Michael Davidow's Blog: The Henry Bell Project, page 2
September 2, 2013
The Problem of Prayer
Paula and his sons had frequented this area, once; Stevie had made it his own as a boy. Had always turned west at this same marker, too. The zoo was nearby, and a pretzel stand, and that dirty pond, with its grimy swans. Bell had no idea, what lay beyond. To his own recollection, he had never kept walking.
Bertie Kahn had always sat here, too, whenever Selma had wanted to pray. Temple Emanu-El was right across the street.
Bertie might be found there later this week. The Jewish High Holidays are early this year. They start on Wednesday night.
SPLIT THIRTY is a god-soaked book. You might have to go back to On the Road or the stories of J.D. Salinger to find an ensemble cast with members so devoted to chasing the divine. That said, though, there isn’t much in the way of conventional religion to be found within its pages. Sal crosses himself whenever he passes a church, true, but he himself would call that superstition. Selma apparently went to services, but Selma is dead by the time this book opens. Not even Paula is interested in church.
How does that square with the story’s preoccupation, then? When its central question involves whether any of its characters ever succeeds in managing a single prayer?
I can tell two stories from memory to explain. Both come from Martin Buber’s Tales of the Chasidim; I simply can’t recall which rabbis they concern. And in retelling them, I’m sure I will change them. But that’s okay. It comes with the territory.
In the first, a young rabbi attends services with his new father-in-law. This wealthy man has been bragging about his son-in-law’s learning and piety. The whole congregation looks forward to seeing him preach. He takes the pulpit and stands in silence. A moment or two pass. Things turn awkward. Then he sits down again. His father-in-law is livid. “Why didn’t you pray for us?” he asks. “People expected more from you!” “I intended to pray,” the young man replies. “But I saw that pride had decided to pray with me. I could not pray myself without letting him pray, too. So I considered it best to keep my mouth shut.”
In the second, a great and learned rabbi stops at a small synagogue for evening prayers. He sits in the back so as not to disturb anyone. He finds that he can barely comprehend what is happening. He tries to pray, but it feels so wrong, he stops. He is so ashamed, he closes his book. He sits with his eyes closed. He barely manages to say “amen” at the end of the service. In a rush to leave after that happens, he is stopped by the local rabbi. “You must tell us your great secret,” says this man. “What secret is that?” “The secret of such powerful prayer. Your single word, amen, nearly toppled me over with its awful strength.”
To try to pray, and to fail, is prayer itself. Words to the wise, from Martin and his friends.
Bertie Kahn had always sat here, too, whenever Selma had wanted to pray. Temple Emanu-El was right across the street.
Bertie might be found there later this week. The Jewish High Holidays are early this year. They start on Wednesday night.
SPLIT THIRTY is a god-soaked book. You might have to go back to On the Road or the stories of J.D. Salinger to find an ensemble cast with members so devoted to chasing the divine. That said, though, there isn’t much in the way of conventional religion to be found within its pages. Sal crosses himself whenever he passes a church, true, but he himself would call that superstition. Selma apparently went to services, but Selma is dead by the time this book opens. Not even Paula is interested in church.
How does that square with the story’s preoccupation, then? When its central question involves whether any of its characters ever succeeds in managing a single prayer?
I can tell two stories from memory to explain. Both come from Martin Buber’s Tales of the Chasidim; I simply can’t recall which rabbis they concern. And in retelling them, I’m sure I will change them. But that’s okay. It comes with the territory.
In the first, a young rabbi attends services with his new father-in-law. This wealthy man has been bragging about his son-in-law’s learning and piety. The whole congregation looks forward to seeing him preach. He takes the pulpit and stands in silence. A moment or two pass. Things turn awkward. Then he sits down again. His father-in-law is livid. “Why didn’t you pray for us?” he asks. “People expected more from you!” “I intended to pray,” the young man replies. “But I saw that pride had decided to pray with me. I could not pray myself without letting him pray, too. So I considered it best to keep my mouth shut.”
In the second, a great and learned rabbi stops at a small synagogue for evening prayers. He sits in the back so as not to disturb anyone. He finds that he can barely comprehend what is happening. He tries to pray, but it feels so wrong, he stops. He is so ashamed, he closes his book. He sits with his eyes closed. He barely manages to say “amen” at the end of the service. In a rush to leave after that happens, he is stopped by the local rabbi. “You must tell us your great secret,” says this man. “What secret is that?” “The secret of such powerful prayer. Your single word, amen, nearly toppled me over with its awful strength.”
To try to pray, and to fail, is prayer itself. Words to the wise, from Martin and his friends.
June 15, 2013
Apologies to Turgenev
“Bertie’s a democrat, Ferris,” Bell said. “In fact, you can color him pink. His father was a butter and egg man on Flatbush Avenue.”
“What I’d like to do, Henry, is to find Bert Kahn,” he told Bell. “Maybe have him work for me and my firm. My dad always said, you’re only as good as the people you work with. So working with Kahn. Or you, for that matter. That would sure show him, you know?”
“You know, I grew up, and my mom hated to cook. She used to feed us fried bologna with ketchup on it for supper. My father would come home, see that crap, and we’d all go out to eat. And do you know where we’d go? A pancake house. On the highway.”
“I like it when you call me Sal. You’re the only one who does, Henry. Except my pop, who hates me.”
