Requiem for a Dream

REQUIEM FOR A DREAM
A
NOVEL BY
HUBERT SELBY, JR.

THUNDER'S MOUTH PRESS
NEW YORK

This book is dedicated, with
love, to Bobby, who has found
the
only pound of pure--
Faith in a Loving
God.
 

Preface © 2000 by Hubert Selby, Jr.
Foreword ©
2000 by Darren Aronofsky
Foreword © 1988 by Richard Price
Copyright © 1978, 1988 by Hubert Selby, Jr.
All rights
reserved
Published in the United States by Thunder's Mouth Press
An Imprint of Avalon Publishing Group Incorporated
161
William Street, 16th Floor
New York, NY 10038
Grateful
acknowledgment is made to the New York State Council on the Arts and
the National Endowment for the Arts for financial assistance with
the publication of this work.
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Selby, Hubert.
Requiem for a
Dream: a novel ' by Hubert Selby, Jr.
p. cm.
ISBN
1-56025-248-0

FOREWORD 

When I was in high school, I thought you had to be
dead to be a novelist—dead, and from somewhere else: England, the
Midwest, France.

One of the more profound, if peripheral, epiphanies
hitting me upon reading Last Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby, Jr.,
was that my working-class Bronx world was valid material for Art;
that the voices, the streets, the gestures that I knew so well were
as human, as precious, and as honorable as any found through the
centuries and civilizations of literature.

Which is to say that I set down Last Exit to Brooklyn
with the terrifying realization that if I had the will and the talent
to go with the eye and ear, I could grow up to be a writer.

It wasn't until I was much older that I realized that
talent and material mean nothing without something else that Selby
possesses and projects on every page of every book he has written:
Love—a forgiveness and compassion that elevate all the bottom dogs
that populate his world, the lost, the depraved, these coldblooded,
and the insensate. His art is his ability to humanize the seemingly
inhuman, and by extension to humanize the reader.

No one can convey the visceral experience of the
suffering of people like Selby-the cruel hallucinations of grace, of
peace, of love, of Easy Street; the wracking ache of junk sickness;
the choking rage of parental-marital-sexual claustrophobia; the
tightening screws of paranoid delusion; the pathetic grandiosity of
walk-around dreams; and the dread of the inevitable dawn.

Selby burrows under the skin and into the brains of
the urban underclass to deliver infernal monologues seething with
tragically skewered delusions, short-term ecstasies, and obsessive
furies that crash and boil across the page, ceaselessly. At his best,
he can literally stun us into empathy.

Requiem for a Dream
tracks
the destruction of four people-three young, and one older. Here,
Selby reports from the marrow of those addicted: to dope, to hope, to
tragically childish visions of heaven on earth. Even as its
characters ascend to the heights, their nightmarish plummet can be
foreseen, but this foreknowledge doesn't protect the reader from
experiencing the almost unbearable suffering, the degradation and
oblivion, that is the price of dreams among the powerless.

Requiem for a Dream
is
quintessential Selby, fueled by moments which make the reader feel
like the unwilling newscaster witnessing the Hindenburg disaster who
sobbed, "Oh, the humanity!"

It is Selby's gift to us that once again we find
ourselves aching for his people—which is to say we find ourselves
loving the unlovable.

—
Richard Price
New York
City
January 1988

PREFACE TO
THE NEW EDITION

Requiem for a Dream was originally published in 1978.
It is extremely gratifying to know that it is still in print and
going into another edition. Also, it is being made into a film,
production scheduled to start the middle of April this year. So the
book still lives and breathes (as do I).

For me there is something beautiful and ironic in the
fact that all this is happening now, during a time of "unparalleled
prosperity." The Great American Dream is coming true for many.
Obviously, I believe that to pursue the American Dream is not only
futile but self-destructive because ultimately it destroys everything
and everyone involved with it. By definition it must, because it
nurtures everything except those things that are important:
integrity, ethics, truth, our very heart and soul. Why? The reason is
simple: because Life—life is giving, not getting.

I am not suggesting we need to give everything to the
poor and homeless—the millions of them who are still here in the
midst of plenty—put on a hair shirt and go through the streets with
a begging bowl. This, in and of itself, is no more nurturing than the
pursuit of "getting." I am not afraid of money and what it
can buy. I would love to have a house full of stuff—of course I
would need a house first. I have been hungry and see nothing noble m
hunger. Neither do I see anything noble in eating high on the hog
though eating is certainly better. But to believe that getting stuff
is the purpose and aim of life is madness.

