Prophet song

 She will not remember this face, already it belongs to the plain and sorry faces that have looked away, seeing how this face has already been told, seeing how all faces have been told, this face that speaks of all creation, the terrible energy of the stars, the universe smashed to dust and made over again and again in deranged creation. 

Bellow

 “Oh? My dear girl, in spite of my years, I am a man of the modern age. You do not find David and Jonathan Ss and Olivier bosom buddies in these days. The man’s company was very pleasant. He seemed also to enjoy con, versation with me. As for his views, he was just a masy of intelligent views. He expressed as many as he could, and at all times. Everything he said I found eventually in written form. He was like Voltaire, a graphomaniac. His mind was unusually active, he thought he should explain everything, and he actually said some things very well. Like ‘Science is the mind of the race.’ That’s true, you know. It’s a better thing to emphasize than other collective facts, like disease or sin. And when I see the wing of a jet plane I don’t only see metal, but metal tempered by the agreement of many minds which know the pressure and velocity and weight, calculating on their slide rules whether they are Hindus or Chinamen or from the Congo or Brazil. Yes, on the whole he was a sensible intelligent person, certainly on the right side of many questions.” 

World War I he had had another version of it—desperate darkness, the dreary liquid yellow mud to a depth of two inches over cobblestones in the Jewish streets. People needed their candles, their lamps and their copper kettle, their slices of lemon in the image of the sun. This waa tha conquest of grimness with the aid always of Mediterranean, symbols. Dark environments overcome by imported relj, gious signs and local domestic amenities. Without the power of the North, its mines, its industries, the worlq would never have reached its astonishing modern form, And regardless of Augustine, Sammler had always loved his Northern cities, especially London, the blessings of its gloom, of coal smoke, gray rains, and the mental and hu. man opportunities of a dark muffled environment. There one came to terms with obscurity, with low tones, one did not demand full clarity of mind or motive. But now Augustine’s odd statement required a new interpretation. Listening to Angela carefully, Sammler perceived different developments. The labor of Puritanism now was ending. The dark satanic mills changing into light satanic mills. The reprobates converted into children of joy, the sexual ways of the seraglio and of the Congo bush adopted by the emancipated masses of New York, Amsterdam, London. Old Sammler with his screwy visions! He saw the increas ing triumph of Enlightenment—Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, Adultery! Enlightenment, universal education, universal suffrage, the rights of the majority acknowledged by all governments, the rights of women, the rights of children, the rights of criminals, the unity of the different races afhrmed, Social Security, public health, the dignity of the person, the right to justice—the struggles of threé revolutionary centuries being won while the feudal bonds of Church and Family weakened and the privileges of aristocracy (without any duties) spread wide, democratized, especially the libidinous privileges, the right to be uninhibited, spontaneous, urinating, defecating, belching, coupling in all positions, tripling, quadrupling, polymorphous, noble in being natural, primitive, combining the leisure and luxurious inventiveness of Versailles with the hibiscus-covered erotic ease of Samoa. Dark romanticism now took hold. As old at least as the strange Orientalism of the Knights Templar, and since then filled up with Lady Stanhopes, Baudelaires, de Nervals, Stevensons, and Gauguins—those South-loving barbarians. Oh yes, the Templars. They had adored the Muslims. One hair from the head of a Saracen was more precious than the whole body of a Christian. Such crazy fervor! And now all the racism, all the strange erotic persuasions, the tourism and local color, the exotics of it had broken up but the mental masses, inheriting everything in a debased state, had formed an idea of the corrupting disease of being white and of the healing power of black. The dreams of nineteenth-century poets polluted the psychic atmosphere of the great boroughs and suburbs of New York. Add to this the dangerous lunging staggering crazy violence of fanatics, and the trouble was very deep. Like many people who had seen the world collapse once, Mr. Sammler entertained the possibility it might collapse twice. He did not agree with refugee friends that this doom was inevitable, but liberal beliefs did not seem capable of self-defense, and you could smell decay. You could see the suicidal impulses of civilization pushing strongly. You wondered whether this Western culture could survive universal dissemination—whether only its science and technology or administrative practices would travel, be adopted by other societies. Or whether the worst enemies of civilization 

The Plot Against America

 Pressing his skull firmly back into the grip of her hand, he started to sob uncontrollably. “They blew his leg off,” he told her, and here my mother motioned for Sandy and me to leave her to comfort him alone. 

A new life began for me. I'd watched my father fall apart, and I would never return to the same childhood. The mother at home was now away all day working for Hahne’s, the brother on call was now off after school working for Lindbergh, and the father who’d defiantly serenaded all those callow cafeteria anti-Semites in Washington was crying aloud with his mouth wide open—crying like both a baby abandoned and a man being tortured—because he was powerless to stop the unforeseen. And as Lindbergh’s election couldn’t have made clearer to me, the unfolding of the unforeseen was everything. Turned wrong way round, the relentless unforeseen was what we schoolchildren studied as “History,” harmless history, where everything unexpected in its own time is chronicled on the page as inevitable. The terror of the unforeseen is what the science of history hides, turning a disaster into an epic.

&

Her pretty face, with its large features and thickly applied makeup, suddenly looked to me preposterous—the carnal face of the ravenous mania to which, in my mother’s judgment, her emotional vounger sister had helplessly fallen prey. To be sure, for a child in the court of Louis XIV the ambitions and satisfactions of such a relative would never have attained the same intimidating aura of significance that Aunt Evelyn’s did for me, nor would the worldly advancement of a cleric like Rabbi Bengelsdorf have seemed the least bit scandalous to my parents were they themselves raised at court as a marquis and a marchioness. Probably If couldn’t have done any worse—I might well have done a lot better—seeking solace from the two nuns on the Lyons Avenue bus than from someone reveling in the pleasures of the standard, petty corruptions that proliferate wherever people compete for even the tiniest advantages of rank.

&

Unlike his mother and my parents, Seldon couldn’t get over the thrill of discovering that it wasn’t he who had inexplicably “lost” his clothes but I who had stolen them to use for my getaway. This utter improbability established, as never before, a value to his own existence that had previously escaped his attention. Telling the story with all the prestige of savior and co-conspirator both—and showing everyone who’d look at them his scraped feet—seemed to make Seldon significant at last even in his own eyes, a daredevil of a boy able to compel a hero’s attention for the first time in his life, while I was devastated, not only by the shame of it all, which was more unbearable and Jonger lasting than the headache, but because my stamp album, my greatest treasure, that which I could not live without, was gone, I didn’t remember having taken it with me until the day after I got home from the hospital and got up in the morning to get dressed and saw that it was missing trom beneath my socks and my underwear. The reason I stored it there in the first place was so as to see it first thing every morning when I dressed for school. And now the first thing 1 saw on my first morning home was that the biggest thing I had ever owned was gone. 

Chabon

 They made their way past several more curricula vitae holding cocktails, as well as a number of actual Surrealists, like raisins studded in a pudding. For the most part these seemed to be a remarkably serious, even sober bunch of fellows. They wore dark suits with waistcoats and solid neckties. Most of them seemed to be Americans—Peter Blume, Edwin Dickinson, a shy, courtly fellow named Joseph Cornell—who shared an air of steel-rimmed, Yankee probity that surrounded like a suburb their inner Pandemonium. Joe tried to keep all the names straight, but he was still not sure who Charley was or what was being done by Uta Hagen to his aunt. 

Emma

 Her tears fell abundantly; but her grief was so truly artless, that no dignity could have made it more respectable in Emma’s eyes; and she listened to her, and tried to console her with all her heart and understanding—really for the time convinced that Harriet was the superior creature of the two, and that to resemble her would be more for her own welfare and happiness than all that genius or intelligence could do. 

It was rather too late in the day to set about being simpleminded and ignorant; but she left her with every previous resolution confirmed of being humble and discreet, and repressing imagination all the rest of her life.

The Invisible Bridge

Stans tried again, offering that it was so every candidate and charity in town wouldn’t be harassing the contributors for donations—which didn’t make sense. The question wasn’t why the campaign had kepr contributions from the public; it was why it hadn’t even kept a record for itself. Stans replied that there was nothing illegal in doing so. At that, Sam Ervin stuck in the shiv: “Mr. Stans, do you not think that men who have been honored by the American people as you have ought to have their course of action guided by ethical principles which are superior to the minimum requirements of criminal law?” That was Sam Ervin all over. 

&

 Once upon a time “the occult” had been the redoubt of rubes. Now, in a world where the usual sources of authority no longer had answers for anything, the weird stuff was getting more serious consideration. 

&

 Grantland Rice’s “it’s how you play the game” had transmogrified into Vince Lombardi’s ~ Winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.” Watergate, then, was no  less about Richard Nixon than it was about us, an emanation of our national soul: a nation that now believed “it’s us against them, and the only goal is to win, with no quarter asked or given.” 

&

The defense case grew increasingly surreal and sordid. Judiciary members’ switchboards were swamped by identically phrased phone calls concerning “the lynch-mob atmosphere created in this city by the Washington Post and other parts of the Nixon-hating media”; these were scripted by a George Mason University student named Karl Rove and his faux-grassroots group “Americans for the Presidency.” In Richmond Hills, New York, the superannuated president of the Republican Club, which sported a gargantuan SUPPORT YOUR PRESIDENT across the entire face of the building, told Newsweek “they” —the presidents’ persecutors—“were encouraging poor Negroes to come up here and endorsing fornication and supporting illegitimate children. And Patty Hearst! She’s a product of a liberal environment.” The Georgia state Republican chairman, for his part, maintained, “If the news media is attacking the President, he must be doing something right.” 

Then there were the glassy-eyed young people crowding the U.S. Capitol steps every morning bearing signs reading FORGIVE, LOVE, UNITE and chanting “God needs Nixon” in front of the Rayburn Office Building wearing sandwich-board images of Judiciary Committee members treading, “I am praying for ___.” “This nation is God’s nation,” their leader explained. “The office of the President of the United States is, therefore, sacred.” This leader was the Reverend Sun Myung Moon. Thousands of brainwashed “Moonies,” it turned out, had been placed front and center at the White House Christmas tree lighting ceremony back in December in “Project Unity” armbands. They were the ones waving banners reading “God Loves the President” and “God Loves America” in time to “Deck the Halls.” The president had come out to pay his respects; the Moonies literally knelt down to worship him. 

Moon didn’t actually believe God loved America—or at least its form of government, democracy, which he considered the work of Satan nor did he much love the deity whose birth Christmas celebrated, whom he considered decidedly inferior to himself, In face his plan was to take over the country by 1977, lest Armageddon come, That was why the Moonies had been loaded into vans across the country, allowed five or four hours or even just three hours of sleep a night while chanting “Our Satan” incessantly to stay awake, all under the discipline of handlers who watched Hitler Youth films for their training in disciplinary techniques. Here they were: the president’s people. And the president welcomed their devotion. In February, Moon had visited the Oval Office. Together, they bowed their heads for a prayer in which Moon proposed a national fast to preserve his presidency. The fast took place that July, kicked off in a ceremony attended by Bruce “Dr. Happiness” Herschensohn and Rabbi Baruch Korff. 

This banquet was the president’s chance to thank them. “Rabbi Korff’s eloquence, his intelligence, his dedication,” Nixon’s disembodied voice boomed across the huge Shoreham banquet hall, “have been a great source of strength to me and all of us in these difficult times.” The rabbi hung up the phone receiver, intoned, “We love you dearly,” and brushed away a stubborn tear.

The Beautiful and

 The last bits 

After the sureties of Youth there sets in a period of intense and intolerable complexity. With the soda jerker this period is so short as to be almost negligible. Men higher in the scale hold out longer and the attempt to preserve the ultimate niceties of relationship, to retain “impractical” ideas of integrity. But by the late twenties the business has grown too intricate, and what has hitherto been imminent and confusing has become gradually remote and dim. Routine comes down like twilight on a harsh landscape, softening it until it is tolerable. The complexity is too subtle, too varied; the values are changing utterly with each lesion of vitality; it has begun to appear that we can learn nothing from the past with which to face the future—so we cease to be impulsive, convincible men, interested in what is ethically true by fine margins, we substitute rules of conduct for ideas of integrity, we value safety above romance, we become, quite unconsciously, pragmatic. It is left to the few to be persistently concerned with the nuances of relationships—and even this few only in certain hours especially set aside for the task. 

Anthony Patch had ceased to be an individual of mental adventure, of curiosity, and had become an individual of bias and prejudice, with a longing to be emotionally undisturbed. This gradual change had taken place through the past several years, accelerated by a succession of anxieties preying on his mind. There was, first of all, the sense of waste, always dormant in his heart, now awakened by the circumstances of his position. In his moments of insecurity he was haunted by the suggestion that life might be, after all, significant. In his early twenties the conviction of the futility of effort, of the wisdom of abnegation, had been confirmed by the philosophies he had admired as well as by his association with Maury Noble, and later with his wife. Yet there had been occasions—just before his first meeting with Gloria, for example, and when his grandfather had suggested that he should go abroad as a war correspondent—upon which his dissatisfaction had driven him almost to a positive step. 

&

 At high school she had enjoyed a rather unsavory reputation. As a matter of fact her behavior at the class picnic, where the rumors started, had been merely indiscreetshe had retained her technical purity until over a year later, The boy had been a clerk in a store on Jackson Street, and on the day after the incident he departed unexpectedly to New York. He had been intending to leave for some time, but had tarried for the consummation of his amorous enterprise. 

After a while she confided the adventure to a girl friend, and later, as she watched her friend disappear down the sleepy street of dusty sunshine, she knew in a flash of intuition that her story was going out into the world. Yet after telling it she felt much better, and a little bitter, and made as near an approach to character as she was capable of by walking in another direction and meeting another man with the honest intention of gratifying herself again. As a rule things happened to Dot. She was not weak, because there was nothing in her to tell her she was being weak, : She was not strong, because she never knew that some of the things she did were brave. She neither defied nor conformed nor compromised.

She had no sense of humor, but, to take its place, a happy disposition that made her laugh at the proper times when she was with men. She had no definite intentions—sometimes she regretted vaguely that her reputation precluded what chance she had ever had for security. There had been no open discovery: her mother was interested only in starting her off on time each morning for the jewelry store where she earned fourteen doljars a week. But some of the boys she had known in high school now looked the other way when they were walking with “‘nice girls,” and these incidents hurt her feelings. When they occurred she went home and cried. 

Besides the Jackson Street clerk there had been two other men, of whom the first was a naval officer, who passed through town during the early days of the war. He had stayed over a night to make a connection, and was leaning idly against one of the pillars of the Stonewall Hotel when she passed by. He remained in town four days. She thought she loved him—lavished on him that first hysteria of passion that would have gone to the pusillanimous clerk. The naval officer’s uniformthere were few of them in those days—had made the magic. He left with vague promises on his hps, and, once on the train, rejoiced that he had not told her his real name. 

&

It was here that he encountered “man named Parker Allison, who had been exactly the wrong sort of rounder at Harvard, and who was running through a large ‘“‘yeast” fortune as rapidly as possible. Parker Allison’s notion of distinction consisted in driving a noisy red-and-yellow racing-car up Broadway with two glittering, hard-eyed girls beside him. He was the sort who dined with two girls rather than with one—his imagination was almost incapable of sustaining a dialogue. Besides Allison there was Pete Lytell, who wore a gray derby on the side of his head. He always ha money and he was customarily cheerful, so Anthony held aimless, long-winded conversation with him through many afternoons of the summer and fall. Lytell, he found, not only talked but reasoned in phrases. His philosophy was a series of them, assimilated here and there through an active, thoughtless life. He had phrases about Socialism—the immemorial ones; he had phrases pertaining to the existence of a personal deitysomething about one time when he had been in a railroad accident; and he had phrases about the Irish problem, the sort of woman he respected, and the futility of prohibition. ‘The only time his conversation ever rose superior to these muddled clauses, with which he interpreted the most rococo happenings in a life that had been more than usually eventful, was when he got down to the detailed discussion of his most animal existence: he knew, to a subtlety, the foods, the liquor, and the Women that he preferred. He was at once the commonest and the most remarkable product of civilization. He was nine out of ten People that one passes on a city street—and he was a hairless ape with two dozen tricks. He was the hero of a thousand romances of life and art—and he was a virtual moron, performing staidly yet absurdly a series of complicated and infinitely astounding epics over a span of threescore years. 

With such men as these two Anthony Patch drank and discussed and drank and argued. He liked them because they knew nothing about him, because they lived in the obvious and had not the faintest conception of the inevitable continuity of life. They sat not before a motion picture with consecutive reels, but at a musty old-fashioned travelogue with all values stark and hence all implications confused. Yet they themselves were not confused, because there was nothing in them to be confused—they changed phrases from month to month as they changed neckties. 

&

But he hated to be sober. It made him conscious of the people around him, of that air of struggle, of greedy ambition, of hope more sordid than despair, of incessant passage up or down, which in every metropolis is most in evidence through the unstable middle class. Unable to live with the rich he thought that his next choice would have been to live with the very poor. Anything was better than this cup of perspiration and tears. 

The sense of the enormous panorama of life, never strong in Anthony, had become dim almost to extinction. At long intervals now some incident, some ges~ture of Gloria’s, would take his fancy—but the gray veils had come down in earnest upon him. As he grew older those things faded—after that there was wine. 

There was a kindliness about intoxication—there was that indescribable gloss and glamour it gave, like the memories of ephemeral and faded evenings. After a few high-balls there was magic in the tall glowing Arabian night of the Bush Terminal Building—its summit 8 peak of sheer grandeur, gold and dreaming against the inaccessible sky. And Wall Street, the crass, the banal—again it was the triumph of gold, a gorgeous sentient spectacle; it was where the great kings kept the money for their wars....

....the fruit of youth or of the grape, the transitory magic of the brief passage from darkness to darkness the old illusion that truth and beauty were in some way entwined. 

Heart of Darkness

 Destiny. My destiny! Droll thing life is-- that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself--that comes too late--a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamor, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hair's-breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it. Since I had peeped over the edge myself, I understand better the meaning of his stare, that could not see the flame of the candle, but was wide enough to embrace the whole universe, piercing enough to penetrate all the hearts that beat in the darkness. He had summed up--he had judged. `The horror!' He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candor, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth--the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is not my own extremity I remember best-- a vision of grayness without form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for the evanescence of all things--even of this pain itself. No! It is his extremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry--much better. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal.

Random bits

From S. Ifill in NYR

But to say this is not to deny that something monumental has happened to our country over the past ten years. Indeed, a fundamental shift has taken place. Even as I speak, tens of millions of Americans are fully prepared to elect again as president a man of such degraded moral character, a man so void of a spirit of public service, a man so fundamentally inclined toward theft, mendacity, cruelty, and eriminality that we can scarcely absorb the breadth of his transgressions. His supporters embrace him with religious zeal,

 From Capote Feud: There seems a natural connection between gay men and very glamorous women. Why do you think that is?

 We see the importance of presentation. It's how we defend ourselves. Underneath is someone who's just trying to control their environment. It's a defense. 

The Groves

 Of Academe

 His sharp, dapper mind was extremely sensitive to any disarray in the outer garment of reality, and the empty places at table wounded him, like missing buttons on a coat. He had been quick, ‘in fact, to see that those who were absent belonged to his chosen circle; something was up, he perceived, from which he was being excluded—a judgment was being passed on him. He was not so stupid, however, as to think, after the first bad moment, that they had met to discuss him directly; rather, he scented a crisis, having learned to detect a crisis by the fact that people avoided him during its early stages. Deeply mistrustful himself, he had learned to know that he was mistrusted and could not think why; the longing for intimacy he felt seemed to him a plain guaranty of the openness and simplicity of his character; it did not occur to him that he was gregarious out of suspicion. 