“So off he went to Viet Nam. Joining the Air Cavalry. And I’ll say this much more,” Bell declared. He waved a thick finger at the Tolle man, who waited for revelation with bloodshot eyes. “My boy could have gone to Canada. That’s what.” “No, Henry. That’s not true.” “Yes. I wouldn’t have minded it, if he had. I would have yelled at him. I guess I would have yelled at him. But that’s my job, because I was his father. And that’s his job. He was my son. A teenager needs to rebel. I wouldn’t trust a kid who didn’t.”
Happy father’s day, from your friends at the Fifty-Ninth Madison Committee. Also from the author of SPLIT THIRTY, a novel about fathers and sons.
“What I’d like to do, Henry, is to find Bert Kahn,” he told Bell. “Maybe have him work for me and my firm. My dad always said, you’re only as good as the people you work with. So working with Kahn. Or you, for that matter. That would sure show him, you know?”
“You know, I grew up, and my mom hated to cook. She used to feed us fried bologna with ketchup on it for supper. My father would come home, see that crap, and we’d all go out to eat. And do you know where we’d go? A pancake house. On the highway.”
“I like it when you call me Sal. You’re the only one who does, Henry. Except my pop, who hates me.”
“So off he went to Viet Nam. Joining the Air Cavalry. And I’ll say this much more,” Bell declared. He waved a thick finger at the Tolle man, who waited for revelation with bloodshot eyes. “My boy could have gone to Canada. That’s what.” “No, Henry. That’s not true.” “Yes. I wouldn’t have minded it, if he had. I would have yelled at him. I guess I would have yelled at him. But that’s my job, because I was his father. And that’s his job. He was my son. A teenager needs to rebel. I wouldn’t trust a kid who didn’t.”
Happy father’s day, from your friends at the Fifty-Ninth Madison Committee. Also from the author of SPLIT THIRTY, a novel about fathers and sons.
June 8, 2013
The Look of Love
Their conversation wound down after those opaque words, and they shared a moment of not speaking. Bell ultimately allowed himself a single, heartfelt sigh. “You know, it’s great to talk to you, Paula,” he said. “Oh, Henry,” she replied. “After all these years.”
I finally saw Baz Luhrmann’s Great Gatsby the other day, and I hate to say this, but it disappointed me. Nick was a laughingstock; Jordan was unbearable; and Daisy was a cipher (sporting one of the ugliest bob haircuts I’ve seen in a while, too). But worst of all, the story was boring. It was Gatsby as played by high school kids; and that isn’t fair to high school kids. This film portrays Fitzgerald’s central love story as not much more than an overblown crush-- disproportionate to the stakes, overly dramatic, and pointless.
Which in turn actually made me question Fitzgerald’s own take on the matter. And I hate to say this, too, but I think he handled this theme much better in Winter Dreams, not to mention a few of his other less celebrated and more ironic stories. Jay’s feelings for Daisy are young ones; the older I get, the less they impress me; and I don’t believe Fitzgerald himself had them mastered when he wrote of them. Probably why he wrote of them so well, so truly and so intently.
The facts of love, as the economist Ben Stein has written, aren’t that mysterious. If there really only were one person in the world with whom you can be happy, then the odds of your finding that person would be astronomically high. Yet there are many happy couples in the world, with more born everyday. It’s therefore far more likely that there are many people in the world with whom you can be happy; that timing and chance send samples of them in your direction, pretty regularly; and that the hard work of maintaining a relationship then takes over for fate. Not very romantic, perhaps. Except it is. He isn’t saying that love isn’t real. He’s merely locating it with other natural phenomena, like sunny days, the value of labor, the scent of green grass, the taste of wine.
Fiction is mostly the province of the young, though, so fiction tends to glorify the romantic side of love. And it was hard for me to take that into account, in my story of politics and advertising, and middle-aged men. I can only say that in writing it, Henry’s love for Paula stood paramount in my mind, as the touchstone of his life. And as with all true loves, he did not even need her nearby, for it to have its full effect for him; for him to make him feel less alone in the world, for him to have a boon companion for his thoughts.
Maybe Baz Luhrmann can give her bobbed hair someday.
I finally saw Baz Luhrmann’s Great Gatsby the other day, and I hate to say this, but it disappointed me. Nick was a laughingstock; Jordan was unbearable; and Daisy was a cipher (sporting one of the ugliest bob haircuts I’ve seen in a while, too). But worst of all, the story was boring. It was Gatsby as played by high school kids; and that isn’t fair to high school kids. This film portrays Fitzgerald’s central love story as not much more than an overblown crush-- disproportionate to the stakes, overly dramatic, and pointless.
Which in turn actually made me question Fitzgerald’s own take on the matter. And I hate to say this, too, but I think he handled this theme much better in Winter Dreams, not to mention a few of his other less celebrated and more ironic stories. Jay’s feelings for Daisy are young ones; the older I get, the less they impress me; and I don’t believe Fitzgerald himself had them mastered when he wrote of them. Probably why he wrote of them so well, so truly and so intently.
The facts of love, as the economist Ben Stein has written, aren’t that mysterious. If there really only were one person in the world with whom you can be happy, then the odds of your finding that person would be astronomically high. Yet there are many happy couples in the world, with more born everyday. It’s therefore far more likely that there are many people in the world with whom you can be happy; that timing and chance send samples of them in your direction, pretty regularly; and that the hard work of maintaining a relationship then takes over for fate. Not very romantic, perhaps. Except it is. He isn’t saying that love isn’t real. He’s merely locating it with other natural phenomena, like sunny days, the value of labor, the scent of green grass, the taste of wine.
Fiction is mostly the province of the young, though, so fiction tends to glorify the romantic side of love. And it was hard for me to take that into account, in my story of politics and advertising, and middle-aged men. I can only say that in writing it, Henry’s love for Paula stood paramount in my mind, as the touchstone of his life. And as with all true loves, he did not even need her nearby, for it to have its full effect for him; for him to make him feel less alone in the world, for him to have a boon companion for his thoughts.
Maybe Baz Luhrmann can give her bobbed hair someday.
May 28, 2013
On the Rocks
“I don’t know. We’ll have to get the lawyers involved.” “Peterson, huh? Anything to do with this?” “Maybe a little,” Bell admitted. “When you get down to brass tacks. Everything’s connected, isn’t it? According to the poets.”
(The following longish piece is an advance copy of next month’s column in the New Hampshire Bar News.)
Summer is the season for Watergate anniversaries. It was June 1972, when low-level Republican Party operatives were arrested while burglarizing the Democratic Party’s national headquarters in Washington, D.C.; it was July 1973, when a Nixon aide admitted that the White House kept audiotapes of Oval Office conversations; and it was August 1974, when President Nixon resigned. In fact, you could probably pick any day of the year, this year, and mark the 40th anniversary of one political bombshell or another.
This story has provided inspiration for many types of artistic expression, too; books, films, and arguably, even an opera — Nixon in China, written by John Adams in 1987. But the most famous work stemming from this episode remains one of the earliest: an account of this scandal’s birth, called All the President’s Men, written in 1974 by the two journalists who broke this news in the Washington Post.
Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward take a pretty plain approach to what happened. There is little art, less reflection, and a fair amount of self-righteousness in this factual account of their own heroism. And the movie made from it by Alan Pakula and Robert Redford, in 1976, suffers from the same qualities. It makes for hard viewing today. (In fact, if you want a better movie about the exhaustion and the paranoia that marked the early 1970’s, try Pakula’s own Parallax View from 1974.)
Their story has aged poorly because Woodward and Bernstein got something wrong, as well. The sense of the moment in which they were writing (and that moment stretched for years) was that Watergate had changed things; that it was an important and crucial episode in our national narrative. Before Watergate, there was corruption in high places, cynicism amongst our rulers, and rot in the framework. After Watergate, the sun poured in. Darkness was vanquished. The righteous had won; and it was time for them to tell everybody so.
Yet it is all but impossible to look at the sweep of time since 1974 and maintain that conviction. Back then, the great journalist Teddy White was excoriated for having missed “the big story” when he downplayed the Watergate scandal in his Making of the President, 1972, but in retrospect, he was right for having stressed Nixon’s powerful victory instead, and what that portended. Because politically speaking, the conservative surge that began with the election of Richard Nixon in 1968 has only continued to grow in strength. Not Gerald Ford but Ronald Reagan rose to become the GOP’s standard bearer, and the Bush dynasty propelled it even further rightwards, ever closer to the Tea Party of today. While to complement this, all along, the Democrats have collapsed towards the center (Carter, Clinton, Obama), in vain hopes of overcoming their party’s demise in the south.
Perhaps for that reason, more recent versions of the Watergate story see it in terms of personalities, rather than of politics. Oliver Stone’s Nixon, filmed in 1995, was criticized for portraying the president as an alcoholic and implicating him (quite vaguely) in the assassination of John Kennedy, so it’s hard to see the sympathy of this movie’s image of him; yet Stone tried valiantly to showcase Nixon’s humanity, too. He advanced the case for Nixon’s intelligence and the quality of his general leadership, and he mourned how those things were squandered.
Likewise, Ron Howard’s Frost/Nixon of 2008 looked at Watergate through the lens of Nixon’s attempt to rehabilitate himself, afterwards. Taking the fact of his downfall for granted, Howard found poignancy in Nixon’s battle to maintain a proper public image.
There’s even a Kirsten Dunst comedy called Dick, from 1999, that treats the whole thing as grist for the humor mill.
This evolution in treatment seems fitting, because on its own terms, Watergate was little more than a complex legal problem. It tested our country’s machinery– its courts, its Congress, its executive offices– and those pieces responded appropriately. They moved on heavy hinges that had long been thought rusted shut. Levers swung, results accrued, unlawful actions were ferreted out, and those responsible were punished. Then the country moved on.
Those of us in the court system see something similar, every day. We fight today’s battles with little hope that tomorrow’s will be any different, but never questioning the worth of fighting each battle as it comes.
The ultimate lessons of Watergate were therefore personal ones, for the people concerned. And because there was so much at stake– because men had reached the pinnacles of their professions, only to lose everything, for the most basic of personal reasons– people remain drawn to it. Watergate has become a fairy tale. We use it to entertain each other.
(Sorry about that. I thought I’d get some extra mileage with those words. But as I’ve missed writing about two of my favorite standby subjects — wine and women’s fashion — here’s an added coda that has nothing to do with the above. So consider this a portmanteau entry — or for those of you who prefer Dr. Doolittle to Reverend Dodgson, a push-me-pull-you affair.
(SPLIT THIRTY takes place wholly in autumn; it hardly refers to summertime at all. If it did, though, it surely would have placed Paula into at least one frock by the late great Lilly Pulitzer; and it would have given her this to drink, too: two parts orange juice, one part red wine (any red, any red at all), and two or three ice cubes.
