But there must be something I could count. Let’s see. No, I already know by heart how many fingers I have. I could count my bills, I suppose. I could count the things I didn’t do yesterday that I should have done. I could count the things I should do today that I’m not going to do. I’m never going to accomplish anything; that’s perfectly clear to me. I’m never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don’t do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don’t even do that any more. I don’t amount to the powder to blow me to hell. I’ve turned out to be nothing but a bit of flotsam. Flotsam and leave ’em—that’s me from now on. Oh, it’s all terrible.
Well. This way lies galloping melancholia. Maybe it’s because this is the zero hour. This is the time the swooning soul hangs pendant and vertiginous between the new day and the old, nor dares confront the one or summon back the other. This is the time when all things, known and hidden, are iron to weight the spirit; when all ways, traveled or virgin, fall away from the stumbling feet, when all before the straining eyes is black. Blackness now, everywhere is blackness. This is the time of abomination, the dreadful hour of the victorious dark. For it is always darkest—Was it not that lovable old cynic, La Rochefoucauld, who said that it is always darkest before the deluge?
THERE. Now you see, don’t you? Here we are again, practically back where we started. La Rochefoucauld, we are here. Ah, come on, son—how about your going your way and letting me go mine? I’ve got my work cut out for me right here; I’ve got all this sleeping to do. Think how I am going to look by daylight if this keeps up. I’ll be a seamy sight for all those rested, clear-eyed, fresh-faced dearest friends of mine—the rats! Why, Dotty, whatever have you been doing; I thought you were on the wagon. Oh, I was helling around with La Rochefoucauld till all hours; we couldn’t stop laughing about your misfortunes. No, this is getting too thick, really. It isn’t right to have this happen to a person, just because she went to bed at ten o’clock once in her life. Honest, I won’t ever do it again. I’ll go straight, after this. I’ll never go to bed again, if I can only sleep now. If I can tear my mind away from a certain French cynic, circa 1650, and slip into lovely oblivion. 1650. I bet I look as if I’d been awake since then.
How do people go to sleep? I’m afraid I’ve lost the knack. I might try busting myself smartly over the temple with the night-light. I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things. That might do it. And it ought effectually to bar that visiting foreigner that’s been hanging around ever since twenty minutes past four. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Only wait till I turn the pillow; it feels as if La Rochefoucauld had crawled inside the slip.
Now let’s see—where shall we start? Why—er—let’s see. Oh, yes, I know one. This above all, to thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. Now they’re off. And once they get started, they ought to come like hot cakes. Let’s see. Ah, what avail the sceptered race and what the form divine, when every virtue, every grace, Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Let’s see. They also serve who only stand and wait. If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds. Silent upon a peak in Darien. Mrs. Porter and her daughter wash their feet in soda-water. And Agatha’s Arth is a hug-the-hearth, but my true love is false. Why did you die when lambs were cropping, you should have died when apples were dropping. Shall be together, breathe and ride, so one day more am I deified, who knows but the world will end tonight. And he shall hear the stroke of eight and not the stroke of nine. They are not long, the weeping and the laughter; love and desire and hate I think will have no portion in us after we pass the gate. But none, I think, do there embrace. I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree. I think I will not hang myself today. Ay tank Ay go home now.
Let’s see. Solitude is the safeguard of mediocrity and the stern companion of genius. Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. Something is emotion remembered in tranquillity. A cynic is one who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. That lovable old cynic is one who—oops, there’s King Charles’s head again. I’ve got to watch myself. Let’s see. Circumstantial evidence is a trout in the milk. Any stigma will do to beat a dogma. If you would learn what God thinks about money, you have only to look at those to whom he has given it. If nobody had ever learned to read, very few people—
All right. That fixes it. I throw in the towel right now. I know when I’m licked. There’ll be no more of this nonsense; I’m going to turn on the light and read my head off. Till the next ten o’clock, if I feel like it. And what does La Rochefoucauld want to make of that? Oh, he will, eh? Yes, he will! He and who else? La Rochefoucauld and what very few people?
1933
WOODY ALLEN
THE EARLY ESSAYS
Following are a few of the early essays of Woody Allen. There are no late essays, because he ran out of observations. Perhaps as Allen grows older he will understand more of life and will set it down, and then retire to his bedroom and remain there indefinitely. Like the essays of Bacon, Allen’s are brief and full of practical wisdom, although space does not permit the inclusion of his most profound statement, “Looking at the Bright Side.”
ON SEEING A TREE IN SUMMER
Of all the wonders of nature, a tree in summer is perhaps the most remarkable, with the possible exception of a moose singing “Embraceable You” in spats. Consider the leaves, so green and leafy (if not, something is wrong). Behold how the branches reach up to heaven as if to say, “Though I am only a branch, still I would love to collect Social Security.” And the varieties! Is this tree a spruce or poplar? Or a giant redwood? No, I’m afraid it’s a stately elm, and once again you’ve made an ass of yourself. Of course, you’d know all the trees in a minute if you were nature’s creature the woodpecker, but then it would be too late and you’d never get your car started.
