye and tell me it's not great?
That it is not a work
of great lyrical beauty...
and ethical depth?
That it is not a profound meditation
on the miracle of existence?
-I...
-Can you?
No.
-I can't.
-So you see? You have no choice.
Can you recommend it to your
friend, the publisher, Henry?
Can you recommend
the poem to him?
-That might not be easy.
-Why?
It's been a long time. My name might
not carry as much weight as it did.
-But he's your friend, right?
-We were close at one time.
You said he
respected your opinion.
Look, Simon.
Opinions come and go.
To be honest,
my ideas, my writing...
they've not always
been received well...
or even calmly.
They're upsetting.
I'm a controversial man.
You see, what I'm
doing is too radical.
Too uncompromising.
It'll take time
for people to see its value.
It's ahead of its time, perhaps,
or maybe just...
a recommendation from me might
do you as much harm as it does good.
Henry, why can't
I read the confession?
Because certain works need to be
experienced all at once...
for one to appreciate
the full force of its character.
Simon, wake up.
The guy's in the dream world.
He's afraid that his reputation will
not allow my work an honest chance.
-His reputation as what?
-As a writer.
-Give me a break.
-He's kind of like in exile...
marginalized
on account of his ideas.
If he's such a genius, why doesn't
he write books like you do?
He has. He's been working on it for
years. It's just not published.
Yeah, I bet.
It's probably disgusting.
It's quite serious and difficult
piece of work, apparently.
Have you read it?
No. Not yet. Soon.
Certain work needs to be
experienced all at once...
in order for one to appreciate
the full force of its character.
Yeah, well. Whatever.
Listen, Simon. Forget Henry.
Go to this Angus James yourself
and get him to read the poem.
I'm going to fight for a job at the
photo store and another at the bank.
Make sure mom
takes the pills.
See ya.
Please, don't stop.
That was nice.
Yes, it was nice.
But it was unremarkable.
Does that matter?
Yes...
it does.
Hi, I'll take that.
Aren't you the messenger?
No.
Well, then you must
be here to fix the plumbing.
I'm here to see
Mr. Angus James.
Are you?
The book we know, Angus, will be
a thing of the past in a few years.
Novels, articles, newspapers,
Will all be downloaded onto a PC.
You're telling me to get
out of the publishing business?
We've got to reinvent the publishing
business for the electronic age.
I'm sorry to disturb you, gentlemen.
There's a wound up garbage man...
that seems to have written a poem.
A long poem.
And I recall how in last month's
meeting you stressed the need...
for us to be on the lookout for
more marginalized verse from...
un-established quarters
of the American scene.
-Did I say that?
-You did.
Twice.
Okay, Laura. Make an appointment.
Sometime next month.
Right-o.
So, how is the digital revolution
is going to help me sell books?
Why can't I see him now?
Because he's a very
important man, and...
you're not.
Be reasonable.
Why?
I don't think people are gonna
prefer reading books on televisions.
-It's not television...
-It's interactive.
Angus, look. We have
a number of charts here...
In every home in America, the PC
is gonna be where the TV used to be.
And it'll be a direct connection
to all forms of media.
An unprecedented transformation
in American social life.
We'll become more informed, more
literate, increasingly productive...
and, well, like I said,
we have a number of charts.
I'm sorry to disturb you
again, gentlemen, but...
I'll call security for this one. But
before I do, I wanted to ask you...
just how marginal the undiscovered
voice of American poetry should be?
-Pretty damn marginal, I think.
-Downright controversial, probably.
-How's he striking?
-He's denounced by the Local Board.
I read about him. He hangs around
a delicatessen writing pornography.
Hello. Why do you think I should
take my valuable time to read this?
-Because it's a masterpiece.
-Really? Are you hearing this?
-He's adorable.
-I wouldn't want to waste your time.
I'm sure not. I assume you can
take some straightforward criticism.
Just say "yes."
Maybe.
Get him a coffee, Laura.
-Have a seat, Mr. Grim.
-Hold my calls for half an hour.
-What about Steve?
-He doesn't drink coffee. Do you?
Angus, listen...
-Henry, put those magazines back.
-I'm just looking at the pictures.
-It's not good for you.
-I learn so much from these magazines.