(For god’s sake, don’t actually measure those amounts. And please, don’t be a snob about wine and ice cubes, either. Wine is to drink, clothes are to wear, and life is too short to not have fun with both. In fact, in honor of Ms. Pulitzer herself, feel free to spill the whole thing down your front.)
(The following longish piece is an advance copy of next month’s column in the New Hampshire Bar News.)
Summer is the season for Watergate anniversaries. It was June 1972, when low-level Republican Party operatives were arrested while burglarizing the Democratic Party’s national headquarters in Washington, D.C.; it was July 1973, when a Nixon aide admitted that the White House kept audiotapes of Oval Office conversations; and it was August 1974, when President Nixon resigned. In fact, you could probably pick any day of the year, this year, and mark the 40th anniversary of one political bombshell or another.
This story has provided inspiration for many types of artistic expression, too; books, films, and arguably, even an opera — Nixon in China, written by John Adams in 1987. But the most famous work stemming from this episode remains one of the earliest: an account of this scandal’s birth, called All the President’s Men, written in 1974 by the two journalists who broke this news in the Washington Post.
Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward take a pretty plain approach to what happened. There is little art, less reflection, and a fair amount of self-righteousness in this factual account of their own heroism. And the movie made from it by Alan Pakula and Robert Redford, in 1976, suffers from the same qualities. It makes for hard viewing today. (In fact, if you want a better movie about the exhaustion and the paranoia that marked the early 1970’s, try Pakula’s own Parallax View from 1974.)
Their story has aged poorly because Woodward and Bernstein got something wrong, as well. The sense of the moment in which they were writing (and that moment stretched for years) was that Watergate had changed things; that it was an important and crucial episode in our national narrative. Before Watergate, there was corruption in high places, cynicism amongst our rulers, and rot in the framework. After Watergate, the sun poured in. Darkness was vanquished. The righteous had won; and it was time for them to tell everybody so.
Yet it is all but impossible to look at the sweep of time since 1974 and maintain that conviction. Back then, the great journalist Teddy White was excoriated for having missed “the big story” when he downplayed the Watergate scandal in his Making of the President, 1972, but in retrospect, he was right for having stressed Nixon’s powerful victory instead, and what that portended. Because politically speaking, the conservative surge that began with the election of Richard Nixon in 1968 has only continued to grow in strength. Not Gerald Ford but Ronald Reagan rose to become the GOP’s standard bearer, and the Bush dynasty propelled it even further rightwards, ever closer to the Tea Party of today. While to complement this, all along, the Democrats have collapsed towards the center (Carter, Clinton, Obama), in vain hopes of overcoming their party’s demise in the south.
Perhaps for that reason, more recent versions of the Watergate story see it in terms of personalities, rather than of politics. Oliver Stone’s Nixon, filmed in 1995, was criticized for portraying the president as an alcoholic and implicating him (quite vaguely) in the assassination of John Kennedy, so it’s hard to see the sympathy of this movie’s image of him; yet Stone tried valiantly to showcase Nixon’s humanity, too. He advanced the case for Nixon’s intelligence and the quality of his general leadership, and he mourned how those things were squandered.
Likewise, Ron Howard’s Frost/Nixon of 2008 looked at Watergate through the lens of Nixon’s attempt to rehabilitate himself, afterwards. Taking the fact of his downfall for granted, Howard found poignancy in Nixon’s battle to maintain a proper public image.
There’s even a Kirsten Dunst comedy called Dick, from 1999, that treats the whole thing as grist for the humor mill.
This evolution in treatment seems fitting, because on its own terms, Watergate was little more than a complex legal problem. It tested our country’s machinery– its courts, its Congress, its executive offices– and those pieces responded appropriately. They moved on heavy hinges that had long been thought rusted shut. Levers swung, results accrued, unlawful actions were ferreted out, and those responsible were punished. Then the country moved on.
Those of us in the court system see something similar, every day. We fight today’s battles with little hope that tomorrow’s will be any different, but never questioning the worth of fighting each battle as it comes.
The ultimate lessons of Watergate were therefore personal ones, for the people concerned. And because there was so much at stake– because men had reached the pinnacles of their professions, only to lose everything, for the most basic of personal reasons– people remain drawn to it. Watergate has become a fairy tale. We use it to entertain each other.
(Sorry about that. I thought I’d get some extra mileage with those words. But as I’ve missed writing about two of my favorite standby subjects — wine and women’s fashion — here’s an added coda that has nothing to do with the above. So consider this a portmanteau entry — or for those of you who prefer Dr. Doolittle to Reverend Dodgson, a push-me-pull-you affair.
(SPLIT THIRTY takes place wholly in autumn; it hardly refers to summertime at all. If it did, though, it surely would have placed Paula into at least one frock by the late great Lilly Pulitzer; and it would have given her this to drink, too: two parts orange juice, one part red wine (any red, any red at all), and two or three ice cubes.
(For god’s sake, don’t actually measure those amounts. And please, don’t be a snob about wine and ice cubes, either. Wine is to drink, clothes are to wear, and life is too short to not have fun with both. In fact, in honor of Ms. Pulitzer herself, feel free to spill the whole thing down your front.)
