I RAN into my brother today at a funeral. We had not seen one another for fifteen years, but as usual he produced a pig bladder from his pocket and began hitting me on the head with it. Time has helped me understand him better. I finally realize his remark that I am “some loathsome vermin fit only for extermination” was said more out of compassion than anger. Let’s face it: he was always much brighter than me—wittier, more cultured, better educated. Why he is still working at McDonald’s is a mystery.
IDEA for story: Some beavers take over Carnegie Hall and perform “Wozzeck.” (Strong theme. What will be the structure?)
GOOD Lord, why am I so guilty? Is it because I hated my father? Probably it was the veal-parmigian’ incident. Well, what was it doing in his wallet? If I had listened to him, I would be blocking hats for a living. I can hear him now: “To block hats—that is everything.” I remember his reaction when I told him I wanted to write. “The only writing you’ll do is in collaboration with an owl.” I still have no idea what he meant. What a sad man! When my first play, “A Cyst for Gus,” was produced at the Lyceum, he attended opening night in tails and a gas mask.
TODAY I saw a red-and-yellow sunset and thought, How insignificant I am! Of course, I thought that yesterday, too, and it rained. I was overcome with self-loathing and contemplated suicide again—this time by inhaling next to an insurance salesman.
SHORT story: A man awakens in the morning and finds himself transformed into his own arch supports. (This idea can work on many levels. Psychologically, it is the quintessence of Kruger, Freud’s disciple who discovered sexuality in bacon.)
HOW wrong Emily Dickinson was. Hope is not “the thing with feathers.” The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.
I HAVE decided to break off my engagement with W. She doesn’t understand my writing, and said tonight that my “Critique of Metaphysical Reality” reminded her of “Airport.” We quarrelled, and she brought up the subject of children again, but I convinced her they would be too young.
DO I believe in God? I did until Mother’s accident. She fell on some meat loaf, and it penetrated her spleen. She lay in a coma for months, unable to do anything but sing “Granada” to an imaginary herring. Why was this woman in the prime of life so afflicted—because in her youth she dared to defy convention and got married with a brown paper bag on her head? And how can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter? I am plagued by doubts. What if everything is an illusion and nothing exists? In that case, I definitely overpaid for my carpet. If only God would give me one clear sign! Like making a large deposit in my name at a Swiss bank.
HAD coffee with Melnick today. He talked to me about his idea of having all government officials dress like hens.
PLAY idea: A character based on my father, but without quite so prominent a big toe. He is sent to the Sorbonne to study the harmonica. In the end, he dies, never realizing his one dream—to sit up to his waist in gravy. (I see a brilliant second-act curtain, where two midgets come upon a severed head in a shipment of volleyballs.)
WHILE taking my noon walk today, I had more morbid thoughts. What is it about death that bothers me so much? Probably the hours. Melnick says the soul is immortal and lives on after the body drops away, but if my soul exists without my body I am convinced all my clothes will be too loose-fitting. Oh, well . . .
DID not have to break off with W. after all, for, as luck would have it, she ran off to Finland with a professional circus geek. All for the best, I suppose, although I had another of those attacks where I start coughing out of my ears.
LAST night, I burned all my plays and poetry. Ironically, as I was burning my masterpiece, “Dark Penguin,” the room caught fire, and I am now the object of a lawsuit by some men named Pinchunk and Schlosser. Kierkegaard was right.
1973
GEORGE W. S. TROW
I COVER CARTER
THE DEMOCRATIC CONVENTION
MONDAY, JULY 12TH, MORNING
Looked at U.P.I. Convention Daybook. Badly Xeroxed. Faint print. Hard to read. Thought about going to Connecticut Caucus 10 A.M. Gave it up. Thought about going to Briefing for Pages and Podium Telephone Operators. Good color. The little people, etc. etc. etc. Gave it up. Thought about going to Democratic Women’s “Agenda ’76” Caucus, but thought again. Decided definitely to go to Latino Caucus, West Room, Statler Hilton, but too tired.
MONDAY, JULY 12TH, AFTERNOON
Tempted by El Diario Open House for Latino Delegates—good chance to brush up on Spanish for later use at later Latino caucuses, etc. etc. Decided no. Tried to sort out aspects of the New Populism (Carter’s smile, etc. etc., Carter out of nowhere, etc. etc., possible danger of no political debts to Establishment, etc. etc.), but couldn’t focus.
MONDAY, JULY 12TH, EARLY EVENING
Much more confident. Had a drink—one of the new Wild Turkey Old-Fashioneds people are taking up. Found slant. Decided to do instant book. Follow one crucial delegation through caucuses, etc. etc. Through floor fights. Reaction to nomination, etc. etc. Juxtapose with human interest—Amy, Miss Lillian, etc. etc. Exhausting even to think about it.
MONDAY, JULY 12TH, NIGHT
Went to Convention. Picked up credentials. Very authentic-seeming. Noticed that credentials said “News-Periphery.”
Very exciting at Garden. Little electronic security devices, etc. etc. Passed security check, observed by ten or twenty members of the general public. Members of general public had no credentials. Very satisfying. Decided definitely to go ahead with instant book. Maybe on journalists—observing the observers, etc. etc. etc. Media preconceptions, etc. etc. Altering the event. Men of action juxtaposed with the men behind the media. Reversed, though. Show man behind the medium as the true man of action, etc. etc. Thoughtful but irreverent. Follow one team of journalists from arrival through caucuses, etc. etc. Press-room infighting, etc. etc. Print vs. electronic, etc. etc. Juxtaposed with human interest—Amy, Miss Lillian, etc. etc.
News-Periphery area very depressing. Tiny concrete bunkers. Repulsive green curtains. Clots of provincial newspersons. Worse than a game show. Worse than anything. No drinks. Very pathetic to be a newsperson. Saw one newsperson take moving pictures of a row of telephones. Very sad. One newsperson got a quote from Patrick Moynihan. On a cassette. Played it over and over. Very sad. For him. For Moynihan. For everyone. Saw a newsperson interviewing a delegate. Delegate wearing white plastic belt. Saw clot of people training to be newspersons. So depressing I had to sit down. Decided to skip instant book. Decided to get drink.
Bar full of foreigners. Saw Italians with leather bags. Saw Frenchmen. Nothing lower than a European newsperson. Every European had hundreds of attractive credentials. Fabulous tags reading “News-Fulcrum,” “News-Podium,” “News-Crucial.” Not even the children had just “News-Periphery.” Tried to concentrate on the issues—the New Constituencies, the New Credibility, the New Outsiders becoming the New Insiders, etc. etc.—but too depressed.
MONDAY, JULY 12TH, LATE NIGHT
Went to big party. Spirits way up. Party given by staff of rock-and-roll magazine for staff of Jimmy Carter. Many people drinking the new Wild Turkey Old-Fashioneds, so felt right in place. Had insight, wrote it down: “Everyone here (at party) definitely born between Munich and Yalta.” Very pleased with insight. Decided to do piece about war babies molding the New Politics. The irresistible fact of demographics, etc. etc. Counterculture accommodations with Carter, Good Old Boys, etc. etc. Takeover generation, etc. etc. Noticed no rock-and-roll stars at party. Noticed rock-and-roll critic, though. Critic very upset, very vivid. Born about V-E Day, my guess. “Last chance to sell out,” he said. “Last chance to make your deal.” Afraid he’d steal my insight—war babies, etc.—so didn’t say a thing.
THE CAMPAIGN
SEPTEMBER 6TH
Very depressed for weeks and weeks, but much more secure now. Very up for in-depth campaign-d
iary type thing. More detail than Teddy White, etc. More thoughtful, too. Work in old insights—war babies, etc. Wanted to begin right away at Warm Springs, Georgia, campaign kickoff (the Roosevelt Legacy, etc. etc.), but decided better not push my luck. Almost attended Southern 500 stock-car race in Darlington, South Carolina (the Raffish South, the Unreconstructed South, etc. etc.), but decided to make diary more selective.
SEPTEMBER 15TH
Tried to join Carter’s tour of Hans Sieverding’s farm, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but much too far away. Couldn’t think how to even get there. Falling behind Teddy White now, I think, so a little blue.
SEPTEMBER 23RD
Ordered big dinner, but just picked at it. Tried to watch first debate, but felt queasy. Whole thing very elusive. Might write analysis, “Elusive Politician” or “Politics of Evasion.” Might not.
SEPTEMBER 28TH
Had important insight about Carter. Wrote it down: “Carter effectively combines virtues of Elvis Presley and Colonel Tom Parker.” Not sure that’s right, though. