See my essay on on the Academy's new museum, published in the L.A. Review of Books.
September 18. First live theater since lockdown: “Lizastrata” at the Getty Villa. Live theater resumes with a BANG! Antique bawdiness comes to life. You kept thinking, “No, they can’t” but The Troubies did, and more: exploding balloon phalloi, the talking puppet phalloi, the squirting phalloi, the fireworks exploding phalloi.
September 26. First recital: a PianoSpheres marathon of Messiaen’s “Catalog of birds” cycle at the Audubon Center at Debs Park. I made it halfway. Magnificent and exasperating. Sometimes it actually sounds like natural phenomena – particles flying out of an accelerator. But it’s not just birds but traffic jams: stop/start, honking, squealing tires. There were crows cawing and other real birds singing their songs at the Audubon Center. Not marcato thumps, but threads suavely unspooling or witty castanet clacks.
October 14. First L.A. Phil concert: Dudamel conducting Schoenberg’s “Transfigured night”, Richard Strauss’s “Death and transfiguration” and his four last songs with Golda Schultz. Beautiful voice and charming stage manner. During the instrumental passages she turned to look at the concertmaster, and the other musicians, really seeming to listen with ravishment.
November 20. First chamber music: The Schumann Quartet at The Clark Library. The ultra-intimate concerts at the Clark now even more selective with 60 rather than 100 seats. You're so close to the action that the sound is a shock - live music with a vengeance. It was searing. But with Ravel I started to find my way. The Mozart felt like the synthesis of every possible kind of sonic interest and pleasure, plus kindness. The Haydn was pure fun.
Taliesin West,
The Arizona Biltmore,
Residence "A" at Barnsdall Park
A novel that feels like a masque, playing for three acts with serious things and abstruse things, and ending with Sebastian, the character most in need of reassurance, encountering “a very pregnant lady with a very nice face sitting on a golden chair” in a house “built as a temple to love, hospitality and the arts.”
Or is it a sleek, iPhone-era version of “The Tempest”?
Hunter, the freebasing billionaire (it's a St. Aubyn novel) is a Prospero who creates the court within which the action unfolds. As a schoolboy, he “invited his gang of reckless and clever friends to join him on the roof.” And we catch up with him years later, as his wealth transforms the lives of all the main characters.
But not the comic villains (Moorhead, Saul, Cardinal Lagerfeld, MacDonald) who dream of being him, but can’t. But in the end, Hunter, like Prospero, doesn’t want to continue being the person whose “fear of a heart attack, psychosis and the other discouraging footnotes to his gargantuan lifestyle was trivial compared to his horror at the idea of doing anything ordinary.”
The meditations on scientific method, genetics, biological determinism, the mind/body problem etc. can be exasperating, but they aren’t meant to be compelling arguments, but expressions of who the characters are – which is more often than not exasperating.
Indeterminacy is not only a topic the characters discuss, but an aspect of the novel's form. ESA denies readers the illusion of sensing the future of the characters. In the end, only minor matters have been resolved.
The answers that explain nothing are contrasted with the actions that matter: “What part of the brain lights up when the reader first encounters Mr Darcy and his odious pride? Can literary criticism afford to ignore what is happening to the reader’s amygdala when Elizabeth Bennet rejects his first proposal? It is a truth universally acknowledged that any topic in search of a reputation for seriousness must be in want of neuroimaging. … Not only was the brain not the mind, but an image of the brain was not the brain.”
The reader learns who Francis is by learning that he wonders, “Why did every generation of biology student have to amputate the legs of living frogs and spectate on the beating hearts of crucified mammals, as if they were trying to join a tough gang whose rite of passage was a random murder?”
We learn this and much more about what Francis thinks and feels, but the reader is never told what Francis looks like. It’s one of the games of the book. The mind/body problem keeps getting discussed by characters who are intensely embodied, but don’t have appearances. Hunter and Hope – both Californians! – are the only major character whose looks are noted.
[Image: the Palm room, Spencer House]
Born April 17, 1621, Llansantffraed, Wales; died April 23, 1695, Llansantffraed.
"I Saw Eternity the other night
Like a great Ring of pure and endless light,
All calm, as it was bright,
And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years
Driv'n by the spheres
Like a vast shadow mov'd, In which the world
And all her train were hurl'd ..."
[Image: Tibetan Buddhist thangka painting from the 19th century]
“J’ai plus de souvenirs que si j’avais mille ans.” (Charles Baudelaire, born 4/9/1821)
or
“I swear to you that if I lived a thousand years / I could not be more crammed with dubious souvenirs.” (Edna St. Vincent Millay)
or
“I am as old as all the memories” (Laurence Lerner)
or
“More memories than the fossils of the ages” (Roy Fuller)
or
“I have more memories than if I had lived a thousand years” (Anthony Hecht)
[Image: Édouard Manet, Portrait of Charles Baudelaire, 1862]
“Heinz Ireland is celebrating St. Patrick’s Day 2021 with the launch of its very first, limited-edition [Seriously] Good Shamrock Mayo. Only 75 jars are up for grabs across the Republic of Ireland of the new creation that Heinz Ireland says combines its rich and creamy Heinz [Seriously] Good Mayonnaise with shamrock grown in the beautiful fields of Co. Kerry.” (IrishCentral.com, 3/10/21)