May 26, 2013
In Memoriam
“I was a Taft man, in fifty-two. A Goldwater man, in sixty-four. And a Reagan man, in sixty-eight. This year, we never had a chance. Party unity. Am I right, Henry? Just like Rockefeller always talked about.” “Did he? Rockefeller?” Bell’s head continued to throb, and his tongue felt like flannel. “You know what I mean, Henry.” “Sure. You’ve gone for losers, your whole life. But I work for a winner now, and I have no time for this.”
I usually shy away from calling SPLIT THIRTY an “historical novel.” I’m not sure about that genre. I was not so much trying to peg Manhattan in 1972 as to use that time and place to tell a story about the human condition.
One part of SPLIT THIRTY is purely historical, though, and I have actually been concerned that people might not get it. It concerns Bell’s identity as a liberal Republican. I fear people might think he was an outlier of sorts. But he wasn’t. Not much, at any rate.
Recall that the Democrats had the solid South to themselves for a century; if any southerner had issues with Jim Crow, that southerner (black or white) turned to the GOP. Also recall that our big city machines were Democratic to the marrow, coast to coast; if any urbanite had issues with corruption, that urbanite turned to the GOP, too. The cause of progressivism and “good government” tended to be a Republican cause. Its heroes were Theodore Roosevelt, Robert Lafayette, and Hiram Johnson. Republicans were not only liberals. They were good at it, too.
Politics being what it is, though, nothing runs pure. Fear of corruption too easily bled into fear of the immigrant; when America’s blacks moved north, the Republicans lost their edge in civil rights, too. The cranks of the west joined the haters of the east in such numbers that the party of Wendell Willkie eventually doubled as the party of Barry Goldwater (just as the Democrats claimed both Eleanor Roosevelt and Tailgunner Joe). And in fact, Bell’s convictions had already become the minority position in 1972. He knew that. He hated it. But he was never lonely. He always had friends.
Anyway, I mention this for Memorial Day (rather than touting Bell’s war record, which was something he himself, after all, never liked to talk about), because Memorial Day dates from the Civil War — and Bell is from Ohio, which takes its Republicanism from the source: tribal memories of U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman, and Little Phil Sheridan. Have a wonderful summer, all.
I usually shy away from calling SPLIT THIRTY an “historical novel.” I’m not sure about that genre. I was not so much trying to peg Manhattan in 1972 as to use that time and place to tell a story about the human condition.
One part of SPLIT THIRTY is purely historical, though, and I have actually been concerned that people might not get it. It concerns Bell’s identity as a liberal Republican. I fear people might think he was an outlier of sorts. But he wasn’t. Not much, at any rate.
Recall that the Democrats had the solid South to themselves for a century; if any southerner had issues with Jim Crow, that southerner (black or white) turned to the GOP. Also recall that our big city machines were Democratic to the marrow, coast to coast; if any urbanite had issues with corruption, that urbanite turned to the GOP, too. The cause of progressivism and “good government” tended to be a Republican cause. Its heroes were Theodore Roosevelt, Robert Lafayette, and Hiram Johnson. Republicans were not only liberals. They were good at it, too.
Politics being what it is, though, nothing runs pure. Fear of corruption too easily bled into fear of the immigrant; when America’s blacks moved north, the Republicans lost their edge in civil rights, too. The cranks of the west joined the haters of the east in such numbers that the party of Wendell Willkie eventually doubled as the party of Barry Goldwater (just as the Democrats claimed both Eleanor Roosevelt and Tailgunner Joe). And in fact, Bell’s convictions had already become the minority position in 1972. He knew that. He hated it. But he was never lonely. He always had friends.
Anyway, I mention this for Memorial Day (rather than touting Bell’s war record, which was something he himself, after all, never liked to talk about), because Memorial Day dates from the Civil War — and Bell is from Ohio, which takes its Republicanism from the source: tribal memories of U.S. Grant, William T. Sherman, and Little Phil Sheridan. Have a wonderful summer, all.
May 15, 2013
Milk and Honey
“Life has no sense of human frailty. So when it taps your shoulder, it’s heavy, and it hurts. If you haven’t noticed by now. But I don’t like ignoring that pain. I might not succeed, but I still aim for the heart of things. The fire that burns, while the world revolves around it. The burning bush itself. See?”
She shook her head. She was being honest.
Today marked the first full day of the Jewish holiday Shavuoth, also known (a little obscurely) as the Feast of Weeks.
Like many of Judaism’s original observances, Shavuoth is an amalgam of sorts. It came about when that austere faith carved by Moses from the hard stones of the desert– shockingly pure, ascetic, and demanding– came into contact with the agricultural cults of Canaan — priest-ridden, homely, and sympathetic to human needs. It celebrates both the grain harvest and the giving of the Torah to the Israelites at Mount Sinai; two in one blow. It celebrates both the high and the low, the stuff of the body and the stuff of the soul; it mingles the here and now with the spirit and the flame. The one can’t exist without the other, says this holiday. Revelation is made a human affair.
Which means, perforce, it’s a messy affair, too. And it’s the genius of the Jewish religion to accept that mess on its own terms. To talk of revelation, after all, is to aim at the core of man’s search for meaning, and man’s search for meaning has never been tidy. Judaism exalts the resulting struggle. It anticipates participation by forgiving all failure. It treats the plain futility of our efforts not as any rebuke to mortal ambition, but rather as the surest manifestation of the divine hand in our world.
SPLIT THIRTY doesn’t concern the grain harvest. But it does concern the nature of revelation. And politics. And advertising. The here and the now; the spirit and the flame.