&

But the absence of pressure from without, the unconcern of parents and inertia of alumni groups, produced a same time an opposite and corrective tendency. The faculty contained a strong and permanent minority of principle dissenters, men and women whose personal austerities and ethical drives had made them unacceptable to the run of college presidents and who had found the freedom of Jocelyn both congenial and inspiriting. If beachcomber had come to rest here, so had a sect of missionaries, carrying the progressive doctrine from Bennington, Bard, or Reed, and splitting here at once, like the original Calvinist college, mto a new group of sects and factions. From its inception, the college had been rent by fierce doctrinal disputes of a quasi-liturgical character. Unlike the more established progressive colleges, which lived, so to speak, on the fat of their original formula, without questionmg its content, Jocelyn had attracted to itself a whole sene of irreconcilables, to whom questioning was a passion who, in the words of Tolstoy, could not be silent, Beginning with the founder’s time, Jocelyn had served as a haven, like the early Pennsylvania country itself, with its Moravian and Mennonite and Hutterite and United Brethren chapels, its Quakers and Shakers and Anabaptists, for the persecuted of all tendencies within the fold of educational reform, and each new wave of migrants from the centers of progressive orthodoxy wished to perpetuate at Jocelyn the very conditions from which they had fledthus the Bennington group assailed the Sarah Lawrence group and both assailed Dewey and Columbia, i.e., the parent-movement. Those who did not subscribe to any item of the progressive creed tended nevertheless to take sides with one faction or another for temperamental reasons; Aristotelians in philosophy joined with the Theatre mythgroup to fight the Social Sciences. 

An unresolved quarrel between the sciences and the humanities was at the bottom of every controversy, each claiming against the other the truer progressive orthodoxy, the words, scholastic, formalistic, scientism, positivistic, being hurled back and forth in the same timbered hall that had shivered to Petrine, pseudo-Protestant, Johannean, Romanizing in the days of the Mercersburg controversy, when a schism in the Lancaster synod had broken the old college asunder. It was the perennial quarrel, in short, between Geneva and Heidelberg, between Heidelberg and Augsburg, none the less passionate for the smallness of the arena and the fact that nobody cared, beyond the immediate disputants, how the issues were resolved. To whom did it matter, certainly not to the students, whether the college were to drop the term progressive and substitute experimental on page three of the catalogue? Yet to these men of conscience and consistency the point was just as cardinal as the spelling of catalogue (catalog?). Under the pretense of objectivity was a fighting word or spelling to be lowered from the masthead and a flag of truce run up? The defenders of the progressive citadel were always on the lookout for a semantic Trojan horse in any seemingly harmless resolution introduced by the enemy. 

&

By a faultless instinct it world seem he had been led to obey the eternal law of the artist, Objectify, or as James had put it and he himself was always urging students, Dramatize, dramatize! Contemplating what he had done he felt a justified workman’s pride, which became tinctured, as he waited, with a drop or two of bitterness: he could imagine the hostile critics, the derogators, and detractors, finding flaws, carping, correcting, and above all minimizing, cutting him down to scale. Easy enough, he assured them, by hindsight to demonstrate the logic of the process, which was that of a simple reversal or transfer; anybody, having been shown, could do it a second time; yet the fact remained that he was the first, the very first, so far as he knew, in all history to expose the existence of a frame-up by framing himself first. 

&

Yet she, on her side, seemed girlishly determined th he should appreciate them all. Alma, he heard, , was “wonderful,” Milton Kantorowitz was “wonderful”. Even Aristide was “wonderful, so unexpectedly staunch,” as though, Mulcahy thought, grimly, the simple performance of one’s duty deserved a medal for heroism. Van Tour wy “absolutely amazing.” “Who would have thought,” gy cried gaily, “that the young man had so much bod in him?” It was clear, reflected Henry, watching her assure profile, that a meeting of the mutual admiration society had just concluded its business. And he could not help being nettled by the knowledge that they were all exploiting him, making him a pretext for the discovery of each other's virtues: in this business, he remarked to himself sourly, he seemed to be the forgotten man. Every one of them had his own ax to grind here, a thing Domna made abundantly clear, but joyously, as though self-interest were a newly discovered cardinal virtue. “It means that each one has a real stake in it,” she cried, like some Hobbesian Miranda. “Only a really interested act is worth anything.” “Your view has the merit of paradox, at any rate,” commented Henry, non-committal. And he was the more resentful of Domna’s shining eyes, wind-whipped bright cheeks, wih their flags of pride and accomplishment, when he discovered, toward the end of the ride, that the glorious little group had decided nothing whatsoever, so far as he could see.

&

She was a widow of forty, small, dark, wiry, energetic, with a passion for Jane Austen and Goethe, the poles of an unusual temperament, which was at once rough-hewn and fanciful, delicate and dynamic. Twenty years ago, she had been a New Woman, of the fernme savante school, and she had not been altered either by marriage or by the death of her life companion—it was as though she had lost a congenial sister or a woman colleague with whom she had shared a flat and a small collection of books, bibelots, and common habits; having lived together with Mr. Fortune by a continuous stipulation of mutual consent, she had allowed him his independence in departing. She dressed in jerseys and wool skirts and brogues, wore a boyish haircut and necklaces of turquoise or Mexican silver, was fond of tea, little Cuban cheroots, Players, English Ovals, candied ginger, and so on. In the spring, she picked the first violets; in the autumn, a bouquet of wild grasses, which stood all winter on her mantel in a brass container. She was both extremely outspoken and extremely reserved; her personality was posted with all sorts of No Trespassing signs and crisscrossed with electric fences, which repelled the intruder with a smart shock. To men, in particular, the protocol of her nature was bewildering, like court etiquette; like a queen, too, she had her favorites, who were permitted familiarities and indulgences not granted to their superiors in rank or outward attainmentse—at Jocelyn, this footstool position was occupied by Henry Mulcahy and his dependents. 

&

But a poem,” she objected, “justifies itself in the long run by referring back to life... .” “Tolstoyan!” retorted Alma playfully, “be silent.” Seizing the pacific opportunity, Howard winked at Domna. “Somebody—I believe Orwell—” he lightly divagated, “says that you can’t prove that a poem is good. A piece of news we must keep from the students at all costs or we should all be out of a job.” “You can’t prove that a poem is good, but you can know it,” said Domna, suddenly, with conviction. “There’s an act of faith involved, in each step of the esthetic initiation, a kind of new and quite arbitrary decision made when we choose to replace Turgenev with Tolstoy, or Lydgate with Chaucer. We make these choices in accordance with our own life-purposes; knowledge is not fortuitous but the fruit of a conscious decision, a turning toward, as Eliot says. In general, we submit ourselves to the judgment of the poets in these matters; we allow our poets to tell us that Donne is superior to Milton, and here perhaps we are wrong, but we cannot know that we are wrong until we also become poets. Tolstoy was wrong, in my belief, about Shakespeare, but his wrongness has a certain authority; we pause to listen to him because he was a poet, In the same way, it is only we teachers who have earned the right to be listened to on the question of another teacher’s competence, who have earned,” she finished, somewhat defiantly, “the right, if you want, to be wrong.” 

&

But if he is wrong, and he is not a member of the family, but a stranger in the house, must we not then treat him with aidos? Docs not his special situation  make gratitude less incumbent on him than aidos on Maynard and on us?” Tears suddenly shone in her eyes; her voice trembled ‘ slightly, she was one of those romantic girls who are  more moved and shaken by a concept, visiting their own \ lips, like an annunciation, than by poetry or visual art. , Alma, who had a tenderness for youth and its sudden ', gusts of feeling, nodded quickly at her with sympathy ’ and understanding. Furness folded his arms. “May I ask,” ,, ventured Aristide, “for a translation? At one time, I was ; fortunate enough to pick up a little modern Greek m “ the Peloponnesus but my classic Greek is rudimentary.” ! “Care or ruth,” threw out Furness, negligently. “At bott tom, untranslatable. The concept doesn’t exist for us. «! See Gilbert Murray.” “It’s another of those double words like héte,” supplied Alma. “Aidds is both that which in] spires horror and pity, and the feeling aroused in the by. stander. Aidés applies to the wretchedness of a beggar or a | suppliant and to the sentiment of concern one is obliged | to show for him. A certain awe surrounds it. It is what Achilles, the killer of his son, in the end feels for Priam when he raises him up and weeps with him.” “And what _ the boy in the Iliad begs of Achilles,” put in Domna, “who is about to slay him. ‘Have a care for me.’ Greek logic demands that whatever is full of horror should command an appropriate response. “The concept doesn’t exist for us.’ She fixed her stern bright gaze on Furness. Aristide took out a little notebook and inscribed the word and the definition with a flourish, like one taking down the address of a pension. He snapped the notebook shut. “So,” inquired Alma, whimsically smiling, “are we to show aidés for Henry?”

