Wednesday, May 7, 2014

"Walk on air against your better judgement."


So wrote Seamus Heaney, the great Irish poet who died last September. I'm still wearing black. What a poet he was. He cast his net wide as far as poetry is concerned, but at the core of everything he wrote was his boyhood on a farm in County Derry. He writes about this reverently, in his Nobel Prize lecture, "Crediting Poetry." I think this image must have been the beginning of poetry for him:

“Ahistorical, pre-sexual, in suspension between the archaic and the modern, we were as susceptible and impressionable as the drinking water that stood in a bucket in our scullery: every time a passing train made the earth shake, the surface of that water used to ripple delicately, concentrically, and in utter silence.”

I know there was a world-wide dirge when he died, but I felt it should have been longer and louder and bigger. Something akin to what García Márquez received. 
                                                                 
Seamus Heaney
I can't write about Heaney with any authority. I'm just a fan. A grateful fan. So, instead, here's a link to Seamus Heaney reading one of his earliest poems, "Digging." This, too, takes him back to that farm in County Derry and to his admiration of his father and grandfather. And, knowing that he could never be their equal as diggers of sod, he must do something else.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

My own private Dante


This is a post for book lovers. Fanatics might be a better word. Be forewarned.

In the summer of 2011, I went to Rome to teach for two weeks. I came a few days early to acclimate myself and, in the airport, ran into a fellow teacher in the same summer program, Jody Lisberger. We decided to walk around Rome together. We went to the Piazza Navona and then wandered into the nearby Church of Sant'Agostino. Inside, immediately to our left, was a large painting titled "Madonna dei Pellegrini" by Caravaggio. Immediately the thought came to my mind,

"I wonder where the original is?"
                                                                 
I was just a few hours off the plane, remember.

We walked outside. Next door was the Biblioteca Angelica. A library. It looked fairly plain from the outside. I suggested we go inside. (Background: I was supposed to give a lecture on Dante as part of my teaching responsibilities.) I spoke some rudimentary Italian, a hodgepodge of opera arias and a few courses here and there. There was a man at a desk in an anteroom. I asked him if we could go inside the library. He said yes, just fill out this card. I guess that's standard around the world. I did, and we stepped inside to this:
                                                                    

It was a book-lover's dream. It was like an all-you-can-eat literary feast. Those books! Row after row. Ancient, leather-bound books, reaching up into the sky. Look belowdoesn't this make your mouth water?
 

It did mine. I had to ask Jody for a Kleenex because water was cascading down the corners of my mouth onto the floor. I looked like a dog when you don't give it the treat right away. After cleaning myself up, I walked up to the main desk behind which three women were seated. I asked them in my pig-Italian if they had any copies of The Divine Comedy. All three of them smiled at once. "Si," they answered in unison. I asked them if they had some very old editions. "Si."  More smiles. Could I see the oldest edition? (Refresher: Dante wrote The Divine Comedy between 1308 and 1321. Gutenberg printed his first Bible in 1455.) "Si," they said.

In a few minutes, one of the women returned with a volume. She simply handed it to me. "I can look at it?" I asked. "Si." Didn't have to wear white gloves? "No." So, I just took it to a table nearby. And opened it. Jody snapped a photo.
                                                                     

I didn't know what I was looking at until later. I could see that this edition of The Divine Comedy had been printed in 1472 in a town called Foligno by a man named Johann Neumeister. The name didn't have that Italian ring I was expecting. I reasoned he must be German (I have several Master's degrees) and that perhaps he had worked with Gutenberg (he had). What I didn't know was that this was the first printed edition of The Divine Comedy, anywhere.

I opened the book.
                                                                              

Well, Lord have mercy.  Let's get in a bit closer:
                                                                               

There are those famous Italian words, the most famous Italian words ever written, here put down in a kind of medieval shorthand, "Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita / mi ritrovai per una selva oscura / ché la diritta via era smarrita." As translated by Robert Pinsky, "Midway on our life's journey, I found myself / In dark woods, the right road lost."