‘“Well. See lots of things. Don’t you think?’ Kahn leaned back and addressed his apartment’s ceiling. She looked there, too. It was dark. This room’s lights were recessed, discreet, and concentrated in the corners. ‘They came to me for new school, which is funny, because I’m an old school guy.’”
Happy Shavuoth to Bertie and his clan– and to the many rabbis I have had the pleasure to learn from.
She shook her head. She was being honest.
Today marked the first full day of the Jewish holiday Shavuoth, also known (a little obscurely) as the Feast of Weeks.
Like many of Judaism’s original observances, Shavuoth is an amalgam of sorts. It came about when that austere faith carved by Moses from the hard stones of the desert– shockingly pure, ascetic, and demanding– came into contact with the agricultural cults of Canaan — priest-ridden, homely, and sympathetic to human needs. It celebrates both the grain harvest and the giving of the Torah to the Israelites at Mount Sinai; two in one blow. It celebrates both the high and the low, the stuff of the body and the stuff of the soul; it mingles the here and now with the spirit and the flame. The one can’t exist without the other, says this holiday. Revelation is made a human affair.
Which means, perforce, it’s a messy affair, too. And it’s the genius of the Jewish religion to accept that mess on its own terms. To talk of revelation, after all, is to aim at the core of man’s search for meaning, and man’s search for meaning has never been tidy. Judaism exalts the resulting struggle. It anticipates participation by forgiving all failure. It treats the plain futility of our efforts not as any rebuke to mortal ambition, but rather as the surest manifestation of the divine hand in our world.
SPLIT THIRTY doesn’t concern the grain harvest. But it does concern the nature of revelation. And politics. And advertising. The here and the now; the spirit and the flame.
‘“Well. See lots of things. Don’t you think?’ Kahn leaned back and addressed his apartment’s ceiling. She looked there, too. It was dark. This room’s lights were recessed, discreet, and concentrated in the corners. ‘They came to me for new school, which is funny, because I’m an old school guy.’”
Happy Shavuoth to Bertie and his clan– and to the many rabbis I have had the pleasure to learn from.
May 7, 2013
The Wasteland
Having grown up in the 70’s, my imagination has long been influenced by what I’ve seen on television. And jumbled images from the attic of my mind doubtlessly informed the writing of SPLIT THIRTY.
The opening credits of The Odd Couple, for instance (and the various interiors they used for Oscar Madison’s apartment, who despite his last name, allegedly lived on Park). And the same for Hawaii Five-O: sixty full seconds of orgiastic snarl (when they finally make that film of SPLIT THIRTY, those saturated colors will live again). Hawaii Five-O has a special mood, too; as does The Fugitive, Room 222, and Pooch’s beloved Bewitched. My wife could not understand why I watched Love American Style whenever I could, these past few years; but I could not resist. It tasted like cotton candy when I was writing this story.
Which all begs the question, of course, as to why I’ve avoided Mad Men all this time. But as I’ve said before, I did not want to taint my own vision of Madison Avenue with that of any other soul.
Having recently seen bits and pieces of AMC’s show, though, it appears to be a hell of a lot more stylized than what suited Henry Bell. The sets look antiseptic. The clothing seems cut for dolls. And as I think that’s part of Matthew Wiener’s shtick, I don’t mean those statements as criticism, either.
For the best small-screen version of the Gotham found in SPLIT THIRTY, however, you have to go back another few decades, to a program called The Naked City (inspired by the film of that same name). I recently watched an episode that trailed a little kid from midtown Manhattan to his home in Brooklyn. It was sun-lit, dirty, and riveting. It even had Diahann Carroll. And another with Frank Gorshin as a stool pigeon trying to make dough for taking a bus back to Oklahoma by hustling a game of ping-pong; and another with Robert Duvall as a washed-up boxer aiming for one last fight. Worth every second of attention, whatever late hour you are lucky enough to find these things.
That, or watch Family Affair. Long live Buffy and Uncle Bill.
The opening credits of The Odd Couple, for instance (and the various interiors they used for Oscar Madison’s apartment, who despite his last name, allegedly lived on Park). And the same for Hawaii Five-O: sixty full seconds of orgiastic snarl (when they finally make that film of SPLIT THIRTY, those saturated colors will live again). Hawaii Five-O has a special mood, too; as does The Fugitive, Room 222, and Pooch’s beloved Bewitched. My wife could not understand why I watched Love American Style whenever I could, these past few years; but I could not resist. It tasted like cotton candy when I was writing this story.
Which all begs the question, of course, as to why I’ve avoided Mad Men all this time. But as I’ve said before, I did not want to taint my own vision of Madison Avenue with that of any other soul.
Having recently seen bits and pieces of AMC’s show, though, it appears to be a hell of a lot more stylized than what suited Henry Bell. The sets look antiseptic. The clothing seems cut for dolls. And as I think that’s part of Matthew Wiener’s shtick, I don’t mean those statements as criticism, either.
For the best small-screen version of the Gotham found in SPLIT THIRTY, however, you have to go back another few decades, to a program called The Naked City (inspired by the film of that same name). I recently watched an episode that trailed a little kid from midtown Manhattan to his home in Brooklyn. It was sun-lit, dirty, and riveting. It even had Diahann Carroll. And another with Frank Gorshin as a stool pigeon trying to make dough for taking a bus back to Oklahoma by hustling a game of ping-pong; and another with Robert Duvall as a washed-up boxer aiming for one last fight. Worth every second of attention, whatever late hour you are lucky enough to find these things.