I refuse to discriminate
between modes of knowing.
-You can't smoke in here anymore.
-Why not?
It's the law.
This place is losing
all its charm, Mr. Deng.
Business is good. The kids
hang out all day, drink coffee...
...talk about art and read poetry.
-It's just a fad.
These kids today,
they're just slaves to fashion.
This is really quite
unbelievably bad, my friend.
I've made a career
out of disregard for convention.
But this is profoundly
irrelevant material.
This is only my opinion,
but it is one I value highly.
Good night, Laura. Call Norton
if we're still on for tomorrow.
I refuse to admit that I've ever
been wrong as a reader.
You got talent. You have an innate
sense of the musicality of language.
A good ear, maybe. But you
do nothing significant with it.
And this twisted reasoning that
poses as conviction or insight...
it's...
well, it's embarrassing.
Why did you bring
this thing to me anyway?
A friend of mine spoke of you.
He said you had a lot of integrity.
Yes, well, of course
I do, but I'm not crazy.
Who is this person?
Do I know him?
His name is Henry Fool.
Never heard of him.
I remember Henry.
He used to be
the janitor here.
Simon?
-How much do I owe you?
-US$ 25.
That can't be right. So what,
my credit's good. Hey, Warren!
-You got a couple of bucks?
-I remind you to vote this Tuesday.
Of course. When noble minds shrink
from the task of leadership...
scoundrels will rush in
to fill the void. Thanks.
It's every American's right.
A blessing.
And yet another opportunity
to save America from itself.
Anybody home?
Mom?
Henry, got any cigarettes?
Let us pray.
Lord, grant the peace be within
reach for our friend Mary.
May the pain and confusion
she endured on Earth...
be forth through
in the afterlife...
so that she may enter
the kingdom of heaven...
and live in the light of God.
Amen.
So I was a janitor. So what?
-Angus said he didn't even know you.
-We weren't like bosom buddies.
We used to talk sometimes,
in the elevator, in the mornings.
He said he liked my ideas.
Being a janitor is a good
job if you're a writer.
Especially the night shift. All that
time to think and develop ideas.
Do it.
-Anyway, he hated my poem.
-What the hell does he know?
He wouldn't know a vital piece
of literary art if it bit him!
The hell with him! He's not
the only publisher in the world.
-Nobody likes it.
-It's true.
A prophet is seldom heeded
in his own land. Remember that.
Do it.
Hey, look. Treasure.
-What is this?
-Brass, maybe some kind of copper.
It's a ring. Jewelry.
I think it's a gasket, a fitting for
that old refrigerator over there.
Warren, I found Pearl wandering
around by the garbage dump.
-He lost.
-Who lost?
-Congressman Feer.
-Somebody's gotta lose.
What's the fucking use?
You make sacrifices,
Try to be a decent human being...
try to contribute something
meaningful to society...
and then lose to a bunch
of cultural elite liberal fuck-ups.
I don't give a shit anymore.
People deserve what they get.
Vicky?
What happened to you?
He's a good man, Henry.
Nobody's perfect.
I guess not.
He's terribly disappointed.
Thanks.
She gets scared.
And you don't?
I love him.
-Where's the beer?
-No more beer.
Coffee. Espresso. Cappuccino. Caf
Au Lait. Carrot Juice. Cup of tea.
Give me a double espresso
and a jolly doughnut, Gnoc.
Do you mind paying?
My credit's no good here anymore.
Did you go to the
employment agency today, Henry?
No. But it's okay. Simon's gonna
give me a job on the garbage truck.
-I'm concerned about your friend.
-Simon?
It seems he gave an obscene
note to a girl in the library.
-Get out of here. When?
-I'm not sure.
-This is obviously a love letter.
-We've had complaints.
-Where did you get it?
-She posted it on the Internet.
Oh, slut!
She was trying to warn other
girls about a potential rapist.
Does all of this is
true about the Internet?
-About how you can get pornography?
-Sure. It's a serious problem.
-You can send dirty pictures.
-On the Internet?
-Yeah.
-No kidding.
I'll see you
on Thursday, Henry.
Gnoc, give me another one of these
double espressos to go, will ya?
Hello, Fay.
Go away.
You gotta get out
of the house, Fay.
You can't blame yourself for not
being here. You did all you could.
