And yet it is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.
-- Samuel Beckett in Watt, which Erica Cairo believes is a veiled reference to Thomas Becket and his king.
“They know and do not know, that acting is suffering
And suffering is action. Neither does the actor suffer
Nor the patient act. But both are fixed
To an eternal action, an eternal patience
To which all must consent that it may be willed
And which all must suffer that they may will it,
That the pattern may subsist, for the pattern is the action
And the suffering, that the wheel may turn and still
Be forever still.”
― T.S. Eliot, Murder in the Cathedral
<<< And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the understanding also, after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation, a cruel disappointment, a loss of wealth, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid loss, and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother, lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our way of life, terminates an epoch of infancy or of youth which was waiting to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation, or a household, or style of living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth of character. It permits or constrains the formation of new acquaintances and the reception of new influences that prove of the first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have remained a sunny garden-flower, with no room for its roots and too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods of men. >>>
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It is generally believed in literary cricles that everybody has at least one novel in him. I doubt that. I have found a few men and women who do have one novel in them, but the greatest number of people I have met have perhaps a sentence in them or at the very most a short story.
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He'd written a very good review of a picture of yours, and you said, "That man writes so badly I get angry at him even when he gives me a rave."
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How easy it was to make someone hate you for life. With one sentence.
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from Evening in Byzantium by Irwin Shaw -- DL
Walter LaFeber, the legendary Cornell professor of history, with many devoted students included who went on to hold oimportant posts in the US government, died yesterday in Ithaca at the age of 87. The Clash: U.S.-Japanese Relations Throughout History (1997) won the Bancroft Prize in American History. LaFeber’s book on Michael Jordan makes brilliant use of a central metaphor, arguing that the marketing and promotion techniques of the National Basketball Association are exemplary of globalization. He was a neighbor of man and a great gentleman. I posted this quote of his in our "Spontaneous Aphorisms" series on November 2, 2012.
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Anyone can have a bad century.
-- Walter LaFeber
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The eminent historian Walter LaFeber -- author of The American Age: U. S. Foreign Policy At Home and Abroad, from 1750 to the Present, as well as the more recent Michael Jordan and the New Global Capitalism (Norton) -- turns out to be a diehard Cubs' fan, the experience of which has to have a chastening effect on the mind and heart.
The line reminded me of a remark made by Marv Levy, coach of the Buffalo Bills, the team that was always the bridesmaid, never the bride, to use that most curious of all sportscaster's cliches. The Bills would get to the Super Bowl and lose it -- not a bad fate, all in all, when you consider the history of teams that have been to the Super Bowl once in forty-three years. One week Levy was asked whether the following Sunday's game was "do or die." No, Levy said firmly, putting things in perspective. "D-Day was do or die," he said. Sunday against the Packers or Giants was just another game.
--- DL
-- W. H. Auden, "Reading" (in The Dyer's Hand, 1962)
Compare with Kenneth Tynan's: "The critic knows the way but can't drive the car"
and Hemingway's "Critics are men who watch a battle from a high place then come down and shoot the survivors."
Dependable Epigraphs
My epigraphs will prepare you for the excursion
but not for the ruts in the road.
— Virgil
Stay well ahead of your turnips in the garden of life.
— Michel de Montaigne
Never parade your ignorance; a discreet amble down a side street will suffice.
— Benjamin Disraeli
Don’t swat flies close to the ear of God.
— St. Francis of Assisi
Metaphors are the unstable companions of an already impractical fellow.
— Henry Ford
Those who are not willing to subvert the law do not have sufficient stake in the outcome of events.
— Niccolò Machiavelli
If patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel, religion is certainly the first.
— Voltaire
Everywhere I go I find a poet has already been there neurotically before me.
— Sigmund Freud
Socializing is networking to no purpose.
— Oscar Wilde
Politics is the art of preventing people from taking part in affairs which properly concern them.
— Paul Valéry, as quoted in the original French at a press conference by George W. Bush
Farewell, O insatiable biographers of the future.
— William Shakespeare
Pimp my soporific and annoying orchestral arrangements, bitch.
— Lawrence Welk
The peasant’s place is in the hovel.
— Harry & Leona Helmsley
The woman’s place is in the novel.
— Henry James
Never let Henry James have the last word.
— Edith Wharton
You’ve got to know when to stop.
— Leo Tolstoy
from Winter Journey (Hanging Loose Press, 2008)
From Sir Henry Taylor, "On Secrecy" (1836:
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A secret may be sometimes best kept by keeping the secret of its being a secret.