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Cathy, however, had recovered her poise; she led the conversation and they discussed theories of love. “What you love in a person, Domna,” she explained to her, “is his essence, not the dross of appearance. Love is the discovery of essence.” Domna looked up from her breadpudding. “I think you are too dualistic,” she said, brusquely. “Even in Plato, essence is perceived through existence. There is no gross contradiction, no belying. Shadow is a partial aspect of substance. Appearances intimate to us; they do not flatly deceive.” She put down her spoon. Henry affably nodded. “You're a handsome girl, Domna,” he reminded. “All handsome people are monists. For the rest of us, there is always the temptation to gnosticism. What we are is not what we see in the mirror, and we know therefore that appearances are fickle. We look to somebody else to discover our imperishable essence.” He smiled uxoriously at Cathy and wiped his lips with his damask napkin. “She,” he signified, “has been good enough to do me this service. Could you love a leper, Domna?” he continued, musingly. “I wonder whether you could. I think, if you did, you would love the leper in him, from defiance, and not seek to discover what there is in him that the loathsome disease hides. That is, you would love in defiance what the world sees and hates, and your love would be simply an affirmation of repugnance overcome,” That he repelled Domna physically he had known for some time, without rancor and even with a kind of objective, scientific interest, and he observed once again, with detachment, seeing her drop her eyes in embarrassment, that this repugnance he now calmly alluded to was still the strongest hold he had on her: was it feasible, he asked himself, to try to exercise the same attraction repulsion in the moral sphere? He saw that she under. stood very well the drift of the conversation, which, he had to concede, had been splendidly maneuvered by Cathy to come athwart the subject at hand. Domna’s fing nostrils indented; she raised her brows in distaste. “Why are you R.C.’s so fascinated by leprosy, like children? It is all simply a bogey of legend and crude mass superstition. But in answer to your question: if you mean a moral leper, no. Fair without and foul within has no charm for me, Nor the reverse, for that matter. One must love m depth. I cannot be interested in people whose inside contradicts their outside. Such people have neither essence nor existence.” She folded her napkin. “I must work tonight,” she declared. 

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Look here, Donna,” he finally suggested, “there’s a good deal to be said for Hen on the plus side. You felt it once yourself or you wouldn’t be suffering disillusion. Your friendship wasn’t a deception; Hen is extremely likable in the early stages of an acquaintance. He has a taste for abstract conversation that makes him peculiarly accessible, like some of the old philosophers. He’s interested in ontological questions, which are the great binders of diverse humanity. On some of the better students, he has an extraordinarily tonic effect. To my mind, he’s worth keeping here aside from the question of Cathy and the four children and the bills and all the rest. He has an agile mind and excellent training. What I said at our first meeting is a true statement of what I believe. I think it valuable for the Literature department to have a theist teaching in it. Hen’s brand of theism and mine differ; in his personal life, he may belong to the devil’s party, but the devil is a theist too. What’s needed at Jocelyn or any college is a mind concerned with universals and first principles; the students take to them like catnip if they’re given half a chance. Your department’s monstrously one~ sided—you’re concerned with formal questions exclusively: Tolstoy’s method, the method of Virginia Woolf, the elucidation of Mann’s symbols, the patterns of Katherine Anne Porter. All appropriate enough for criticism, but it isn’t what the student reads for. A student reads an author for his ideas, for his personal metaphysic, what he calls, till you people teach him not to say it, his ‘philosophy of life.’ He wants to detach from an author a portable philosophy, like the young Joyce in A Portrait of the Artist—a laudable aim which you discourage by your insistence on the inseparability of form and content.” 

“But that is true,” protested Domna, dropping to her knees on the hassock. John shook his head in rereprimand but also not true, And not relevant to the student’s Content can be paraphrased. What we're doing bere at Jocelyn is a sinister thing for our studenty turning out classes of sophisticated literary without general idcas, without the philosophy er that’s formed in adolescence, without the babst or cipline of systematic thought. Our students have no idea what they think or believe except in of taste, and they’ve been taught to fear formulatiog lapse in literary manners. Hen is the one force runs counter to this tendency. His Jesuit training him in an older mold and his Joyce studies him in the habit of universalization. Finnegans Wake: book which shall be all books, the Book of Life.” Domna interrupted. “John,” she said tensely, “J to tell you something.” Her pale, severe face was with trepidation, as if she feared being overheard; moved a little closer. “This is my confession. I Henry is mad. He comes to see me at night and talks, talks. He has a delusional system centering Joyce. He speaks of Joyce’s life as a Ministry. He of the Book, the Revelation, the Passion.” John raised eyebrows. “Most of the Joyce brotherhood are a batty,” he cautioned. Domna shook her head firmly. is different; it’s not an ordinary obsession. He believes he’s been subject to persecution for propagating the This, he insists, is at the bottom of his troubles; rest is pseudepigraphal-——that was his own word, hated, he says, by Joyce’s enemies, who comp whole academic world, with the exception of nv experts who hate him also, since they are really enemies in disguise.” 

Virginia laughed delightedly."How wonderful!” she cried in sincere enjoyment.

Domna laughed also, but more grudgingly. it’s funny,” she admitted, “but terrifying, too. You know that stick he carries; he’s put it aside, he says for the duration of this emergency in token of symbolic burial. His Communist period, he says, was a ritual conversion symbolizing Joyce’s baptism in the religion of naturalism- the precursor. And the Communists hate him because he transcended naturalism, just as they hate Joyce.

Behind Joyce you see, is the identification with Christ. Bloom was Christ; Earwicker was Christ—Henry Mulcahy is Christ in the disguise of Bloom and Earwicker, the family men, the fathers eternal consubstantial with the Son.” The laughter died out of her voice. “I’ve tried to assure myself,” she declared, “that all this is merely an allegory, the pastime of an ingenious mind, that he uses to give form to his experience, to console himself in a rather bitter way by the sense of repetition, but, John, Im afraid he believes it literally, just as you believe in the Incarnation.” 

John’s dark eyebrows knitted; like an upright young jadge he seemed to search his experience for precedents and normative explanations. At the same time, with hi short black hair standing up, there was something alc . and lively about him, like a hare after its quarry: understanding. “Christ’s experience,” he announced finally, with an odd eager smile, “is the great paradigm for the persecution psychosis. It displays the whole classical syndrome: belief in divine origin, special calling, chosenness, the cult of exclusive disciples, betrayal, justification —one might even add, following Freud’s analysis of paranoia, homosexuality, for it’s noteworthy that He not only eschewed women, but that His betrayer was a man. The betrayer for the paranoid is always of his own sex, the loved and feared sex. One could say,” he continued breathlessly, with a sort of awkward ardency, “that by becoming man precisely God underwent what could be described as madness: the experience of unrecognition fusing with the knowledge of godhead, the sense of the Message, the Word, the Seed falling on barren ground, the sense of betrayal and promised resurrection. And like the mad, who use symbolic language, He spoke in parables.” Domna huskily laughed. “Jésus Christ, c’était un fou qui se cron yait Jésus-Christ.” John nodded, “Yes; in so far as He was human this was his predicament., But is it any wonder that man who seeks in his highest moments to identify with God should do so also in his time of tribulation, in the dark night of the soul. And if Hen is mad, Domna, to choose to imitate Christ, in the pattern of his suffcrings, where are all the Thomas a Kempises?” 

“You're playing on words,” she protested. “Though ty me, John, to speak frankly, all religious people seem a little mad.” “That’s because you don’t believe in god head,” he retorted. “You don’t believe in the black reality of the night of separation our friend Hen is under. going.” The three moved closer to the fire. Domna met John’s eyes. “No,” she said, squarely, “I don’t. Except as a metaphor. But I am willing to pity him if you want,” John firmly shook his head. “You don’t pity him, Donna; you’re ashamed for him; you’ve just told us so yourself.” Domna considered. “I think I feel pity mixed with horror. I should like to avert my eyes. This is not the proper Aristotelian compound, as Henry himself would be the first to say. What is requisite for the tragic spectacle is pity and terror compounded—-pity for the tragic victim, terror for oneself, in so far as the victim is one self, universalized, by extension. But I cannot feel that Henry is myself and I can only feel horror of him. Nok me tangere.” She shuddered. “I had the misfortune to be born into the upper classes and I cannot respond to suffering when the sufferer is base. And it seems to me now—forgive me for saying it—that this arrogant Henry has the soul of a slave. No doubt this cringing soul re flects social conditions; one has only to look at Henry to jmagine the matrix that formed him—a poor heredity, hagiolatrous parents, a nasty and narrow environment, sweets, eyestrain, dental caries. I detest the soc’ order which sprouts these mildewed souls—all thar be changed, for everybody; nobody should be grow up in such a bodily tenement, But each individual the faculty of transcend each of us gs limited freedom, I myself and J am not sentimental about poverty- poor people must be judged, like the rest of us, poor people have some favorable aspects: the poor are free ¢ the sophisms and insinceritics that go 

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For the truth was that, contrary to all expectations, which were based on the notorious “difficulty” of his verse, the poet’s essay had an innocuous and guileless character, like a schoolboy’s précis or a junior-encyclopedia article on its subject—there was nothing new in it, as the Literature department began to murmur among itself, with puzzlement. His talk was, in fact, so clear that the best disposal the Literature faculty could make of it was to assume that they had not understood it, that of the proverbial four levels of meaning that they so stringently enforced on their classes they themselves had seized only on the literal and had failed of the moral, the allegorical, and the anagogical. Or had Consy Van Tour seen something of the 

Texasville

Larry Mcmurtry 

Junior Nolan was wondering whether women want more sex than men,’’ Duane said. ‘‘When I was growing up the boys all wanted it and the girls didn’t. Now it’s the other way around. I wonder why that is.” 

Charlene laughed. She had been married three tines but all three husbands had died after only modest use. 

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The west edge of town was so flat and ugly that a tennis net could legitimately count as an addition to the skyline. 

The tennis courts were another product of the brief popularity of exercise. Built during the height of the boom, the courts were in constant use for several months. But tennis proved more complicated than jogging or sitting in hot tubs. Several marriages that were about ready to go anyway collapsed under the unaccustomed stress of mixed doubles

At Lady Molly's

After voicing this alarming conjecture, she paced up and down the room, emitting from each nostril a long eddy of smoke like the trail of a ship briskly cutting the horizon. Throughout the room I was increasingly aware of the hardening of disapproval, just perceptible at first even on the immediate arrival of Miss Blaides: now not by any means to be denied. In fact a sense of positive disquiet swept through the small drawing-room so powerfully that mute condemnation scemed to rise in a thick cloud above the ‘comforts’, until its disturbing odour reached the ceiling and hung about the whole flat in vexed, compelling waves. This disapproval was on the part not only of Mrs. Conyers, but also—I felt sure—of my mother as well, who now began to make preparations to leave. 