Is there something you want?
Have you got the Internet
on that contraption?
Yeah, so what?
Look, Fay. About between
us, what happened.
I don't want to
talk about it, Henry.
Type that part of Simon's
poem onto the Internet.
What?
Go ahead.
No.
Why not?
Because.
Come on, Fay.
It's a great idea.
-I don't know if Simon would want it.
-Sure he would.
Just the first ten verses.
I don't know...
He'll thank you for it later.
Henry?
Did you see him?
-He came by this afternoon.
-Did you talk?
No.
You've gotta tell him, Fay.
He thinks I'm a slut.
Simon, I don't feel so good.
What's wrong?
I feel all kind of
clammy and damp.
-How many of these did you have?
-Seven.
-Henry, we have to talk.
-Can I use your toilet?
Fay's taking a shower.
How much you think
I can get for this?
Henry, Fay is pregnant.
She's pregnant
with your child.
Jesus!
Henry...
I, Henry, take you, Fay,
to be my wife...
I, Henry, take you, Fay,
to be my wife...
And do promise before
God and these witnesses...
And do promise before
God and these witnesses...
To be a loving
and faithful husband...
To be a loving
and faithful husband...
In plenty and in want...
In plenty and in want...
In joy and in sorrow...
In joy and in sorrow...
In sickness and in health...
In sickness and in health...
For as long as
we both shall live.
For as long as
we both shall live.
Bless, o Lord, this ring, and he who
gives it, and she who wears it...
may abide in Your peace and continue
in your favor until their lives ending.
In God has joined,
let no man separate it.
-Where did you get this?
-It's all over in the Internet.
They're even talking
about it on the TV news.
There's a man from the radio
station over at the doughnut...
and a story about some kids burning
down the school near Boston.
It all started here in Queens, Jim,
at the World of Doughnuts...
about a year ago, when local garbage
man Simon Grim began to compose...
what many regard as vicious, anti
social and pornographic poetry.
This is outrageous!
Measures must be taken.
Have we debased our culture
to such an extent...
that a garbage man with a head
full of sick ideas...
is legitimately
referred to as a poet...
and where the filth he spews can be
accessed by a child at the computer?
Is this what we have come to?
Not the transmission of our...
highest ideals, but a cynical,
atheistic delirium?
In the past three days
we have been treated...
to the usual parade
of philistines...
the posturing, the preening,
the pomposity...
of the residual puritan element
of American culture...
that rears its ugly head every time
an artistic voice comes out.
I'm very attracted to what I feel is
a pungent and squalid element init.
That is the authentic thrashing
voice of American culture.
And, moreover, I find the kind
of imagery of rotten decay...
that is always symptomatic
of any fin-de-sicle.
In Rome, the Pope issued a message
of hope for believer sin their...
plight against what he termed
'the godless and lost.'
He did not mention
Simon Grim by name...
but offered a prayer for the young,
whom he described as sadly in...
need of faith, not the illusion of
conviction offered by rock music...
drugs, and
contemporary poetry.
Also in the news today: the
United Nations General Assembly...
God, Simon, you're like
a total fucking rock star.
I'm willing
to negotiate, Simon.
I know. It's just...
What? You got other offers?
Well, yeah...
-But...
-What?
Why have you reconsidered?
Because I think your writing
will be tremendously successful.
But you don't like it.
It's growing on me.
-What were the terms?
-US$ 1OO,OOO in cash.
Up front.
-Royalties?
-7O/3O split.
Well, that could be better.
But it is a hundred thousand dollars
up front. Guaranteed money.
You could use that.
-So it's a good deal?
-Of course it's a good deal.
So I should take it?
No.
Try to get him
up to US$ 15O,OOO.
I've let
myself down, Simon.
I've let myself be caught in a
bloody maul, banale necessity.
How did I get here?
How did this happen to me?
I'm going to be
somebody's father.
I need time
to think, to write...
time to finish my confession.
I can't work for a living.
Simon, it's impossible.
I tried once.
My genius would be wasted
trying to make ends meet.
This is how great
men topple, Simon.
Their hearts are at the right
place for much of the time.
They get sidetracked,
distracted...
How could I've
been so careless?
Henry, please let
me read the confession.