Every time I read those words, I think: Haven't we all? I stood there and drank my fill of Dante. Satiated and stunned, I gave the book back to le tre donne gentili, and I left with Jody.  We walked back out onto the street.  The sun was full, glorious.

This was my first day in Rome.                                                       

Saturday, April 12, 2014

"You can quote me"


Until about ten years ago, I kept a journal full of quotes by writers I especially liked. I love looking at these quotes, because they're like firecrackers of insight. Epiphany makers. (Note to self: find a fresher word for epiphany other than epiphany.) Sometimes a few words can sum up a messy, controversial and unfathomable situation. As Langston Hughes, through his character, Simple, the Harlem street sage, says:

"Some black men do not feel like men when they are surrounded by white folks who look at them like as if blackness was bad manners or something."
                                                         
Langston Hughes

Many times a writer will tell you something you already knew but were hesitant to admit. Like Graham Greene in The Heart of the Matter:

"The truth, he thought, has never been of any real value to any human beingit's a symbol for mathematicians and philosophers to pursue. In human relations kindness and lies are worth a thousand truths."
                                                                             
Graham Greene

There are some words that I understand, then don't, then do:

"To be a Flower, is profound
Responsibility"
                                Emily Dickinson
                                                                           
Emily Dickinson

Then words that capture that struggle you've had all your life, like these from Spanish Leaves by Honor Tracy:

"The Japanese say the four terrors of life are earthquake, fire, flood and father."

The difficulty with putting down a lot of quotations is that you can only devour a few at a time. La Rochefoucauld's Maxims are wonderful, but after you read seven or eight of them, they lose their ability to startle and satisfy, like eating too much licorice. Speaking of the Duc, very few have understood human nature better:

"We all have enough strength to endure the misfortune of others," he wrote.
                                                                                
La Rochefoucauld

Sometimes you want words to throw in the face of a charlatan, like one of those god damn moral crusaders who pretend to have God's unlisted number. That's when I turn to Charlotte Brontë:

"Conventionality is not morality.  Self-righteousness is not religion." 
                                                                                  
Charlotte Brontë

When it's hard to look at myself in the mirror, I've got this from Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis:

"No one is a coward at all points." 
                                                                              
C.S. Lewis

The good thing about quotations is that they don't all have to be about profound subjects. They shouldn't, actually. Because I, for one, am hardly ever profound. Here's Brendan Behan from Borstal Boy, about mornings:

"The morning is always a good time. Till about eleven o'clock, when it begins to feel its age."
                                                                  
Brendan Behan

One quote I try to live by? Ok, from William Blake:

"Exuberance is Beauty."

You can say that again, W.B.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

Mothers


"Mothers are all slightly insane," Holden Caulfield says at one point in The Catcher in the Rye. I always knew what he meant. It was never a quote that I puzzled over. In five words, he nailed it.

Yes, mothers are all slightly insane, some more slightly than others. They're insane because they can never be certain, ever, that their child(ren) is(are) completely without harm. They are on some kind of alert twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. Some part of them never sleeps. You can't be that attentive and worried for that long and not be slightly crazy.  Combine this worry with powerlessnessas soon as the boy or girl steps out of the house (out of the room, actually), they can't do a thing to protect them.
                                                                     
My mother holding me, age 7 weeks

Of course, the more children you have, the nuttier you become. And let me add that raising four or five children will make anyone a bit nuts. But I don't think that is the kind of nuts Holden meant.  I think it's the unbearable helplessness of protecting someone you would die for, twice and thrice over.

So, they act strange sometimes. They say strange things, ask strange things, do strange things. It seems like they've lost it sometimes, their basic intelligence goes out the window. They repeat themselves. They make inconsequential remarks. They approve of almost everything. They lose their balance. They reach out a hand. They begin a sentence. They look around the room. There's no one there.
                                                                           
Holding her twins with me pondering. She had three children within eleven months

I cannot imagine that pull, like the moon pulls at the tide, that you can never free yourself of as a mother. The pull toward the child you gave birth to.