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The description reminded me a little of Uncle Giles. The picture of Jeavons took on a more positive shape: not a particularly attractive one. ‘Realism goes with good birth,’ Lovell used to say, and he himself certainly showed this quality where his own relations were concerned. The state ment might be hard to substantiate universally, but, by recognising laws of behaviour operating within the microcosm of a large, consanguineous network of families however loosely connected, individuals born into such a world often gain an unsentimental grasp of human conduct: a grasp sometimes superior to that of apparently more perceptive persons whose minds are unattuned by early association to the constant give and take of an ancient and tenacious social organism. Of course, it does not always work that way, but Lovell, with his many limitations, was himself a good example of the principle. 

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Conyers had been dining with the Jeavonses. However, it appeared that she did not know them well, and, perhaps not greatly at ease in their society, she was clearly much relieved at finding, in myself, someone she knew of old. I was not sure that I myself was equally pleased, for, although I like Mrs. Conyers well enough, I thought it preferable to explore new ground like the Jeavons hous unobserved by old friends of my parents. However, nothing could have been less admonitory than Mrs. Conyers'’s manner towards myself; if admonition properly defines the attitude threatened, when one is young, by the presence of old family friends. 

In appearance Mrs. Conyers retained, no doubt from her childhood, the harassed, uncertain expression of those who have for many years had to endure close association with persons addicted to practical joking. 

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‘What do you make of Maisky?’ asked Jeavons. 

He spoke in a preoccupied, confidential tone, as if Miss Weedon’s reply might make all the difference by its orientation to plans on foot for Maisky’s education. 

‘I don’t care for monkeys,’ said Miss Weedon. 

‘Oh, don’t you’ said Jeavons. 

He stood pondering this flat, forthright declaration of anti-simianism on Miss Weedon’s part. The notion that some people might not like monkeys was evidently entirely new to him; surprising, perhaps a trifle displeasing, but at the same time one of those general ideas of which one can easily grasp the general import without being necessarily in agreement. It was a theory that startled by its stark simplicity. 

‘Molly has taken a great fancy to him,” he said, at last. 

‘I know.’ 

‘Oh, well,” said Jeavons. “These fancies come and go.’ 

Miss Weedon made no attempt to deny the truth of that observation. Nor did she elaborate her dislike of monkeys. She continued to smile her arctic smile. Jeavons slowly strolled off again, as if to think out the implications of what Miss Weedon had said.

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"Wait. and see,’ said Jeavons. ‘That was what Mr. Asquith used to say. Didn’t do us much good in 1914. I expect you were too young to have been in the last — Show?” 

I thought that enquiry rather unnecessary, not by then aware that, as one grows older, the physical appearance of those younger than oneself offers only a vague indication of their precise age. To me, ‘the Armistice’ was a distant memory of my preparatory school: to Jeavons, the order to ‘cease fire’ had happened only the other day. The possibility that I might have been ‘in the war’ seemed perfectly conceivable to him. 

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The Jeavonses’ guests habitually flowed into every room in the house, so that to retire to talk, for example in Molly’s bedroom, or Jeavons’s dressing-room, would be considered not at all unusual. We moved, in fact, a short way up the stairs into a kind of boudoir of Molly’s, constricted in space and likely to attract only people who wanted to enjoy a nea A to-heart talk together: a place chiefly given over to cats, or three of which sat in an ill-humoured group at angles to one another, stirring with disapproval at this invasion of their privacy. 

Last of the inkblots

 The most cutting criticism spoke to the Rorschach’s great selling point: that the results depended on who you were, not on how you were trving to present yourself. The Rorschach was an X-ray, the test that couldn't be faked any more than a slide could fool a slide projector. By 1960, though, studies were showing that examiners could consciously or unconsciously influence the results and that test takers modified their responses depending on why the test was being given, what the examiner thought of them, or just the examiner’s personal style. While some saw the interpersonal aspect of the test as part of its power, this did make the test less objective. 

What psychological testers liked to call “clinical validity”—the fact that a skilled interpreter could use the Rorschach to gain insights that worked in practice and that could then be confirmed with the patient or checked against other sources—was starting to look very different to skeptics. They described these so-called insights as a combination of confirmation bias (overvaluing, even overperceiving, information one already agrees with), illusory correlations (deciding a connection exists that isn’t there), and the kinds of techniques used by fortune-tellers and psychics (unconsciously using contextual information, making statements true of almost everyone but felt to be insightful, offering “push” predictions subtly modified or even totally reversed in followup questions, and so on). 

Blind diagnosis eliminated some of these issues but by no means all. The test still had to be administered by someone in contact with the test taker. Any verification of the diagnosis required checking it against the judgments of someone like the subject’s regular therapist, whic only replicated the problem. Besides, for psychological truths, it ) hard to say what outside confirmation could look like. Ifa clinician a patient both felt that a description of the patient was true, what e. was there? But these feelings would not satisfy a demand for hard proof. 

Few claimed that Rorschach testers were consciously cynical frauds or quacks. Then again, a fortune-teller surrounded by customers amazed at the accuracy of his mind-reading might start to believe in his own astounding abilities, too—and some of the most forceful critics of the Rorschach drew just this analogy. At the very least, they ex pressed dismay at a “Rorschach culture” of orthodoxy, arguments from authority, and antiscientific bias. 

Such criticisms, appearing in professional publications, had little effect on the Rorschach, which was in widespread use and central to che self-definition of clinical psychology. There was too great a demand for the access to the personality that the inkblots claimed to provide. 

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The Cold War was running at its hottest in the sixties, demanding total ideological clarity in the battle between communism and capitalism, and there were moments when the fate of the world quite literally depended on how ambiguity was interpreted. In October 1962, President Kennedy was handed photographs of Cuba taken from America’s most advanced U-2 spy plane, which either did or didn’t show a Soviet medium-range ballistic missile launch site, and either were or weren't reason to start a nuclear war. 

JFK saw “a football field” in one picture; RFK saw “the clearing of a field for a farm or the basement of a house.” Even the deputy director of the National Photographic Interpretation Center—there was such a thing, established in 1961—admitted that the president would have to take “on faith” what the pictures showed. But what was needed was certainty. When JFK delivered a televised address to the nation on October 22, he called the photographs “unmistakable evidence” of aSoviet missile site; when they were reproduced around the world, the public found them just as unmistakable. 

The combination of real ambiguity and an overwhelming need for Visual and ideological certainty produced what has been called a “Cold War crisis of images” affecting both sides of the Iron Curtain. Capitalists and communists alike went looking for secret messages behind tverything, and insisted they had found them. A new word for hiding specific meanings in material that seemed random and intentionless “encryption’—entered Webster's Dictionary in 1950. US Customs officials were confiscating abstract paintings sent from Paris because they thought the images contained communist messages. Ambiguities like the inkblots’ now tended to be thought of no longer as fruitful methods for exploring individual personalities but as codes to be deciphered, 

Efforts to read minds were inseparable from attempts to control them—a link clearest in the research and debates on so-called “brain. washing” that rocked American behavioral sciences around the time of the Korean War. (These were the techniques immortalized in popular culture by The Manchurian Candidate: novel 1959; movie 1962.) The US government heavily promoted efforts to plumb the recesses of “the Soviet mind,” “the African mind,” “the non-European mind,” and so on, both in anthropology and more generally. It funded ventures like the Fulbright Fellowship, promoting cultural exchange and infiltration, and the creation of Area Studies (“Latin American” or “Far East” departments in prominent universities). 

Psychology was seen as intrinsically linked to national security and the cause of democracy, and even outside of specific hotspots like Latin America or the Soviet mind, the inkblots were widely deployed to penetrate foreign psyches. Bleuler’s Moroccan farmers, Du Bois’s Alorese, and Hallowell’s Ojibwe had been just the beginning. Scholar Rebecca Lemov has counted five thousand articles published between 1941 and 1968 in what she calls the “Projective Test Movement”: research using Rorschachs and other projective methods on peoples from the Blackfoot Indians in the American West to every last Ifalukan living on coral islands in Micronesia totaling half a square mile. These studies, too, were well funded by the government. “Cold War-era look-insideyour-head fantasies flourished,” Lemov remarks. 

In this technocratic context, the collected information was likely to end up as enormous stockpiles of data in archives and university libraries. The Vicos Collection at Cornell documented how the university leased a Peruvian village in 1952, expropriated it to the sharecroppers, and managed its transition into modernity, studying it and its inhabitants with projective tests every step of the way. The Microcard Publications of Primary Records in Culture and Personality in Wisconsin, known as the “database of dreams,” contained thousands of miniaturized Rorschach protocols and life histories, slices of life such as the 

Rorschach responses of one hard drinking Mcnomince Indian from gortheastern Wisconsin who had run aground on the transition to mojecnity. Card VI, he said, “és dike a dead planet. It seems to tell the story of d pene onx great, who have lost... like something happened. All that's left is phe ambol.” 

Another Menominee, a peyote worshipper, found the inkblots more comforting: “You know, this Rorschach. . . is something like peyote in , way. It looks into your mind. Sees the things that aren’t out in the open. It is like that with peyote. At a meeting you get to knowa man in , few hours better than you would get to know him in a lifetime otherwise. Everything about him is right there for you to see.” 

Perhaps the low point of Cold War ambitions for psychology came when ARPA, the Defense Department’s Advanced Research Projects Agency, sent teams of psychologists into the war-torn jungles of Vietnam. They tested more than a thousand peasants with a modified TAT (uncaptioned pictures, redrawn from the Harvard originals by a Saigon artist), looking for the values, hopes, and frustrations that motivated them. They then met with military and civilian officials eager to “convert a war of devastation into a ‘welfare war’” that would bring “peace, democracy, and stability” to the region, and wanting to tailor their counterinsurgency propaganda to win over the hearts and minds of the South Vietnamese. As one historian puts it: “The Vietnamese psyche was a crucial policy target.” 