That, or watch Family Affair. Long live Buffy and Uncle Bill.
May 5, 2013
A New Leaf
Paula and his sons had frequented this area, once; Stevie had made it his own as a boy. Had always turned west at this same marker, too. The zoo was nearby, and a pretzel stand, and that dirty pond, with its grimy swans. Bell had no idea, what lay beyond. To his own recollection, he had never kept walking.
Bertie Kahn had always sat here, too, whenever Selma had wanted to pray. Temple Emanu-El was right across the street.
That’s Fifth Avenue, of course. And Temple Emanu-El would have been the socialite’s choice in 1972. But I have come to wonder if Bertie should have done his waiting outside a different synagogue: to be specific, the Park Avenue Synagogue, on East 87th Street.
Rabbi Milton Steinberg occupied its pulpit before and during the Second World War. And in 1939, he published a somewhat unlikely forebear to SPLIT THIRTY: an historical novel called As a Driven Leaf. It’s the fictionalized story of Elisha ben Abuyah, a talmudic scholar of the second century who was criticized by his peers for espousing unorthodox beliefs. Steinberg goes a bit further. Per him, his hero abandons his Jewish faith in hopes of discovering a more rational set of beliefs. He flees from Palestine, he enters Syrian society, and he absorbs as much Greek philosophy as he can. The prose gets a little purple here and there. But in the end, Elisha is left both intellectually and spiritually bereft. In the end, he is quoting Ecclesiastes on the vanity of worldly knowledge.
It wasn’t until 1962 that Thomas Kuhn wrote his Structure of Scientific Revolutions, and I can’t find any evidence that he and Steinberg crossed paths. They were of different generations and different social backgrounds. Steinberg was a City College kid; Kuhn went to Harvard. Steinberg was a rabbi; Kuhn professed atheism. But they both believed in the terror and the beauty of what can never be delivered by worldly effort.
I kept Kuhn close while writing SPLIT THIRTY; I just learned about Steinberg. And if I wanted to, I suppose I could still edit this book, to change Selma’s choice of shul. I don’t think I will, though. Because Steinberg would understand. He spent a lot of time in his book talking about fashion and wine.
Bertie Kahn had always sat here, too, whenever Selma had wanted to pray. Temple Emanu-El was right across the street.
That’s Fifth Avenue, of course. And Temple Emanu-El would have been the socialite’s choice in 1972. But I have come to wonder if Bertie should have done his waiting outside a different synagogue: to be specific, the Park Avenue Synagogue, on East 87th Street.
Rabbi Milton Steinberg occupied its pulpit before and during the Second World War. And in 1939, he published a somewhat unlikely forebear to SPLIT THIRTY: an historical novel called As a Driven Leaf. It’s the fictionalized story of Elisha ben Abuyah, a talmudic scholar of the second century who was criticized by his peers for espousing unorthodox beliefs. Steinberg goes a bit further. Per him, his hero abandons his Jewish faith in hopes of discovering a more rational set of beliefs. He flees from Palestine, he enters Syrian society, and he absorbs as much Greek philosophy as he can. The prose gets a little purple here and there. But in the end, Elisha is left both intellectually and spiritually bereft. In the end, he is quoting Ecclesiastes on the vanity of worldly knowledge.
It wasn’t until 1962 that Thomas Kuhn wrote his Structure of Scientific Revolutions, and I can’t find any evidence that he and Steinberg crossed paths. They were of different generations and different social backgrounds. Steinberg was a City College kid; Kuhn went to Harvard. Steinberg was a rabbi; Kuhn professed atheism. But they both believed in the terror and the beauty of what can never be delivered by worldly effort.
I kept Kuhn close while writing SPLIT THIRTY; I just learned about Steinberg. And if I wanted to, I suppose I could still edit this book, to change Selma’s choice of shul. I don’t think I will, though. Because Steinberg would understand. He spent a lot of time in his book talking about fashion and wine.
April 30, 2013
Read 'em and Weep
Three kind of people seem to read this blog: those interested in fashion, those interested in wine, and those interested in spirituality. That’s a nice mix (especially since SPLIT THIRTY is about politics and advertising). I wish we could all get together.
Anyway, I truly appreciate when anybody reads my writing, so here is a quick entry for you very few folks.
I wrote a book; I’m trying to sell that book; that’s my only reason for being here. But I know that blogs are supposed to be entertaining and informative, more than anything else. So in hopes of being those things, for once, let me recommend another book for you to read, as well (or three, to be precise): Siegfried Sassoon’s “Sherston” trilogy, consisting of Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man, Memoirs of an Infantry Officer, and Sherston’s Progress.
These books chronicle the youth and war experiences of George Sherston, the lightly fictionalized alter ego of Sassoon himself. They range from his wealthy upbringing in the English countryside, to the horror of his experiences in the First World War, to his rather exhausted return home. But more importantly: they include a little episode in which he describes how happy a new pair of riding boots made him; they describe the length and breadth of his struggle with the unreality of war; and they include, finally and unforgettably, a hilarious dinner party scene in which a group of intoxicated English officers chase a piece of aspic around the table.
These books used to be pretty well-known. They aren’t, anymore. They should be.
So read some Sassoon. Then read SPLIT THIRTY.