I think of my own mother, of her difficult life, and of her living alone after her divorce. For years. I think of all that she tried to do with that ache and pull toward her children. I think of her carrying that pull and the ache of loving me and that love unrequited, and how can you stand that day after day year after year? I think of her probably thinking she hadn't been a good mother, and how that must have devastated her after worrying about us so deeply and so continuously.  
                                                                               
In Old Greenwich sometime in the 1970s

It's too late to tell her that I love her. I'm not here to say anything silly like, tell your mom you love her before it's too late.  I'm just here to say to you, Mom, that you deserved better. But I can't. Because you're dead.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

What Ebony Magazine taught me


I don't remember when or where I read my first copy of Ebony Magazine. It was surely sometime in the late 1950s, though. How would I have found a copy in my segregated world of Virginia Beach, Virginia back then? It wasn't until 1959 that the schools in nearby Norfolk where integrated and then just barely. I grew up in a white Southern world with little knowledge of black people beyond their roles as cooks and maids. It's almost impossible to describe the effect of a background like that. No, it is impossible.
                                                                             

In any case, somehow I got my hands on a copy of Ebony. (I later subscribed.) Now, I would venture to say that most white people never read Ebony in the 1950s and 1960s and probably still don't. It was really Life Magazine for black people. It was, basically, a way to show all aspects of black life in America, from the heralded high achievers to the everyday ordinary man and woman. It had an agenda, and that was to always show the positive side of black life in America. It didn't shy away from speaking up about civil rights, but that wasn't its main purpose, at least as I saw it.

Later, I even read Succeeding Against the Odds, the autobiography of Ebony's founder, John H. Johnson.  It's good.  By the way, when Johnson learned that 12% of his readers were white, he wasn't especially pleased.  "I want to be king of the black hill," he said, "not the mixed hill."  Sorry, Mr. Johnson!  I'm staying!

Looking into Ebony for me was like taking a trip to a foreign land. It was absolutely transfixing. Why? Because I saw black men and women, black families, doing the same things my family did. I had never seen that before. I saw black people in advertisements--with no white people. I saw them getting on airplanes, drinking Ballentine's Scotch, using Listerine, buying Goodyear Tires, ordering a Bell Telephone, using a GE hairdryer. Only someone who grew up in the segregated South as I did would understand how powerful this was.
                                                                           
                                                                                   
                                                                              
                                                                               

There was normally a story about a famous black person--Sammy Davis, Jr, Jackie Robinson, Harry Belafonte, Ralph Bunche, Marian Anderson and so on.
                                                                                

But there were many more stories that didn't make the national news, the stories of a high school baseball coach, a stock car driver, a construction foreman, a ballet instructor, the head of a reform school. My favorite department was "Speaking of People." It was a section that featured small but significant successes of ordinary people. This, more than anything, made a permanent impression on me. Here you had people who were just ordinary folks, doing well at what they did in just about every way you could imagine. I loved that part of the magazine.
                                                                      

Only drawback: Ebony had a disappointing recipe/cooking section, "A Date with a Dish". It was like many of the other cooking sections in magazines of that era, and that was the problem. With such an amazing tradition to draw from, the dishes were incredibly bland and ordinary. I knew how good it could be! It continued that way far into the era of Gourmet Magazine. Alas!
                                                                               

Well, can't have everything. The fact is, I read Ebony regularly from about 1959 to 1969. It influenced me, enlightened me, entertained me and surprised me. I don't read it anymore. I hardly read any magazines anymore. I'm glad it's still with us, though. And I wonder if there are many others like me who, through Ebony, crossed the color line when you simply couldn't any other way. And were the better for it.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Books & Co., RIP


Some people mourn movie theaters that have closed down. Some, amusement parks by the sea. Some, those old fashioned drug stores with counter service. Some, race tracks.