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I believe Poe was paying attention. Borges, too. -- DL
American reporter: "How's it going?"
An engineer in Moscow (circa 1948-1989): "We pretend to work, and they pretend to pay us."
Preceded by a shrug.
Followed by a shot of vodka.
Woody Allen's autobiography, Apropros of Nothing, is full of pithy bon mots, good humor, and unfailing generosity toward the actors and other professionals he has worked with.
His self-deprecating humor is natural to him, a gift that yields spontaneous one-liners on every other page.
His tips on courtship are valuable. A brilliant French meal prepared by the suitor (blanquette de veau with clafoutis for dessert) works so well that it is "an express ride to the boudoir to work off some of the calories in the sack."
Lots of juice, lots of dish, lots of inside baseball, and the personality of the genius rises to the occasion,
His true ambition: "If I could trade my talent for any other person's, living or dead, who would it be? No contest - Bud Powell."
"Nothing in the The Wasteland or Pound or Auden moves me as much as Cole Porter's 'You're not worth the ransom of asparagus out of season.'"
"I'm eighty-four; my life is almost half over. Not believing in a hereafter, I really can't see any practical difference if people remember me as a film director or an amateur clarinetist or at all. All that I ask is my ashes be scattered close to a pharmacy."
On posterity: "Rather than live on in the hearts and mind of the public, I prefer to live on in my apartment."
-- DL
"August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time."
— Sylvia Plath The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, August, 1952
"The place where my personal hopes and dreams and the intentions and provisions of the state intersected was the postal system. Its workers, whom in my small town I knew all by name, brought to the house the printed journals--the newspapers and magazines--that represented to me a world where I wished to locate my future. In those days when a postage stamp cost three cents, I sent letters to great and distant men, cartoonists and writers, some of whom deigned, to my eternal gratitude, to respond. Each day's mail brought potential treasure. This is still true for me. I send manuscripts away, I sometimes get praise and money in return. It is the United States mails, with the myriad routes and mechanisms that the service implies, not to mention the basic honesty and efficiency and non-interference of its thousands of employees, that enable me to live as I do, and to do what I do. I never see a blue mailbox without a spark of warmth and wonder and gratitude that this intricate and extensive service is maintained for my benefit." - from John Updike's contribution to a panel, "How does the State Imagine?," conducted on January 13, 1986, as part of the 48th International Pen Congress, held in New York City with the overall theme of "The Writer's Imagination and the Imagination of the State."
-- sdl
John O'Hara, author of "How Can I Tell You?" -- one of the subtlest stories in the language -- among other masterpieces, has one memorable sentence in his Hollywood novel, The Big Laugh (1962). It is said to the movie actor Hubert Ward, the book's protagonist:
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There's more people see you in one picture than ever saw all of Shakespeare's actors in his whole lifetime.
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I am reading Geoffrey Wolff's admirable biography of Mr O'Hara, The Art of Burning Bridges, and I am inspired to read or re-read O'Hara's short stories. No one, not even Hemingway, can so brilliantly tell a story primarily in dialogue form. I greatly enjoy certain of O'Hara's novels, such as Appointment in Samarra and Ten North Frederick, and someday I will get around to reading them all. But in the genre of the short story, O'Hara is the best we have.
John O'Hara's Stories are available in a Library of America edition put together with an introduction by Charles McGrath, formerly the deputy editor of The New Yorker, in which magazine O'Hara published most of his best work. Of O'Hara, Lionel Trilling wrote in the introduction to Selected Short Stories of John O’Hara (1956), “The work of no other American writer tells us so precisely, and with such a sense of the importance of the communication, how people look and how they want to look, where they buy their clothes and where they wish they could buy their clothes, how they speak and how they think they ought to speak.”
Trilling had previously written, in the New York Times (March 18,1945), "[O’Hara] is…the only American writer to whom America presents itself as a social scene in the way it once presented itself to Howells or Edith Wharton, or in the way that England presented itself to Henry James, or France to Proust… He has the most precise knowledge of the content of our subtlest snobberies, of our points of social honor and idiosyncrasies of personal prestige. He knows, and persuades us to believe, that life’s deepest intentions may be expressed by the angle at which a hat is worn, the pattern of a necktie, the size of a monogram, the pitch of a voice, the turn of a phrase of slang, a gesture of courtesy and the way it is received."
The Library of America also has an edition of four of O'Hara's novels from the 1930s, including Appointment in Samarra and Butterfield 8. -- DL
Why me?
