Tales of Two Cities

Constructive Denial Redux

Well, I guess I can't pretend any longer.  My college classmate, Nora Ephron, has broadcast the ugly truth in her latest book - not just IN the book, but IN THE TITLE of the book.  Thanks, Nora.  Didn't anyone ever tell you that discretion is the better part of ...  Oh, forget it.

It is of little comfort that the first place I will look when I see Nora at our 45th college reunion next June is at her neck.  Not her sleek, petite figure clothed in soft, black leather.  Not at her face, compelling in its intelligent exuberance.  At her neck.  Unless, of course, she has it covered with a turtleneck sweater (surely not in June) or a scarf (well, maybe in June).  Until then, I can no longer avoid looking in the mirror at my own 65 year old neck every frigging day.  Uggg.

I know I should think of my aging body in terms of W.C. Fields' proposed epitaph:  "All things considered, I'd rather be in Philadelphia," but there is something truly depressing about trying to be glad about a reality that no one can contemplate without experiencing a queasy stomach just because the alternative is worse - i.e., the ultimate, inevitable "I'm not going there" truth. 

Besides, I think that I could live in Philadelphia quite happily with a neck, chin and face lift (not to mention a lift of some other body parts), but it ain't gonna happen.  Maybe, though, I will indulge in a slightly cheaper and more chic alternative and buy some new scarves when we are in Paris next month.

Meanwhile there is nothing to do but to get rid of all the mirrors in the house.  Along with Nora's book, entertaining as it is.   Worth it, don't you think?    After all, holding on to delusions always comes at a cost.

Words Melting in my Mouth, Utterances Scattered about on my Teeth

"It is my desire,    it is my wish
    to set out to sing,    to begin to recite,
    to let a song of our clan glide on,    to sing a family lay.
    The words are melting in my mouth,    utterances dropping out,
    coming to my tongue,    being scattered about on my teeth."

Prologue to the Kalevala, the national epic of the Finns, compiled by Elias Lönnrot.  This lyrical translation is by Francis Peabody Magoun, Jr., a World War I Ace who died in 1979.  It can be purchased in a reprinted paperback edition on Amazon.

When I read these words I hear in my mind the soaring sounds of Sibelius' Legends from the Kalevala and I am deeply moved. And delighted and inspired.  And, most of all, humbled.   

Eclectic Book List

My Back Bay bookgroup held its holiday dinner and book swap on Monday.  We each brought a book, wrapped in holiday paper, that we had either read and enjoyed or were looking forward to reading.  Here is a list of what people chose for the swap:

• A Thread of Grace, Mary Doria Russell
• The Courage Consort, Michael Faber
• The Bookseller of Kabul, Asne Seierstad
• A Yellow Raft in Blue Water, Michael Dorris
• A Good Year, Peter Mayle
• Shopaholic Takes Manhattan, Can You Keep a Secret, Sophie Kinsella
• Amazing Peace:  A Christmas Poem, Maya Angelou
• The Age of Conversation, Benedetta Craveri
• The Lady and the Unicorn, Tracy Chevalier
• Cat's Eye, Margaret Atwood
• Mansfield Park, Jane Austen
• Maximum City:  Bombay Lost and Found, Suketu Mehta

My contribution was A Thread of Grace, which I chose because I like the author's earlier novels and, while I was trying to decide whether to buy it or not for the swap, a young woman volunteered with much enthusiasm that it was a truly wonderful book. 

I picked The Courage Consort, which was quite a coincidence since I have just started the author's earlier giant opus, The Crimson Petal and the White.

I have read four of the books on the list and can recommend them all:  The Bookseller of Kabul, A Yellow Raft in Blue Water, Cat's Eye and, of course, Mansfield Park.

Food for Thought

"There is no such thing as was - only is.  If was existed, there would be no grief or sorrow."  William Faulkner discussing his work in Paris Review

"... if you can't fix it, you've got to stand it."  The final words in Annie Proulx's short story Brokeback Mountain