It seems to me that we all have a dream of our own,
our own personal vision, our own individual way of giving, but for
many reasons we are afraid to pursue it, or to even recognize and
accept its existence. But to deny our vision is to sell our soul.
Getting is living a lie, turning our back on the truth, and Visions
are glimpses of the truth: Obviously nothing external can truly
nurture my inner life, my Vision. What happens when I turn my back on
my Vision and spend my time and energy getting the stuff of the
American Dream? I become agitated, uncomfortable in my own skin,
because the guilt of abandoning my "Self-self," of
deserting my Vision, forces me to apologize for my existence, to need
to prove myself by approaching life as if it's a competition. I have
to keep getting stuff in an attempt to appease and satisfy that vague
sense of discontent that worms its way through me.

Certainly not everyone will experience this torment,
but enough do and have no idea what is wrong. I'm sure the
psychologists have a term for this free-floating anxiety, but the
cause is what is destroying us, not the classification. There are
always millions who seem to get away with doing the things that we
think abominable, and thrive. It certainly appears that way. Yet I
know, absolutely, from my experience, that there are no free lunches
in this life, and eventually we all have to accept full and total
responsibility for our actions, everything we have done, and have not
done.

This book is about four individuals who pursued The
American Dream, and the results of their pursuit. They did not know
the difference between the Vision in their hearts and the illusion of
the American Dream. In pursuing the lie of illusion, they made it
impossible to experience the truth of their Vision. As a result
everything of value was lost.

Unfortunately, I suspect there never will be a
requiem for the Dream, simply because it will destroy us before we
have the opportunity to mourn its passing. Perhaps time will prove me
wrong. As Mr. Hemingway said: "Isn't it pretty to think so?"

—
Hubert Selby, Jr.
Los
Angeles
1999
 

FOREWORD TO
THE NEW EDITION

I was a public school kid from Brooklyn facing my
first exams during freshman year of college, and I was terrified.
High school was a joke. The only thing I learned was how to get away
with cutting class. So, when college came around I wasn't very
prepared. I hit the library and tried to learn.

But Selby fucked everything up.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the word
"Brooklyn." Now when you're from Brooklyn and you see
anything related to Brooklyn you're immediately interested. I pulled
a worn copy of Last Exit to Brooklyn off the shelf. This was before
the movie, and I had no clue what I was holding. From sentence one I
was done, and so were my finals. I blew them off and I read. I read
and I read and I screamed and I connected and I recited and I
rejoiced. This was storytelling. This was understanding. This was a
deep yet simple examination of what makes us human. I now knew what I
wanted to do. I wanted to tell stories.

Storytelling took me to L.A. and film school. Before
school started they told us to prepare three short scripts for
projects to be executed during the year. So, I figured I should read
short stories from my favorite authors. That led me to Selby's
"Fortune Cookie," which I shot right away. The story
follows the rise and fall of a door-to-door salesman who gets
addicted to the fortunes in fortune cookies.

After film school I figured it was time to make a
feature, so I turned to novels of my favorite authors. I found
Requiem for a Dream in a book store on Venice Beach. I was excited to
start it. I did, but I never finished it. Not because it wasn't good.
Rather, the novel was so violently honest and arresting that I
couldn't handle it.

It was on my shelf for a long time. Then, years
later, my producer Eric Watson was heading off for a ski trip with
his family in Colorado. He needed something to read, and he grabbed
the book off my shelf and asked if he could borrow it. When he
returned he said Requiem, for a Dream ruined his vacation and that I
must finish it. I did, and I knew we had to make it next.

This book is about a lot of things. Mostly it's about
love. More specifically it's about what happens when love goes wrong.
When it was time to write the script I rented an apartment in South
Brooklyn, out by Coney Island. The novel had amazing structure and it
translated very well into three acts. But something was strange.
While breaking it down I realized that whenever something good was
supposed to happen to a character, something bad happened. Because of
this, I couldn't figure out who the hero of the novel was.

After sketching out all the character arcs I realized
they were all upside down. So I flipped them over, and suddenly I had
a "Eureka!" The hero wasn't Sara, it wasn't Harry, not
Tyrone, not Marion. The hero was the characters' enemy: Addiction.
The book is a manifesto on Addiction's triumph over the Human Spirit.
I began to look at the film as a monster movie. The only difference
is that the monster doesn't have physical form. It only lives deep in
the characters' heads.

Ellen Burstyn, who knocked it out of the park as Sara
Goldfarb, told me Hinduism has two main gods—Shiva and Kali. Shiva
is the god of creation and Kali is the god of destruction. They exist
as a team. One cannot exist without the other. Just like the
Christian God and the Devil. Good and evil. There is a balance. Selby
writes about Kali. He writes about the darkness.