But why is a tree so much more delightful than, say, a babbling brook? Or anything that babbles, for that matter? Because its glorious presence is mute testimony to an intelligence far greater than any on earth, certainly in the present Administration. As the poet said, “Only God can make a tree”—probably because it’s so hard to figure out how to get the bark on.
Once a lumberjack was about to chop down a tree, when he noticed a heart carved on it, with two names inside. Putting away his axe, he sawed down the tree instead. The point of that story escapes me, although six months later the lumberjack was fined for teaching a dwarf Roman numerals.
ON YOUTH AND AGE
The true test of maturity is not how old a person is but how he reacts to awakening in the midtown area in his shorts. What do years matter, particularly if your apartment is rent-controlled? The thing to remember is that each time of life has its appropriate rewards, whereas when you’re dead it’s hard to find the light switch. The chief problem about death, incidentally, is the fear that there may be no afterlife—a depressing thought, particularly for those who have bothered to shave. Also, there is the fear that there is an afterlife but no one will know where it’s being held. On the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done as easily lying down.
Consider, then: Is old age really so terrible? Not if you’ve brushed your teeth faithfully! And why is there no buffer to the onslaught of the years? Or a good hotel in downtown Indianapolis? Oh, well.
In short, the best thing to do is behave in a manner befitting one’s age. If you are sixteen or under, try not to go bald. On the other hand, if you are over eighty, it is extremely good form to shuffle down the street clutching a brown paper bag and muttering, “The Kaiser will steal my string.” Remember, everything is relative—or should be. If it’s not, we must begin again.
ON FRUGALITY
As one goes through life, it is extremely important to conserve funds, and one should never spend money on anything
foolish, like pear nectar or a solid-gold hat. Money is not everything, but it is better than having one’s health. After all, one cannot go into a butcher shop and tell the butcher, “Look at my great suntan, and besides I never catch colds,” and expect him to hand over any merchandise. (Unless, of course, the butcher is an idiot.) Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons. Not that it can buy happiness. Take the case of the ant and the grasshopper: The grasshopper played all summer, while the ant worked and saved. When winter came, the grasshopper had nothing, but the ant complained of chest pains. Life is hard for insects. And don’t think mice are having any fun, either. The point is, we all need a nest egg to fall back on, but not while wearing a good suit.
Finally, let us bear in mind that it is easier to spend two dollars than to save one. And for God’s sake don’t invest money with any brokerage firm in which one of the partners is named Frenchy.
ON LOVE
Is it better to be the lover or the loved one? Neither, if your cholesterol is over six hundred. By love, of course, I refer to romantic love—the love between man and woman, rather than between mother and child, or a boy and his dog, or two headwaiters.
The marvelous thing is that when one is in love there is an impulse to sing. This must be resisted at all costs, and care must also be taken to see that the ardent male doesn’t “talk” the lyrics of songs. To be loved, certainly, is different from being admired, as one can be admired from afar but to really love someone it is essential to be in the same room with the person, crouching behind the drapes.
To be a really good lover, then, one must be strong and yet tender. How strong? I suppose being able to lift fifty pounds should do it. Bear in mind also that to the lover the loved one is always the most beautiful thing imaginable, even though to a stranger she may be indistinguishable from an order of smelts. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Should the beholder have poor eyesight, he can ask the nearest person which girls look good. (Actually, the prettiest ones are almost always the most boring, and that is why some people feel there is no God.)
“The joys of love are but a moment long,” sang the troubadour, “but the pain of love endures forever.” This was almost a hit song, but the melody was too close to “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
ON TRIPPING THROUGH A COPSE AND PICKING VIOLETS
This is no fun at all, and I would recommend almost any other activity. Try visiting a sick friend. If this is impossible, see a show or get into a nice warm tub and read. Anything is better than turning up in a copse with one of those vacuous smiles and accumulating flowers in a basket. Next thing you know, you’ll be skipping to and fro. What are you going to do with the violets once you get them, anyhow? “Why, put them in a vase,” you say. What a stupid answer. Nowadays you call the florist and order by phone. Let him trip through the copse, he’s getting paid for it. That way, if an electrical storm comes up or a beehive is chanced upon, it will be the florist who is rushed to Mount Sinai.
Do not conclude from this, incidentally, that I am insensitive to the joys of nature, although I have come to the conclusion that for sheer fun it is hard to beat forty-eight hours at Foam Rubber City during the high holidays. But that is another story.
1973
GEORGE W. S. TROW
I EMBRACE THE NEW CANDOR
TODAY I have been particularly candid. I have expressed candid thoughts about the Right to Life movement and the new high-energy Golf Classics and the way some books which don’t really have that much literary merit are sold to paperback houses for huge figures. I have expressed candid thoughts about the fact that the Academy Awards seem to have lost a lot of their meaning (especially with the way they stop the awards during the television commercials), and the fact that Helen Hayes probably isn’t the First Lady of the American Theatre anymore (although she probably is still the First Lady of the American Charitable Endorsement), and the fact that my environment at the Keowa Motel, where I live, has a damp and stagnant side to it that is evocative of small-time crime and emotional disaffection. Also, I have issued a no-holds-barred report on my last remaining friend, Bob Mern, which will almost certainly cost me his friendship but which will, I am sure, confirm my reputation with the public at large as a man of candor.