Editor's Note: This is, I submit, the epitome of film noir in a two-word sentence. James Stewart says it in Vertigo, Edmund O'Brien says it in DOA, and Janet Leigh never gets the chance in Psycho. --DL
You wrote this marvellous novel The Luzhin Defence: are you a very good chess player? And what do you think of [Bobby] Fischer’s attitude?
Forty years ago I was a good enough player of chess, not a grandmaster, as the Germans say, but a club player sometimes able to set a trap for a heedless champion. What has always drawn me in chess is the trick move, the hidden combination, and that’s why I gave up live play to devote myself to composing chess problems. I don’t doubt that there exists an intimate link between certain mirages of my prose and the texture, at once brilliant and obscure, of enigmatic chess problems of which each one is the fruit of a thousand and one nights of insomnia. I especially like so-called suicide problems, where White forces Black to win.
Yes, Fischer is a strange being, but there’s nothing abnormal in the fact of a chess player’s not being normal. There was the case of the great player Rubinstein, at the start of the century: an ambulance would drive him each day from the insane asylum, his home, to the café room where the tournament was taking place, and then drive him back to his dark cell after the game. He didn’t like to see his opponent, but an empty chair across the chessboard also irritated him, so they put a mirror there, and he saw his own reflection.
See https://www.the-tls.co.uk/articles/public/melting-with-tenderness/
Oscar Levant, who "knew Doris Day before she was a virgin," defined a politician as a man who will "double-cross that bridge when he gets to it." Has anyone read his book Memoirs of an Amnesiac?. It's the sort of book I must have read, but I can't remember doing so. I have a feeling that I would have liked it. I am sure of it in fact. Putnam published it in 1965. Three years later came The Unimportance of Being Oscar, another bravura performance -- not too wild, not too earnest, but full of self-deprecatory wit and wisdom. "I was once thrown out of a mental hospital for depressing the other patients," he confided. He was very fast, very smart and knowing, a good guest on a talk show, a mordant foil to Gene Kelly's native optimism in "An American in Paris." He wrote these lines that he says in the movie: "It's not a pretty face, I grant you. But underneath its flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character." He also wrote "Blame it on My Youth" and other songs and was a buddy of George Gershwin. The jokes were spontaneous and delivered deadpan. When he said that he knew Doris Day "before she was a virgin," it was a valuable reminder of the band singer's brilliance -- with the Les Brown Orchestra in the 1940s, as Ruth Etting in "Love Me or Leave Me," in duets with Sinatra in "Young at Heart" -- which preceded the virginal image projected in the sugary pillow-talk movies of the 1960s. After Marilyn Monroe converted to Judaism, Oscar said, "now that Marilyn Monroe's kosher, Arthur Miller can eat her." -- DL
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Some paradox of our natures leads us, when once we have made our fellow men the objects of our enlightened interest, to go on to make them the object of our pity, then of our wisdom, ultimately of our coercion.
from The Liberal Imagination
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Consciousness is conditioned by the intellect, and the intellect is a mere accident of our being, for it is a function of the brain. The brain, together with the nerves and spinal cord attached to it, is a mere fruit, a product, in fact a parasite, of the rest of the organism, in so far as it is not directly geared to the organism’s inner working, but serves the purpose of self-preservation by regulating its relations with the external world
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All philosophers before me, from the first to the last, place the true and real inner nature or kernel of man in the knowing consciousness. Accordingly, they have conceived and explained the I, or in the case of many of them its transcendent hypostasis called soul, as primarily and essentially knowing, in fact thinking, and only in consequence of this, secondarily and derivatively, as willing .... My philosophy . . . puts man’s real inner nature not in consciousness but in the will.
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For years we can have a desire without admitting it to ourselves or even letting it come to clear consciousness, because the intellect is not to know anything about it, since the good opinion we have of ourselves would inevitably suffer thereby. But if the wish is fulfilled, we get to know from our joy, not without a feeling of shame, that this is what we desired….
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[Satisfaction can never be anything but temporary, because] it is always like the alms thrown to the beggar, which reprieves him today so that his misery may be prolonged till tomorrow. Therefore, so long as our consciousness is filled by our will, so long as we are given up to the throng of desires with its constant hopes and fears, so long as we are the subject of willing, we never obtain lasting happiness or peace.
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The painting on the right is by Gail Campbell, 2016.
Radio
I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later
to the greatness
of Teddy Wilson
"After You've Gone"
on the piano
in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
in the dark
from New and Selected Poems by David Lehman
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