Simulmatics Corporation was a for-profit research company originally founded in 1959 to computer-simulate voter behavior before the 1960 presidential election. It had since branched out, and in 1966 it sent Walter H. Slote, a Columbia University lecturer and psychotherapist, to Saigon for seven weeks. His mission: uncover “the Vietnamese personality.” He believed that one life could reveal the forces that shape others—the “deeper” a single person’s motivation, “the more likely it is to represent universals”—and so he drew his conclusions from four people. After duly conceding that the sample was too small to generalize from, he generalized away. 

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Precisely when Dr. Brokaw was taking his shirt to the people, the Rorschach was becoming a symbol in real life for anything that elicited different, equally valid opinions. In 1964, a reviewer confronted with ten books about New York summed up: “Composing a New York City book is a kind of projective psychological test, a Rorschach, say; the five boroughs are only a stimulus to which the observer responds according to his personality.” In the New York Times at least, this was the first of thousands of Rorschach clichés to come. Charles de Gaulle would soon be “a Rorschach test” for biographers; the loose plot ends of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: .A Space Odyssey were a Rorschach test too. 

In a culture-wide crisis of authority, it was easier for arbiters to stop claiming authority at all. Opinions differed, and calling something “a Rorschach test” meant there was no need to take a side and risk alienating anyone. Journalists and critics no longer saw it as their job to tell readers which possible reaction to New York City or 200z was correct: everyone had the right to their own opinion, and an inkblot was the indispensable metaphor for that freedom. 

A resonant metaphor alone, though, would not have been enough to save the Rorschach as an actual psychological test. The fact had to be addressed that, by this point, there was no such thing as “the” Rorschach test at all. 

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As early as 1964, four years after the term data science was coined, researchers had run the Rorschach responses of 586 healthy Johns Hopkins medical students through an early computer-indexing program and produced a 741-page large-format concordance. By the mid-1980s this corpus, plus the life histories available from long-term follow-ups with the test takers, made it possible to sidestep traditional Rorschach interpretation altogether. Computers simply counted up every occurrence of every word spoken in the tests and went looking for correlations between answers and later fates. An unnerving article from 1985, “Are Words of the Rorschach Predictors of Disease and Death?” claimed that those who mentioned “whirling” in any of the ten cards were five times as likely to commit suicide as those who didn’t, and four times as likely to have died of other causes. Exner brought computers into his own methodology as well. Beginning in the mid-1970s, he explored ways to “increase computer uti~ lization as an aid in interpreting the test,” eventually resulting in the 1968 survey of academic clinical psychologists, while showing that the Rorschach was still widely used, found that more than half the respon. dents felt that “objective,” “non projective” methods were increasing in use and importance. One of these methods, in particular, was rapidly gaining ground. 

The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, or MMPI, fire published in 1943, pulled ahead of the Rorschach in 1975. It consisted og $04 statements—567 statements in the modified MMPI-2—that sub. jects were asked to agree or disagree with, ranging from the apparently trivial (“I have a good appetite”, “My hands and feet are usually warm enough”) to the obviously alarming (“Evil spirits possess me at times’, “I see things or animals or people around me that others do not see”), It could be administered to a group by a clerical worker and was easy to score. Each MMPI scale—the Depression Scale, the Paranoia Scale~ had two lists of question numbers associated with it: the number of items from the first list that had been answered True, plus the number from the second list marked False, was the result. It was quick and ix was “objective.” 

Technically, this meant only that it was not “projective.” A person's True/False answer to “Some people think it’s hard to get to know me,” “1 have not lived the right kind of life,” or “A large number of people are guilty of bad sexual conduct” could not be objective in any meaningful sense. People are not willing or able to evaluate themselves objectively—self-descriptions were often found to correspond only partially, at best, to what friends and family said about the test taker, or to what their behavior showed. Answers were not even meant to be taken at face value: Responding “True” to a lot of depressing statements and “False” to a lot of happy statements didn’t necessarily mean a person was depressed. There were scales to measure whether a person was likely to be exaggerating or lying; there were other ways one scale could affect the others. Interpreting MMPI results, too, was an art, requiring subjective judgment. But the slanted terms odjectsve and prejecttve certainly helped the MMPI’s fortunes. 

In the decade after 1975, the Rorschach fell from being the second most commonly used personality test in clinical psychology to fifth. It was now behind both the MMPI and several other projective tests: 

REN SZ en oP ont) Human Figure Drawing (used primarily with children), Sentence Completion, and the House-Tree-Person Test. 

Results from these more limited tests were relatively self explanatory. Drawing a human figure with a big head might suggest arrogance. Leaving out key body parts was a bad sign. Completing sentences with hostile, pessimistic, or violent words: not good. These tests were thus more vulnerable to “impression management”—subjects could know how to stage the impression they wanted to make, present themselves as they wanted to be seen. One New York City cop, given the House-Iree-Person Test during his hiring process, said that his buddies had told him beforehand: “The house has to have a chimney with smoke coming out, and whatever you do, make sure you put leaves on the tree.” That’s what he did. Whatever their weaknesses, though, these tests were quick and cheap, and so increasingly preferred. Popularity rankings among tests, usually based on sporadic survevs with small and unrepresentative samples, are not as precise or reliable as they sound. But the trend lines were clear—the ink was on the wall. 

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After all, over the course of a century spent looking at the inkblots, spent tallying, categorizing, and reframing what people see, everything you can imagine and quite a lot you can’t—one truth has remained unassailable: Card V looks like a bat. Or maybe a butterfly. 

In Rorschach tests given between 2000 and 2007 to six hundred nonpatient Brazilian men and women, 370 of those people saw a bat in Card V; most of the others saw a butterfly or moth. There were, as usual, a lot of bears in Card II. In fact, out of roughly fourteen thousand total responses, there were only 6,459 different responses, and a small pool of thirty answers were common enough to be given by fifty or more people. The inkblots objectively do look like certain things, while they also invite interpretation. It wouldn’t be much of a test if everyone saw something totally different, or if almost everyone saw the same thing. In these six hundred tests, the long tail of personal variation consisted of about a thousand answers given by two people each, and fully 4,538 answers each given only once, including the “tragically misunderstood piece of cauliflower” seen by one depressed farmer. 

If you graph the responses, the near vertical line on the Jeft shows he inkblots’ conrmon ground the obvious hats and bears while the horizontal line shows the lceway for personal idiosyncrasy. Meyer -alled this the Rorschach test’s structure and latitude. The graph alsa veils a More specific pattern: the most common answer is twice as <ommon as the second most frequent, three times as common as the chird most frequent, all the way down. 

This is what’s known as a Zipf distribution, one of the mathematical ordering principles that structure the world. Other patterns are better known—the Fibonacci sequence in a nautilus shell, the bell curve of a random distribution—but the Zipf describes phenomena from earthquake size (there are very few huge ones and lots of little ones) to city populations, sizes of businesses, and word frequencies: in English “the” is twice as common as “of,” three times as common as “and,” on down to “cormorant” and “methylbenzamide.” Rorschach answers in a large sample will follow the same pattern. The bat on Card V is the “the” of the Rorschach. 

A single test also yields more than one data point. A person typically gives twenty, thirty answers over the course of the test, and a healthy test result won't be stuck on either side of the Zipf curve. Only obvious answers would suggest you're pretty guarded or rigid, or uninterested in the task, or boring, while too many unusual or bizarre answers might mean you have a poor grip on reality, or mania, or maybe youre a rebel trying to be different. 

Finally, the Rorschach yields multiple data points in a sequence. The test is a fixed series of ten cards, but test takers have the freedom to give multiple answers per card in any order. A given person's answers move up and down the Zipf curve, so to speak, a movement that itself has structure and latitude. Do your answers fall apart in the colored cards at the end of the test, or come together? Do you start with Something obvious on every card and then get quirky, or do you arrive at popular, common answers only gradually? [ven if two test takets Somehow gave exactly the same answers to each card, but in a different Order, maybe only one of them would have a rigid compulsion to give One kind of answer first and another last on every card, a pattern meaningful to a sensitive examiner. 

Using nothing but intuition, artistic skill, trial and error, and a few ideas about the power of symmetry, Hermann Rorschach createy a set of pictures as inherently organized yet flexible as natural language or earthquakes. In this regard it is hard to imagine them bettereg_ psychologists have designed alternate series of inkblots over the yea, but all fell more or less quickly by the wayside. Rorschach’s inkblot, are like the act of seeing, which itself has both structure and latitude There’s something really there, but not anything that constrains y, completely. The visual nature of the world is objectively in thing, but we see it there; we subjectively impose our view of the world onty things, but only if that view fits what we see. We're all looking at the Same thing, even when we see it differently. 

Rorschach’s blots are unique in more than shape. The colors elicit emotion, even override the shapes, sometimes but not always. Put. ting movement into a still image is not easy—it takes an artist with real skill and, in Rorschach’s words, “spatial rhythm” (like a Michelangelo, unlike a Futurist). It is even harder to potentially convey a sense of movement, to some people and not to others. Almost anyone will See movement in pictures like Rorschach’s man struggling with a can (page 97), but, as Rorschach wrote in 1919, “A key point is that the experiment is set up to make Movement responses difficult. If you show someone good pictures, then everyone, even the intellectually disabled, will seem to be a movement type.” 