I mourn the passing of bookstores. I lived in New York City for thirty-five years, and I saw many of them close. Some of these privately-owned bookstores were marvelous, too marvelous for words. When they closed, it was hard on the heart. Take Books & Co., which was located on Madison Avenue and 74th Street.
                                                                     

I wrote earlier about my sighting Allen Ginsberg emerging from that bookstore one day. The place was a two-story gem with rust-hued brick walls, one of which had an astonishing floor-to-ceiling selection that stretched on and on. Exploring that wall of titles, you felt like Howard Carter when he looked into Tutankhamun's tomb for the first time and was asked by those behind him if he saw anything. He replied, “Yes, wonderful things.” The place had a staff of seasoned book sommeliers who paired you with the right book for your particular taste of the moment. You could give them the barest direction, and they'd come up with something delicious for you. It was impossible not to make a discovery there.  I spent many happy hours in that store.
                                                                         
Books & Co. staff with Jeannette Watson, owner, center
In doing some research for this post, I discovered that a book has been written about the store and its owner, Bookstore: The Life and Times of Jeannette Watson and Books & Co.  Who would have thought? I remember seeing Jeannette Watson, slim, with bright blonde hair, always dressed immaculately, obviously proud and pleased of her bookstore, as well she should have been. She was a hands-on, caring owner who, for twenty years, offered New Yorkers the most exquisite experience of the mind. As far as I'm concerned, Jeannette Watson was a saint, if there ever was one.
                                                                               
Jeannette Watson (center) with Erica Jong

The store closed in 1997. Before it did, there were efforts to save it, but they were futile. It was learned later that Ms. Watson had yearly put about $100,000 of her own money into the bookstore to offset losses. The rent was too high, though. Remember the neighborhood, one of the toniest in the world. So, we lost it. But for twenty years, those of us fortunate enough to have lived in New York at the time, had something very special. And we knew it. 

Gone, but to anyone who spent time there, surely never forgotten.

Saturday, March 22, 2014

The oblique morality of Tennessee Williams


Last Friday, I saw three one act plays by Tennessee Williams. They were performed at an old mansion in the French Quarter here in New Orleans as part of the Tennessee Williams Festival. Each play, set in a hotel, was performed in a different room of the house. The rooms were small, and so there were times when the actorsnever more than four and usually twowere moving about right next to you. It was an enlightening evening.

The plays are Green Eyes, The Traveling Companion and Mr. Paradise. It's not easy to find out much about them. They were published in 2005 and 2008 respectively by the estimable house, New Directions, in volumes of TW's one-acts.  It appears these plays were written much earlier, but, as I say, it's not easy, even on the Internet, to determine that.
                                                                        

In any case, Williams' themes abound in these short plays. As does the characteristic florid, pained way his characters speak, using words that often deflect the truth but that, in the end, do not deny it. You can see that most readily in Mr. Paradise, where the landlady of a rooming house in the French Quarter demands the rent from two washed-up residents. The first is an alcoholic woman who goes on about a rich man she knows who owns a rubber plantation in Brazil. The second is a seedy-looking, dirty-robe-wearing, gut-hanging older man named Anthony Paradise who, we later learn, is—or was— a poet. When the landlady starts attacking the woman, who is obviously lying about the rubber plantation and probably about everything else, Mr. Paradise rises to defend her. In a long speech, he says to the relentless landlady, suppose it's true that there is no rubber plantation, and suppose I don't have any novel I'm working on as I claim I amsuppose all of it's a liewhy must you crush this fabrication? What difference does it make what kind of subterfuge we choose to hide ourselves behind?

One of the things I admire most about Tennessee Williams and for what I'm most grateful, is his understanding of the obliqueness of morality. Yes, there is black and white sometimes. The greatest sin is deliberate cruelty, he said, and at times, there is a plain line between yes and no. But there is also the kind of lie that has nothing to do with cruelty and which only serves to help that person through the day, the hour, the minute. It's a scenario that protects him or her from the glare of that harsh uncovered light bulb and which preserves that most delicate thingdignitythat should never be stripped from us.                                                                     

In A Streetcar Named Desire, when Mitch calls out Blanche for all the lies she told him about her past, she says, "Never inside! I never lied in my heart!"

Tennessee, let me have the courage to protect those who never lie in their heart.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

The Goncourt Brothers


They were Edmond (1822-96) and Jules (1830-70). They lived and worked in Paris as writers. They were inseparable.  