Angus James is convinced my poem is
gonna make him incredibly wealthy.
He'll read your book and
seriously consider publishing it.
If I ask him to.
I'm certain.
Really?
I'll insist he
publish the confession...
or I won't let him
publish my poem.
You'd do that?
You'd do that for me?
You saved my life.
Do you realize
what you're saying?
I owe you everything.
Is it really that bad?
Yes.
Maybe your expectations
were too high.
Are you sure you're
being objective?
-You read this?
-Yes.
And you want me
to consider publishing?
-Yes.
-As part of our deal?
Yes.
Simon...
this book is
really quite bad.
That's what you said
about my poem.
I'm offering you a real expression
of my faith in your writing.
US$ 2OO,OOO,
and a 6O/4O split.
But just exactly what is the
nature of your faith in my writing?
Simon, you don't
require my admiration...
but my experience as a publisher.
And that experience tells me...
that your poem will make more money
than any poetry ever published!
You will never have to work again
on a garbage truck, I assure you...
or in anything else,
for that matter.
Whereas this...
The most I can say
about this is...
the man is a scoundrel.
-He taught me everything I know.
-No.
He encouraged what was expressive
in you to become manifest.
He inspired you to act.
He influenced your perception.
How about if my advance
is only a hundred thousand?
-It isn't about money, Simon.
-We could split the royalty 7O/3O.
I will not publish
Henry Fool's confession.
Will you sign the contract?
I'm gonna go get your coat.
-Where is your coat?
-I don't need a coat.
I'm gonna go and get
Mr. Deng's van.
Get in the car!
-I want to go up front!
-You gotta lie down! Get in the car!
When did the water broke?
-Give me an ultrasonograph.
-Get to feed the monitor!
-She's losing her heartbeat.
-Sonograph, now!
-Give her oxygen.
-Breathe.
What happened?
It's a...
it's a boy.
So, how did it
go with Angus James?
Listen, Henry. Angus
didn't like your confession.
Oh, I see.
-Well, what now?
-What do you mean?
-Did he suggest changes?
-No.
There are things I can do
to make it more accessible.
Accessible?
I can soften up some of the language
and make it read easier.
Take out some of the more
inter-textual references...
and popularize the underlying
strum and drum, sort of speak.
I can change its mode. Make it
more of a conventional novel.
No, don't.
I appreciate your
protectiveness, Simon.
But the integrity of the work
can sustain such things.
No, really, Henry. Don't.
What are you saying?
That it doesn't
merit revision?
I'm saying Angus James
didn't like it.
-Did you tell him what you think?
-What I think doesn't matter.
Yes, it does.
You've got to use your influence.
I gave it to him to read and he
hated it. What more can I do?
You can refuse to let him
publish your poem.
I can't do that.
You said you would.
That was before
I read your book.
I signed the contract.
Look, Henry.
What would you expect?
I...
I don't know.
If I told you when I read it, it was
no good, what would've you done?
-I would've respected your opinion.
-There's no accounting for taste.
Well, is there?
I don't know.
I didn't bring it to Angus...
because it was good,
but because you're my friend.
Oh, how perfectly
enormous of you, Simon.
Look, Henry.
I did it. I wrote!
I wrote poetry
because you told me to.
I worked. I worked
while you just sat around...
and comfortably dismissed the
outside world as too shallow.
Is that such a priority? Is that
a measure of a man's worth?
To drag what's best in him out into
the street so that every average...
slob with some pretense to taste
can poke it with a stick?
Maybe.
Maybe it is.
You must be pretty impressed
with yourself, huh?
The all too obviously
talented new man.
The important new voice.
You'd be nowhere without
me and you know it.
I'm leaving.
I saw you for what you were
in the beginning, Simon.
I hold no grudge and I'm sure you'll
leave a small dent in the world.
The world is full of shit.
The world is full of shit.
It's true.
And you have to walk through it.
That's your part.
I'm sorry, but you're good at it.
Perhaps I'm not.
Perhaps I wasn't made
to walk through shit.
Go on, now.
Leave.
Do what you're good at. Go.
-What are you doing?
-Thinking.
About what?
Nothing.
Play.
Henry, what did I tell you about
not bringing the kid out here?
-Say hello to Patty, Ned.