The symmetry of the blots, as Rorschach acknowledged, makes people see “disproportionately many butterflies etc.,” but he was also right that “the advantages far outweigh the disadvantages.” The blots’ horizontal symmetry helps people connect with them, even identify with them. The blots are not mathematically symmetrical—they have variations in tiny protuberances, streaks, and shading—but neither are animals or people, which is precisely why the blots are seen as balanced and alive. In addition, since groups of people we encounter in real life are next to each other, not on top of each other, horizontal symmetry creates a “social” connection between the two sides of any image. It makes different parts of the inkblots interact, like pairs of people or other creatures. The inkblot test wouldn’t have worked without horizontal symmetry: the blots wouldn’t have been personal, psychological, 

The Moon and Sixpence

The greatness of Charles Strickland was authentic. It may be that you do not like his art, but at all events you can hardly refuse it the tribute of your interest. He disturbs and arrests. The time has passed when he was an object of ridicule, and it is no longer a mark of eccentricity to defend or of perversity to extol him. His faults are accepted as the necessary complement to his merits. It is still possible to discuss his place in art, and the adulation of his admirers is perhaps no less capricious than the disparagement of his detractors; but one thing can never be doubtful, and that is that he had genius. To my mind the most interesting thing in art is the personality of the artist; and if that is singular, I am willing to excuse a thousand faults. I suppose Velasquez was a better painter than El Greco, but custom stales one’s admiration for him: the Cretan, sensual and tragic, proffers the mystery of his soul like a standing sacrifice. The artist, painter, poet, or musician, by his decoration, sublime or beautiful, satisfies the esthetic sense; but that is akin to the sexual instinct, and shares its barbarity: he lays before you also the greater gift of himself. To pursue his secret has something of the fascination of a detective story. It is a riddle which shares with the universe the merit of having no answer. The most insignificant of Strickland’s works suggests a personality which is strange, tormented, and complex; and it is this surely which prevents even those who do not like his pictures from being indifferent to them; it is this which has excited so curious an interest in his life and character. 

&

She was very unhappy but to excite my sympathy she was able to make a show of her unhappiness. It was evident that she had been prepared to weep, for she had provided herself with a sufficiency of handkerchiefs; I admired her forethought, but in retrospect it made her tears perhaps less moving. I could not decide whether she desired the return of her husband because she loved him, or because she dreaded the tongue of scandal; and I was perturbed by the suspicion that the anguish of love contemned was alloyed in her broken heart with the pangs, sordid to my young mind, of wounded vanity. I had not yet learnt how contradictory is human nature; I did not know how much pose there is in the sincere, how much baseness in the noble, nor how much goodness in the reprobate. 

But there was something of an adventure in my trip, and my spirits rose as I approached Paris. I saw myself, too, from the dramatic standpoint, and I was pleased with my role of the trusted friend bringing back the errant husband to his forgiving wife. I made up my mind to see Strickland the following evening, for I felt instinctively that the hour must be chosen with delicacy. An appeal to the emotions is little likely to be effectual before luncheon. My own thoughts were then constantly occupied with love, but I never could imagine connubial bliss till after tea. 

&

I had said all I had to say on the subject that had brought me to Paris, and though I felt it in a manner treacherous to Mrs. Strickland not to pursue it, I could not struggle against his indifference. It requires the feminine temperament to repeat the same thing three times with unabated zest. I solaced myself by thinking that it would be useful for me to find out what I could about Strickland’s state of mind. It also interested me much more. But this was not an easy thing to do, for Strickland was not a fluent talker. He seemed to express himself with difficulty, as though words were not the medium with which his mind worked; and you had to guess the intentions of his soul by hackneyed phrases, slang, and vague, unfinished gestures. But though he said nothing of any consequence, there was something in his personality which prevented him from being dull. Perhaps it was sincerity. 

&

he was like a wrestler whose body is oiled; you sould not get a grip on him; it gave him a freedom which was an outrage. I remember saying to him: 

‘‘Look here, if everyone acted like you, the world couldn't go on.”’ 

“‘That’s a damned silly thing to say. Everyone doesn’t want to act hike me. The great majority are perfectly content to do the ordinary thing.’’ 

And once I sought to be satirical. 

‘You evidently don’t believe in the maxim: Act so that every one of your actions is capable of being made into a universal rule.’’ 

‘‘I never heard it before, but it’s rotten nonsense.”’ 

‘Well, it was Kant who said it.”’ 

‘I don’t care; it’s rotten nonsense.”’ 

Nor with such a man could you expect the appeal to conscience to be effective. You might as well ask for a reflection without a mirror. I take it that conscience is the guardian in the individual of the rules which the community has evolved for its own preservation. It is the policeman in all our hearts, set there to watch that we do not break its laws. It is the spy seated in the central stronghold of the ego. Man’s desire for the approval of his fellows is so strong, his dread of their censure so violent, that he himself has brought his enemy within his gates; and it keeps watch over him, vigilant always in the interests of its master to crush any half-formed desire to break away from the herd. It will force him to place the good of society before his own. It is the very strong link that attaches the individual to the whole, And man, subservient to interests he has persuaded himself are greater than his own, makes himself a slave to his taskmaster. He sits him in a seat of honour. At last, like a courtier fawning on the royal stick that is laid about his shoulders, he prides himself on the sensitiveness of hig conscience. Then he has no words hard enough for the man who does not recognise its sway; for, a member of society now, he realises accurately enough that against him he is powerless. When I saw that Strickland was really indifferent to the blame his conduct must excite, I could only draw back in horror as from a monster of hardly human shape. The last words he said to me when I bade him good-night were: ‘Tell Amy it’s no good coming after me. Anyhow, I shall change my hotel, so she wouldn’t be able to find me.”

 ‘My own impression is that she’s well rid of you,” I said. My dear fellow, I only hope you'll be able to make her see it. But women are very unintelligent.” 

&

I could not believe that Strickland had fallen in love with Blanche Stroeve. I did not believe him capable of love. That is an emotion in which tenderness is an essential part, but Strickland had no tenderness either for himself or for others; there is in love a sense of weakness, a desire to protect, an eagerness to do good and to give pleasure—if not unselfishness, at all events a selfishness which marvellously conceals itself; it has in it a certain diffidence. These were not traits which 1 could imagine in Strickland. Love is absorbing; it takes the lover out of himself; the most clear-sighted, though he may know, cannot realise that his love will cease; it gives body to what he knows is illusion. and, knowing it is nothing else, he loves it better than rea ity. It makes a man a little more than himself, and at the same time a little less. He ceases to be himself. He is no longer an individual, but a thing, an instrument to some purpose foreign to his ego. Love is never quite devoid of sentimentality, and Strickland was the least inclined to that infirmity of any man I have known. I could not believe that he would ever suffer that possession of himself which love is; he could never endure a foreign yoke. 

&

‘“Why do you seek my acquaintance?’’ I asked him. ‘‘You know that I hate and despise you.’’ 

He chuckled good-humouredly. 

Your only quarrel with me really is that I don’t care a twopenny damn what you think about me.’’ 

I felt my checks grow red with sudden anger. It was impossible to make him understand that one might be outraged by his callous selfishness. I longed to pierce his armour of complete indifference. I knew also that in the end there was truth in what he said. Unconsciously, perhaps, we treasure the power we have over people by their regard for our opinion of them, and we hate those upon whom we have no such influence. I suppose it is the bitterest wound to human pride. But I would not let him see that I was put out. 

“is it possible for any man to disregard others entirely?’’ I said, though more to myself than to him. ‘‘ You’re dependent on others for everything in existence. It’s a preposterous attempt to try to live only for yourself and by yourself. Sooner or later you’ll be ill and tired and old, and then you’ll crawl back into the herd. Won’t you be ashamed when you feel in your heart the desire for comfort and sympathy? You’re trying an impossible thing. Sooner or later the human being in you will yearn for the common bonds of humanity.’’ 

**Come and look at my pictures.”’ 

**Have you ever thought of death?”’ 

‘Why should I?"

&

“I wonder if you haven't mistaken your medium,” I said. 

‘What the hell do you mean?” 

“I think you’re trying to say something, I don’t quite know what it is, but I’m not sure that the best way of saying it is by means of painting.” 

When I imagined that on seeing his pictures I should get a clue to the understanding of his strange character I was mistaken. They merely increased the astonishment with which he filled me. I was more at sea than ever. The only thing that seemed clear to me—and perhaps even this was fancifulwas that he was passionately striving for liberation from some power that held him. But what the power was and what line the liberation would take remained obscure. Each one of us is alone in the world. He is shut in a tower of brass, and can communicate with his fellows only by signs, and the signs have no common value, so that their sense is vague and uncertain. We seek pitifully to convey to others the treasures of our heart, but they have not the power to accept them, and so we go lonely, side by side but not together, unable to know our fellows and unknown by them. We are like people living in a country whose language they know so little that, with all manner of beautiful and profound things to say, they are condemned to the banalities of: the conversation manual. Their brain is seething with ideas, and they can only tell you that the umbrella of the gardener’s aunt is in the house. 

The final impression I received was of a prodigious effort to express some state of the soul, and in this effort, I fancied, must be sought the explanation of what so utterly perplexed me. It was evident that colours and forms had a significance for Strickland that was peculiar to himself. He was under an intolerable necessity to convey something that he felt, and he created them with that intention alone. He did not hesitate to simplify or to distort if he could get nearer to that unknown thing he sought. Facts were nothing to him, for beneath the mass of irrelevant incidents he looked for something significant to himself. It was as though he had become aware of the soul of the universe and were compelled to express it. Though these pictures confused and puzzled me, I could not be unmoved by the emotion that was patent in them; and, I knew not why, I felt in myself a feeling that with regard to Strickland was the last I had ever expected to experience. I felt an overwhelming compassion. 

“I think I know now why you surrendered to your feeling for Blanche Stroeve,”’ I said to him. 

“Why?” 

“I think your courage failed. The weakness of your body communicated itself to your soul. I do not know what infinite yearning possesses you, so that you are driven to a perilous, lonely search for some goal where you expect to find a final release from the spirit that torments you. I see you as the eternal pilgrim to some shrine that perhaps does not exist. I do not know to what inscrutable Nirvana you aim. Do you know yourself? Perhaps it is Truth and Freedom that you seek, and for a moment you thought that you might find release in Love. I think your tired soul sought rest in a woman’s arms, and when you found no rest there you hated her. You had no pity for her, because you have no pity for yourself. And you killed her out of fear, because you trembled still at the danger you had barely escaped.”’ 

