Apropos of Nothing

by Woody Allen

At that point, the thought I might need a criminal lawyer would never have blipped anywhere on my radar scope.

Yet it makes perfect sense for the angry woman who had announced she would take away my daughter and had a plan worse than death for me, to resort to the single most common cliché of custody warfare, accusing the spouse of abusing the child.

The doctor asked Dylan if she had been abused. Dylan said no. Mia took her “for ice cream” and returned to the doctor’s office, where the seven-year-old had somehow changed her story.

I did not suggest this story of Mia coaching. It was a conclusion the Yale investigation brought up.

In addition to the Yale investigation, the molestation accusation was dismissed by New York State Child Welfare investigators who examined the case scrupulously for fourteen months,

One could understand Judge Wilk’s first impression, an impression he would never rise above despite all evidence to the contrary.

A fatal brain tumor. I hated the judge but felt bad when I heard he was diagnosed so tragically. Harsher ones around me were less moved by his plight and quipped it was the only time in his career justice was actually served.

During the court procedure, I was so naïve. I assumed if you perjured yourself you went to jail, but it didn’t seem to matter when people were exposed in court as liars.

The issue was that my lawyers had accused Dershowitz of saying he could make the whole case go away for seven million dollars. Four lawyers in a room testified he made that offer. He denied it furiously, his mother looking on proudly in the courtroom as her son performed.

I was ready to go to court and declare with total honesty that I never abused anyone in my life, and I was ready to defend that statement publicly.

It was the real world I was coming in contact with, and though it’s real for everyone, it’s more real for some than others.

All the shrinks walked on eggshells with Mia, enabling her to prevent me from having any contact with my kids.

Moses says, “Those conclusions perfectly match my own childhood experience: coaching, influencing, and rehearsing are three words that sum up exactly how my mother tried to raise us.”

I must argue, Wilk mandated a stupid, vindictive, and harmful visitation plan for me and the kids.

Between the court edict and manipulation, not a single word or note has been passed or been allowed between us since she was seven.

I was crushed when Mia’s plan worked, and the judge shilled for her to make sure I would not get to see Dylan.

I already was supporting them generously by law, but if Mia was right about Satchel being the son of Frank Sinatra, then I was really being bilked.

One of the saddest things of my life was that I was deprived of the years of raising Dylan and could only dream about showing her Manhattan and the joys of Paris and Rome.

But why must I be supervised? All it does is confirm to Satchel his father is to be feared, a threat. But I loved him and wanted to see him.

Then comes the stiff, unnatural awkward mess of a supervised visit. Meaning that instead of a father and son spending some nice time doing something together, there’s always a third person right there to be sure I don’t rape the poor kid.

This is what’s out there in matrimonial court. Guys like Judge Wilk. Capricious men with the power to regulate families.

The children become pawns and are deprived of a loving parent, taught to fear and hate their father.

To a human, the fall-colored leaves are gorgeous. To a red or yellow leaf, I can guarantee they find the green ones lovelier.

Dianne Wiest, Julie Kavner so terrific.

They’re all gone. Truffaut, Resnais, Antonioni, De Sica, Kazan. At least Godard is still alive, but he always was a nonconformist.

Over the years loved ones have said I’m a chronically dissatisfied person, and it’s true I’d always rather be where I’m not at the time.

Falsely accused, hideous press, enormous legal expense. I spent millions trying to see my daughter, Dylan, to get a less biased judge, couldn’t swing it.

Little did I know—once smeared, always vulnerable.

Soon-Yi will be the first to tell you in over twenty years of marriage, and the many disagreements we’ve had, I have never once been right on a single issue.

Writing with someone mitigates the intense loneliness.

Like Bertrand Russell, I feel a great sadness for the human race. Unlike Bertrand Russell, I can’t do long division.

Sophocles said to never have been born may be the greatest boon of all.

Since Soon-Yi and I became a couple; from the first day she moved in with me, we’ve never spent a single night apart in twenty-five years. Nor have we had many meals apart.

If I died right now I couldn’t complain—and neither would a lot of other people.

For the written record in this personal document, let me simply say to me, Groucho Marx, W. C. Fields, and Elaine May are indisputably funny, with S.J. Perelman the funniest human of my time on earth.

A lunch with Arthur Miller was something I could have only fantasized about as a boy, as a young man, even the week before. I asked a million questions, and I recall quite vividly that he confirmed for me that life was indeed meaningless.

As I gushed earlier, the movie of Streetcar is for me total artistic perfection.

I have always hated reality, but it’s the only place you can get good chicken wings.

Dylan was no longer seven but a grown woman of thirty-plus. Mind you, I have not been allowed to see her, speak to her, or correspond with her for twenty-three years. Everything she has heard about me since barely turning seven has been taught to her by Mia.

People believe what is important for them to believe, and each person has his or her own reason, sometimes not even known to them.

And why is it when attacked I rarely spoke out or seemed overly upset? Well, given the malignant chaos of a purposeless universe, what’s one little false allegation in the scheme of things? Second, being a misanthropist has its saving grace—people can never disappoint you.

Well, as someone who’s never had any interest in a legacy, what can I say? I’m eighty-four; my life is almost half over. At my age, I’m playing with house money.

If it wasn’t for his anxiety, he’d get no aerobics at all.

I can’t deny that it plays into my poetic fantasies to be an artist whose work isn’t seen in his own country and is forced, because of injustice, to have his public abroad. Henry Miller comes to mind. D.H. Lawrence. James Joyce.

To quote the usually reasonable and level-headed New York Times, I was “a monster.” Somewhere, Kafka was smiling.