-Hi.
-How are you doing, sweetie?
-What did you learn in school today?
-Nothing.
-Here. I'll teach you something.
-How's that?
-It burns.
Of course. See, that'll teach you.
Here. Sip this.
Pearl!
I'm warning you.
That's it.
Perfect!
-Hey, Fool, it's about your friend.
-What about him?
The controversial and reclusive
American poet, Simon Grim...
has been awarded
the Nobel Prize in Literature.
The Swedish academy, which will
confer the award next week...
praised Mr. Grim for works of great
and difficult striving for the...
rendering of the desperate,
the ugly and the mundane...
in a language packet in our
share of human frailties.
They must be hard out for geniuses
to pin medals on, because, listen...
when I first met him, he didn't even
know what iambic pentameter was.
-He's a fraud.
-Shut up. You're out of your league.
Stir things up so as to get in
the newspapers, that's his racket.
He's a great American
poet, you dumb fuck!
Poet my ass!
I could puke all over a leaf and
be more profound than he is.
Come over here, and I'll cripple
you in three different ways!
Henry!
Listen, you degenerate. I've had it.
I've got enough of this.
Ned, have you been drinking?
His throat hurt from smoking.
Henry, don't come home tonight.
Don't come home at all. Ever!
Who's winning?
Nobody.
What's going on in there?
We got out rock and
roll shows these days, Henry.
Poetry readings just don't
pay the bills no more.
What did I tell you?
That was just a fad.
I told you that.
I told everybody.
You hear about Simon?
He's on the news today.
Yeah. So what?
Nobel Prize.
Anybody can get
one of them these days.
That's the problem
with this world, Mr. Deng.
Nobody's got
any standards anymore.
'Ve you seen Fay?
You better sleep in
my office tonight, Henry.
She's very angry.
You gotta let it cool off.
I can't sleep in there
with all that racket.
Suit yourself.
What are you
doing here, Pearl?
You want some?
Some what?
Oh, shit.
That's what my
stepfather always says.
What?
"You want some?"
People say you were once in jail for
having sex with a girl of my age.
You want some?
You oughta get
out of here, Pearl.
-I was here first.
-Go home.
I can't go home.
Why not?
He beat her up again.
Is she alright?
Do you think I'm pretty?
Does your mom need help?
I'll suck your cock
if you kill him for me!
Vicky?
What do you think
you're doing, you idiot?
What are you doing
in my house?
It's about Pearl.
Mind your
own business, Henry.
Yeah. Who the hell do
you think you are, anyway?
Is it true your husband served seven
years at a state prison for rape?
Yes. He has.
And when was that?
It was...
...I don't know, 15, 16 years ago.
-And when were you married?
We were married
seven years ago.
Were you aware of the victim's
relationship with the stepdaughter?
Pardon me?
The girl.
The daughter, Pearl.
She has been having sexual
relations with her stepfather.
I didn't know that. No.
I'm just repeating
what she said, Fay.
I know this isn't easy,
but we need your help here.
She asked your husband to kill
her stepfather in exchange for...
well, I guess...
the promise of sexual
relations with her.
Mom?
Where's dad?
I don't know, honey. Leave me
alone a minute. I gotta think.
Mom?
What?
Is dad in trouble?
Yes, Ned. He is.
He's in big trouble.
Now, can you just
be quiet for two minutes?
What do you want?
My uncle.
What's his name?
Simon Grim.
There ain't nobody
here by that name.
Room 423.
This is postmarked
What's he look like?
I'm sorry, kid.
I can't help you.
Promise me you'll be
on that plane at 4:OO, Simon.
I'll see you in Stockholm.
Look, Simon...
the world's a scary
place, I admit it.
But it's not
my fault, I swear.
Come on, let's go!
You got a light?
I love you, Fay.
Yeah, well...
tough.
Passport and ticket, please.
It's an honor
to meet you, Mr. Grim.
-Congratulations on the Nobel Prize!
-Thanks, but...
I know all your work by heart.
It changed my life.
Yeah, well.
Look, thanks, but, uhm...
Yes, of course.
Please hurry, sir. They're holding
the plane for you in the runway.
This way, Mr. Grim!
Please, we have to hurry!
Hurry, Mr. Grim!
Run!