He smiled dryly and pulled his beard. 

“You are a dreadful sentimentalist, my poor friend.”’ 

A week later I heard by chance that Strickland had gone to Marseilles. I never saw him again. 

Penguin Island

 “An audacious spirit unceasingly disquieted him, and his mind harboured great thoughts, but alas! his rudeness and ignorance displayed the triumph of barbarism. He knew neither poetry, nor science, nor even the tongue of the Greeks, and he was ignorant, too, of the ancient traditions concerning the origin of the world and the nature of the gods. He gravely repeated fables which in my time would have brought smiles to the little children who were not yet old enough to pay for admission at the baths. The vulgar easily believe in monsters. The Etruscans especially peopled hell with demons, hideous as a sick man’s dreams. That they have not abandoned their childish imaginings after so many centuries is explained by the continuation and progress of ignorance and misery, but that one of their magistrates whose mind is raised above the common level should share these popular illusions and should be frightened by the hideous demons that the inhabitants of that country painted on the walls of their tombs in the time of Porsena—that is something which might sadden even a sage. My Etruscan visitor repeated verses to me which he had composed in a new dialect, called by him the vulgar tongue, the sense of which I could not understand. My ears were more surprised than charmed as I heard him repeat the same sound three or four times at regular intervals in his efforts to mark the rhythm. That artifice did not seem ingenious to me; but it is not for the dead to judge of novelties. 

Hollywood

 Oral History

HAL MOHR: You couldn’t dream about being in a business that didn’t exist yet. 

TAY GARNETT: As a matter of fact, I don’t think it ever occurred to anybody that the movies would ever be a business. 

LEO MCCAREY: I planned to be a lawyer. I even practiced. I started out very young, and they mistook me for the office boy. I wae a very poor lawyer. A discouraging factor in my legal career is that I lost every case. One day a client was chasing me down the street. I saw a friend of mine who called out, “What are you doing, Leo?” And I said, still running, “Practicing law.” 

RAOUL WALSH: I was an actor. I was terrible. Just terrible. It’s a wonder I wasn’t shot. 

CHARLES LEMAIRE: I was a song plugger. I was a soda jerk. I did all kinds of things. 

GERTRUDE ASTOR: I was kind of silly when I was young. I learned to play the trombone, first on a valve trombone and then on a slide trombone. And then I was told by everyone that ladies didn’t do that. Ladies didn’t play, you know, wind instruments, or they weren’t ladies. « 

HENRY HATHAWAY: To think about being in movies, first you had to see a movie. My mother sang for illustrated slides in Sid Grauman’s first theater in San Francisco. If they had slides with river scenes and riverboats, for instance, she'd sing “Down upon the Swanee River.” Sometimes she went out on the road, and once she was in San Diego with some company and they went broke and she was on her own with no way to get home. That was in about 1908. She looked in the want ads and saw an ad for a motion picture company that was forming. She applied for the job and got it. It was working with Broncho Billy [Anderson] . . . he was making those westerns, so my mother was suddenly in the movies, and the first motion picture that I ever saw was down on what they called the Promenade in Long Beach. They had two theaters there. There was a concession on that you paid a nickel or a dime to go into, and there was a little platform that resembled the observation car on a train. And it had a fence, and you're sitting on the chairs like on the rear end of train . .. you know, on the back end they had an observation car where you could sit and look at the scenery. There were eight chairs, and you went into the little theater and sat in those chairs. You were facing a screen in front of you, about eight feet across. You kind of sat up close to it. From behind you they projected on the screen a train trip. So you're sitting there on the observation train, and you're seeing a shot they took of going through woods and going through trees and going through gullies and going through gaps. You're sitting on the train watching what’s going away from you as you pass by. And they had the sound of clicketyclack. J don’t know how they got it, cause they didn’t have sound in those days, of course. That was the first motion picture I ever saw. 

HAL MOHR: The first movie I ever saw was a shot of a railroad train coming towards the camera and passing the camera. Now, I was twelve years old, and I'd had magic lanterns and all that sort of thing, and I was an inquisitive kid, J wanted to know how everything worked. So when I saw this magic lantern on the screen and saw the train actually coming by with smoke coming out of the smokestack and everything, that was a miracle 

SIDNEY FRANKLIN: In those days, you didn’t have doubles, Any star did what they were told. They were obedient in those days. It wasn’t like to day, where the star tells the director what to do. But when I think of wha we did with some of those people! We were all young and foolish, and we didn’t think. HOOT GIBSON: I became a western star because I could ride and rope and do stunts. in fact, I was the first stuntman in California. I doubled the stars, rode for them, and when we played Indians, why we’d put a feather im our wig on our head, and we'd put the makeup all over us with a breechcloth ea—we'd play Indian in the morning. We got two and a half dollars for falling off a horse, if we got shot off one playing an Indian. In the afternoon, 4 we'd put our western clothes on, became cowboys, and chase ourselves all afternoon, and if we got shot off of a horse in a saddle, that was five dollars, because it was harder to fall out of a saddle. That’s how I became the first stuntman in Hollywood—or at that time Edendale. They hadn't gotten to Hollywood yet. 

We used to have real cowboys as western stars. I was a rodeo champion. They stick a big hat on anybody today and an old pair of run-down miner's boots instead of cowboy boots on them, and boy, they’re cowboys. Most of them won't get on a horse. That’s your difference in the TV cowboy of today and the western star of yesterday. If you want to see some jokes, they've got ‘em on TV. 

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WALTER PLUNKETT: At the door of the stage, we had to take off our shoes l like entering the door of a Japanese temple and put on felt things to walk in. We stood there trembling for fear we'd sneeze and there would be some kind of a sound. We couldn't move a muscle. The jewelry we made for actors to wear—a lot of the jewelry had to have net wrapped around it, backed with velvet, so that it wouldn’t be heard moving against the fabrics. Fabric! Taffeta was out almost completely. Oh, the rustling, rustling sound of that fabric. The early hoopskirts that we made, which should have had crinoline underneath, had, as I recall, felt petticoats instead because felt was the only thing that would deaden the sound of those starched dresses, Dance costumes all were made of soft fabric, 

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GEORGE SEATON: When I was an innocent beginning screenwriter, I was working with a bunch of writers, sitting around in a motel, although they f_ didn’t call them motels in those days. It was a little bungalow court. M room cost $5 a week. But a big screenwriting problem came up, and in my innocence I said it wasn’t that big a problem and I’d think about it. So 1 did and came up with two solutions and brought them to the team. When I told the first one, Herman Mankiewicz, God bless him, said, “That’s it” 

Everybody agreed, so they took it to Selznick. (By the way, it was a forgot. ten film called Meet the Baron. The picture was miserable.) Selznick calleq me in to talk to me, and he said, “Young man, do you know the reason you got the solution?” I said, “No, sir.” He said, “Because you didn’t know how difficult it was.” I thought that was a pretty silly statement at the time, but over the years I’ve learned he was absolutely right. You can get yourself so involved with the don’ts of writing a screenplay . . . until somebody comes along with a very simple solution. Of course, the picture was horrible, but Mr. Selznick was right. 

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LEONARD ROSENMAN: When I first started in films, I worked at Warner Bros., and at that time their films had wall-to-wall music. If the film wag an hour and a half long, the score was an hour and a half long. If you see an old Warner Bros. movie like Anthony Adverse with wall-to-wall music, after a while you're saying “Stop the music!” Historically this came from silent films, where the function of music was to add sound effects and also cover up all kinds of realistic sounds in the theater, like popcorn, the toilet flushing, the projection machine, and so on. The music helped remove the idea of reality so the audience would be able to suspend disbelief. Jack Warner evidently felt that music had this magical mystery power to make people feel things or make something palatable which didn’t seem palatable. Basically they knew nothing about whether the music was good or bad, so they began to use it indiscriminately. 

Through the thirties and forties there was a transition whereby you had a film with sound, dialogue, special effects, and everything else, but the filmmakers weren’t quite sure about the role of music. It seemed to work in silent films in a certain fashion, with wall-to-wall music, so they just continued to do it. They didn’t realize that diminishing returns set in, and if you had music from frame alpha to frame omega, people wouldnt listen to it after a while. It was like an enema in the Jewish family traditica. The idea was that it couldn’t hurt you. 

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MITCHELL LEISEN: Cutting is of vital importance. Six frames in a cut can make a great deal of difference, whether the film is smooth or jerky. You must always cut on a movement, not a static scene. I mean, cut on a movement of the person you're cutting away from to the other person you're cutting to. It need only be the lift of an eyebrow or a suspended motion, but as long as there is movement going on, you are less conscious of the cut. Directors need to know this, and you’d be surprised how many don’. But editors know it. They’re there to help. The old system gave the producer or director editors to help you, to carry out what you'd planned. 

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GORE VIDAL: You tell me somebody’s favorite actor when they were ten years old, and I’ll tell you who they are. Could Norman Mailer have existed without John Garfield? He’s been playing Garfield ever since. And he doesn’t really know it, but it’s part of him. I’ve been doing George Arliss ever since. You know, you get hung up with an image. Now, it’s interesting that your generation has come along and you’ve been brought up on ninety-second TV commercials. Now, what kind of images are Boing t come out of that I don’t know. I can suddenly see twenty years from now some girl breaking down and really discovering that she’s a Salem commercial at heart. Or a detergent. 

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ROBERT ROSEN: I mean, one may be shooting in Italy, immediately afrer the war; and obviously have difficulties getting hold of soundstages and good film stock and a range of other things. You’re shooting in a way that’s quick and dirty. And you have that grainy quality to the film. Here, the logic of production led to a particular product. But then that particular product becomes emblematic for a certain kind of reality. And so, then, we’ve changed our film language. And now one strives for, for example, some of those quick-and-dirty techniques and that grainy look as a way to convey the meaning of a certain kind of realismf! the dialectic between industrial conditions and a change in [film] language.