Their Journals, which they wrote together, are a delight to read, especially for a writer. They are chock-full of firsthand anecdotes about the era’s giant literary figures—Flaubert, Zola, Daudet, and so on. It was there that I read: "Flaubert told us that while writing the description of the poisoning scene of Madame Bovary, he had felt a pain as if he had a copper plate in his stomach, a pain which had made him vomit twice over."


Everything was fine until Jules (on the right) became very ill, possibly with MS.  Gradually, he became less able to fend for himself. Starting in 1870, the Journals were solely written by Edmond. Jules was no longer able to write. On April 18th, Edmond wrote about his deteriorating brother:

   "To witness, day by day, the destruction of everything that once went to mark out this young man…to see him emptying the salt-cellar over his fish, holding his fork in both hands, eating like a child, is too much for me to bear."

Then, this scene, which Edmond recorded on June 11:

   "We had nearly finished dinner at a restaurant.  The waiter brought him a bowl.  He used it clumsily.  People started looking at us. I said to him rather impatiently: 'Be careful, old fellow, please, or I shan’t be able to take you out to dinner any more.'  He promptly burst into tears, crying 'It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault!' And his tense, trembling hand sought mine on the tablecloth. 'It’s not my fault', he went on. 'I know how it upsets you, but I often want to and I can’t.' And his hand squeezed mine with a pitiful 'Forgive me'.
 "Then both of us started crying into our napkins in front of the astonished diners." 

Though it wasn't old age that killed Jules, the gradual helplessness that comes with growing old, accompanied by the various mind-destroying diseases that many of will face, seems, from everything I've seen, exactly the same. I look to my past to see my future. Who will be there to be tender toward me in my decline?

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Audrey Meadows


I read that Sheila MacRae died on Thursday. She was the second Alice Kramden on "The Honeymooners," that wonderfully stark comedy that was part of the Jackie Gleason Show. I don't think I ever saw MacRae in the role of Alice. But I did see the original Alice, Audrey Meadows.  And thereby hangs a tale.

The original show, starred Jackie Gleason as Ralph Kramden, a Brooklyn bus driver; Audrey Meadows as his wife, Alice; Art Carney as his upstairs neighbor, Ed Norton and Joyce Randolph as Ed's wife, Trixie. It was filmed live and ranand I have a hard time believing thisfor just one year. The show was set in the Kramden's apartment in Brooklyn and gave a whole new meaning to minimalism. The program was in black and white. The characters dressed plainlyRalph in his bus driver's uniform, Norton wearing a white T-shirt and vest and a battered hat, Alice and Trixie in housewives dresses.
                                                                 
Ralph, Norton and Alice

I could go on, but that would make this post far longer that it should be and deviate from the aforementioned hanging tale.  But you do need to knowif you never saw the showthat AliceAudrey Meadowshad the most dry, deadpan responses to Ralph's absurd demands. And that nasalized beauty of a voice of hers! Our family watched it. Millions did. And for me, a kid in 1950s southeastern Virginia, this was like being transported to a kind of Baghdad on a flying carpet with rabbit ears.

I guess I was about ten. I remember my mother gathered the three of us kidsmy brother, sister and Itogether one afternoon and said, "We're going to have a very special guest tonight. I want you to be on your best behavior."

The special guest was Audrey Meadows.

And why was Audrey Meadows coming to our house at 107 63rd Street in Virginia Beach, Virginia?  Because, as it turned out, she was married to a good friend of my father's. Now, you have to understand that the only Audrey Meadows we knew was Alice Kramden, and she was a plain woman--sharp as she was, she was still plain. In any case, I remember that when she and her husband arrived, we had already changed into out pajamas. The four adults had dinner, and then weincluding a friend of my brothers' who was spending the nightwere allowed to come down and meet Miss Meadows.
                                                                          
Audrey Meadows
And this is who we saw. The woman in the picture here. A princess. A genuine princess. She had long, lush strawberry blonde hair. I didn't know the word lush then, but that's what it was. I remember she was sitting on our rug, her legs to the side as if sidesaddle. She wore a lovely crinoline dress that rustled when she shifted. I had never seen anyone as beautiful. When she saw us, she smiled.  Just like in the picture here. Only she was animated, and sweet, and kind.