Let’s go right to the report on Bob. I have always felt that to keep the trust of the public it was necessary for me to be ruthlessly candid in matters touching on my private life and those closest to me. In the past, as the record will show, I have been almost brutal in my statements about my wife, but since our divorce opportunities for frankness in this area have lessened. I continue to have many forthright things to say about her syndicated television program, Jean Stapleton Duff … In Touch (which has been devoted, this week, to the Right to Life movement, the new high-energy Golf Classics, and the California-style casual mode in outdoor entertaining, which is another subject about which I have had candid thoughts), but that isn’t the same thing. When it comes to my personal life my most candid announcements now have to do with my friend Bob Mern. The fact is that I have had to lower Bob’s rating twice in the last six months. Bob began the year with a “BAA” rating (“Secure Investment–Minimum Risk”), but after a really bad first quarter during which he was almost always completely drunk, during which he passed out six different times on my bathroom floor, during which he failed to pass his driving test, and during which he was unbelievably boring, I lowered his rating to a “B” (“Some Risk”). And now, after a second quarter during which he tried to pull a really obvious aggressive-dependence number on me (making me bring him his beer on account of his limp, etc., etc., etc.), I have released a statement announcing that I will not rate him at all. Bob will have a little bit of a rough time as a result, and I will have to watch TV by myself, but I have done the honest thing. Because I have done and said the honest thing time after time there has arisen among the public (among the public that reads the rotogravures, among the public that buys cologne, among the public in chronic pain) a deep trust in my word. I live nourished by public confidence. This confidence has reference to me as a public figure, as an artist (I am Jack Duff, and I am the founder of the Jack Duff Dance Experience), and as a human being. Even on those days I spend in bed, even on those days I spend lying on the floor, even on those days when I eschew all muscular movement, I find that I continue to be wrapped in a pervasive health—the physical manifestation of public faith in my candor.
When I speak of “the public,” I do not include so-called Important Men. It annoys Important Men that I am straightforward in my speech, because it shows them up. It galls Important Men that I don’t promise special treats I can’t deliver, for instance. Certain men of influence promise Aerial Tramways. I say forget Aerial Tramways. Other men encourage the anticipation of People Movers. I say forget People Movers. There will be weeping in the streets (I say), and increased incidence of interregional discourtesy, but no People Movers. In fact, the report I’m working on right now says that we are not likely to have reliable high-speed elevators for very much longer. My report says candidly that some of the fabulous new high-speed elevators we are installing are going to be involved in heart-wrenching mishaps, leading to an investigation, leading to new ordinances, leading to new safety-amenity parameters that will make it economically unfeasible for the high-speed-elevator manufacturers to continue in their work. In my report I foresee a generation of painful, inefficient, low-speed elevators manufactured in Asia, and then stairs. No one has to take my word for it. Private-school girls in good buildings, for instance, are free to do as they please. It is my opinion, however, that private-school girls who ignore my warning will find themselves dragging their party frocks up twenty-six floors of fire stairs; it is my opinion that they will arrive late (and tired) at the Junior Gaiety Dances; it is my opinion that no one will agree to attend the after-parties given by private-school girls who ignore my warning. I don’t mean to be severe, but those girls ought to watch their step.
IT is important, I fe
el, not to project a negative tone. There must be, always, a constructive side to candor. It is this constructive aspect that I seek to promote. I now urge the public to stress what I call the Achievable Goals. Achievable Goals—so simple an idea! I believe that through an emphasis on the achievable we can break the cycle of failure-fantasy-failure around which our national life has tended to carom, and regain a sense of purpose and control. So many goals are achievable that it seems perverse to stress goals whose realization is in doubt. I have some Achievable Goals to suggest. I suggest, for instance, that we set out now to increase our dependence on imported oil. This goal can be achieved almost immediately. It would be exhilarating, I think, to achieve, almost immediately, a goal with such important long-term implications.
To move on to the crucial housing field, where we have experienced setback after unpleasant setback, I suggest that we seek to increase the stock of substandard housing. I suggest here a Model Cities approach which could seek to dispel the pervasive air of failure engendered by the “real” Model Cities program, in which so many hopes were dashed. If a Model Cities approach were adopted we could draw up an elaborate plan in which we could set out specific figures denoting the amount by which we intended to increase the stock of substandard housing in Year One, in Year Two, etc., etc. Other Achievable Goals programs in the model district might seek to increase the use of drugs, and so on.
In the area of Social Engineering, I suggest that we increase the amount of violence on television. I suggest that we set up programs to increase the number of aimless people who loathe their elders, and I suggest that, whatever the cost, we guarantee to every Senior American the right to a drab old age. Sometimes (as now), when I think of just how much we could do, I get a little overexcited and I have to sit down for a minute and have a drink and smoke a cigarette.
Disquiet, Please! Page 24