P.S. For the necessary SPLIT THIRTY allusion in this entry: suffice it to say that Henry Bell quotes this author; not his novels, but his poetry. Here is the full text of the poem involved. It’s cruel, and it’s called “The Kiss.”
To these I turn, in these I trust– / Brother Lead and Sister Steel. / To his blind power I make appeal, / I guard her beauty clean from rust.
He spins and burns and loves the air, / And splits a skull to win my praise; / But up the nobly marching days / She glitters, cold and fair.
Sweet sister, grant your soldier this: / That in good fury he may feel / The body where he sets his heel / Quail from your downward darting kiss.
Anyway, I truly appreciate when anybody reads my writing, so here is a quick entry for you very few folks.
I wrote a book; I’m trying to sell that book; that’s my only reason for being here. But I know that blogs are supposed to be entertaining and informative, more than anything else. So in hopes of being those things, for once, let me recommend another book for you to read, as well (or three, to be precise): Siegfried Sassoon’s “Sherston” trilogy, consisting of Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man, Memoirs of an Infantry Officer, and Sherston’s Progress.
These books chronicle the youth and war experiences of George Sherston, the lightly fictionalized alter ego of Sassoon himself. They range from his wealthy upbringing in the English countryside, to the horror of his experiences in the First World War, to his rather exhausted return home. But more importantly: they include a little episode in which he describes how happy a new pair of riding boots made him; they describe the length and breadth of his struggle with the unreality of war; and they include, finally and unforgettably, a hilarious dinner party scene in which a group of intoxicated English officers chase a piece of aspic around the table.
These books used to be pretty well-known. They aren’t, anymore. They should be.
So read some Sassoon. Then read SPLIT THIRTY.
P.S. For the necessary SPLIT THIRTY allusion in this entry: suffice it to say that Henry Bell quotes this author; not his novels, but his poetry. Here is the full text of the poem involved. It’s cruel, and it’s called “The Kiss.”
To these I turn, in these I trust– / Brother Lead and Sister Steel. / To his blind power I make appeal, / I guard her beauty clean from rust.
He spins and burns and loves the air, / And splits a skull to win my praise; / But up the nobly marching days / She glitters, cold and fair.
Sweet sister, grant your soldier this: / That in good fury he may feel / The body where he sets his heel / Quail from your downward darting kiss.
April 28, 2013
Shake It Up
“He had dated all sorts, models and actresses and artists, you name it.” Bell was addressing Walton now, who was staring back at him, bored and suffering. “Then he met this one girl, working in her father’s grocery store. Nothing special looks-wise at all. Nothing special at all, except to Bertie Kahn. He used to say he’d have turned into a bum if Selma hadn’t come along. Remember him saying that, chance-man?”
“Buy her pretty dresses,” was one of Selma Kahn’s commandments to Bertie; divinely inspired, and obeyed to the letter. No example of her dresses made it into the text, though. So we have to guess what she wore. (I could say “Marimekko,” or “Pucci,” but that would be cheating.) (And borrowing Holly Golightly’s Givenchy would simply be wrong; Selma was more of a generic Irwin Shaw type, The Girls in Their Summer Dresses, ca. 1939.)
The other women can’t help. Tasha wore plaid skirts from the sale rack at Peck and Peck; she also possessed a red wool coat, a paisley scarf, and a fisherman’s knit. Paula favored sweater sets. Pooch’s wife was “mousy.”
First principles might be useful, and a strong Native American motif makes itself known in SPLIT THIRTY. Pooch gets called a half-breed; Bell labels himself a brave; Tasha shares a nickname with the second mate of the Pequod; and the city itself is alive with “fairies in buckskin” (see my discussion of John Ford’s The Searchers in an earlier entry, for more on that phenomenon).
We also know Selma had fun with her wardrobe; she stole hats from Bergdorf Goodman, at least.
And finally, go-go boots were still around in Times Square.
So I will combine those facts, to deliver this summer fashion report: fringe is in. And if you doubt it, just wait for Baz Luhrman’s The Great Gatsby to hit the screeen.
Where the Age of Aquarius and the Jazz Age overlap.
“Buy her pretty dresses,” was one of Selma Kahn’s commandments to Bertie; divinely inspired, and obeyed to the letter. No example of her dresses made it into the text, though. So we have to guess what she wore. (I could say “Marimekko,” or “Pucci,” but that would be cheating.) (And borrowing Holly Golightly’s Givenchy would simply be wrong; Selma was more of a generic Irwin Shaw type, The Girls in Their Summer Dresses, ca. 1939.)
The other women can’t help. Tasha wore plaid skirts from the sale rack at Peck and Peck; she also possessed a red wool coat, a paisley scarf, and a fisherman’s knit. Paula favored sweater sets. Pooch’s wife was “mousy.”
First principles might be useful, and a strong Native American motif makes itself known in SPLIT THIRTY. Pooch gets called a half-breed; Bell labels himself a brave; Tasha shares a nickname with the second mate of the Pequod; and the city itself is alive with “fairies in buckskin” (see my discussion of John Ford’s The Searchers in an earlier entry, for more on that phenomenon).
We also know Selma had fun with her wardrobe; she stole hats from Bergdorf Goodman, at least.
And finally, go-go boots were still around in Times Square.
So I will combine those facts, to deliver this summer fashion report: fringe is in. And if you doubt it, just wait for Baz Luhrman’s The Great Gatsby to hit the screeen.
Where the Age of Aquarius and the Jazz Age overlap.