"Come on down, all of you!" she said. And we did.  Introductions were made. The friend of my brother's had broken his foot recently and wore a cast. When she saw that, she said, "What happened to you? Did you break your foot?" Our little friend was so shy he almost disappeared into himself.

"Come over here," she said. Sit next to me," she said. He did, changing colors rapidly as if he were a magic trick.

"Now, look here," she said. And she raised her many-layered skirt up an inch or so to reveal her knee. "Do you see that? she asked out friend. I don't think he could stand to look. "See that scar?  I broke my leg when I was a little girl. It was before the doctors knew what they do now, and so they left me with this scar."

"Ok, now, all of you," my mother said, "scoot upstairs and go to bed."

We walked upstairs and before disappearing into our rooms turned around. And Audrey Meadows waved a big wave at us and threw us all a kiss that, sometimes, when I close my eyes and reach back in my mind, I still feel today.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Vietnam story: Judy Hartline Elbring


As we all know, books can change lives. This is a case in point. When I found Women in Vietnam: The Oral History, edited by Ron Steinman, that's exactly what happened. I'd read quite a few books about Vietnam—the war of my generation—but I hadn't read a thing about the women who served there, most particularly the nurses. I stayed up half the night reading the testimonies of the nurses Steinman interviewed who served in Vietnam.  All the nurses' stories are stories of courage, but one nurse's story struck me especially deeply: Judy Hartline Elbring's.

Elbring volunteered to go toVietnam in 1967. (All nurses in Vietnam were volunteers.) She might have been shocked by what she encountered, but, as she told Steinman, "There wasn't time to be scared. There wasn't time to worry about anything except the immediate job at hand."  
                                                                        

Then she saw what it was really like.:

"To see a kid who's not that much younger than I am. He's my brother's age, and some of them are younger. They're eighteen and nineteen years old, and they're kids and they're skinny and they've been in the jungle too long and they haven't eaten well and the bones in their face show, and their uniforms are dirty and they smell bad, and now they're going to die. 

"I remember after we were through work and had done all we needed to do, there would always be a few of them that were behind a curtain in the area where we used to keep them. I would go back there with them, and I would pet them until they died because, I was like their mother, their sister, their girlfriend. I would stay with them until they died, because too many of them died alone, and that's not right. That's just not right."
                                                                              
Judy Hartline Elbring

So some of you mothers who lost sons in Vietnam, know that it might be that Judy Hartline Elbring was there with your boy, easing him into his dying, helping him in his hour of being taken away, so that he didn't make that journey alone.

She came home. She wore her uniform, and she was vilified. So she stopped wearing it. "There was no one to talk to about this." Nevertheless, she went back for a second tour. Her brother, a marine, was going to Vietnam, and she wanted to be there in case he was wounded. He was, and she was able, because of her rank as a captain and simply because of her will, to be airlifted to his base and to take care of him. 

She came home again. Then, the ensuing years. "I was just a nurse. I did my duty as I needed to do my duty. But what I didn't get was that I hadn't been welcomed home, and if that's important to me, it's got to be important for other women too. I had no idea this was still affecting me. I had no idea that not saying anything could carry this long a toll on me, on anyone. The part that scares me is, how many women are sitting on their anger, are sitting on their sadness?"
 
She ends her account with the picture in her mind of boy who died, a boy for whom she could do nothing. "He stays with me. I don't know why he stays with me, but he does. He comes back in my dreams. They're helpless dreams in a way. They're all the things I can't do anything about. I would love to be somebody's good dream. Oh God, wouldn't that be wonderful? I'd be very proud to be somebody's good dream."

I was so haunted by her qualities, I went and found her on the web. She lives in California, and she and her husband run an organization called Life Partners that helps couples with their relationships. I sent her a fan letter. She replied with a handwritten letter thanking me. So I had more than I ever could wish for: a letter from my new hero. I’m sure, through the years, she’s been more than one young wounded soldier's good dream.     
                                                     
Vietnam Women's Memorial