It is in this darkness where Selby flips on his
flashlight and searches for our humanity. It is that tiny but
priceless diamond of love lost in a universe of evil that he
cherishes. And by leading us to it he reveals everything—our beauty
and our vanity, our strength and our weaknesses. He shows us what
makes us tick, what makes us hate and what makes us love. He reveals
what it is to be human.

I needed to make a film from this novel because the
words burn off the page. Like a hangman's noose, the words scorch
your neck with rope burn and drag you into the sub-sub-basement we
humans build beneath hell. Why do we do it? Because we choose to live
the dream instead of choosing to live the life.

You won't ever forget this read.
 
—
Darren Aronofsky May 1, 2000
 
 

Except the LORD build the house,
they labor in vain that build it. ...
Psalm 127:1

Trust in the LORD with all thine
heart; and lean not unto thine
own
understanding.
In all thy ways
acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
Proverbs
3:5,6

Harry locked his mother in the closet. Harold.
Please. Not again the TV. Okay, okay, Harry opened the door, then
stop playin games with my head. He started walking across the room
toward the television set. And dont bug me. He yanked the plug out of
the socket and disconnected the rabbit ears. Sara went back into the
closet and closed the door. Harry stared at the closet for a moment.
So okay, stay. He started to push the set, on its stand, when it
stopped with a jerk, the set almost falling. What the hells goin on
here? He looked down and saw a bicycle chain going from a steel eye
on the side of the set to the radiator. He stared at the closet.
Whatta ya tryin to do, eh? Whats with this chain? You tryin to get me
to break my own mothers set? or break the radiator?—she sat mutely
on the closet floor—an maybe blow up the whole house? You tryin to
make me a killer? Your own son? your own flesh and blood? WHATTA YA
DOIN TA ME???? Harry was standing in front of the closet. YOUR OWN
SON!!!! A thin key slowly peeked out from under the closet door.
Harry worked it out with his fingernail then yanked it up. Why do you
always gotta play games with my head for krists sake, always laying
some heavy guilt shit on me? Dont you have any consideration for my
feelings? Why do you haveta make my life so difficult? Why do—Harold,
I wouldnt. The chain isnt for you. The robbers. Then why didnt you
tell me? The set almost fell. I coulda had a heart attack. Sara was
shaking her head in the darkness. You should be well Harold. Then why
wont you come out? Harry tugging on the door and rattling the knob,
but it was locked on the inside. Harry threw his hands up in despair
and disgust. See what I mean? See how you always gotta upset me? He
walked back to the set and unlocked the chain, then turned back to
the closet. Why do you haveta make such a big deal outta this? eh?
Just ta lay that guilt shit on me, right? Right????—Sara continued
rocking back and forth—you know youll have the set back in a couple
a hours but ya gotta make me feel guilty. He continued to look at the
closet—Sara silent and rocking—then threw up his hands, Eh, screw
it, and pushed the set, carefully, out of the apartment. Sara heard
the set being rolled across the floor, heard the door open and close,
and sat with her eyes closed rocking back and forth. It wasnt
happening. She didnt see it so it wasnt happening. She told her
husband Seymour, dead these years, it wasnt happening. And if it
should be happening it would be alright, so dont worry Seymour. This
is like a commercial break. Soon the program will be back on and
youll see, they'll make it nice Seymour. Itll all work out. Youll see
already. In the end its all nice. Harrys partner, a black guy name
Tyrone C. Love—Thas right jim, thats mah name an ah loves nobody
but Tyrone C.—was waiting for him in the hallway, chewing a
Snickers candy bar. They got the set out of the building without any
trouble, Harry saying hello to all the yentas sitting by the building
getting the sun. But now came the hard part. Pushing that damn thing
the three blocks to the hock shop without it getting ripped off, or
getting knocked over by some dumb ass kid, or being tipped over by
running into a hole in the ground or bumping into a lump of litter,
or just having the goddamn table collapse, took patience and
perseverance. Tyrone steadied the set as Harry pushed and steered,
Tyrone acting as lookout and warning Harry of the large hunks of
paper and bags of garbage that might prove hazardous to the swift and
safe completion of their appointed mission. They each grabbed an end
as they eased it off the curb and up onto the other side of the
street. Tyrone tilted his head and looked the set over. Sheeit, this
mutha startin to look a little seedy man. Whats the matta, ya
particular all of a sudden? Hey baby, ah dont much care if its growin
hair just sos we gets our braid.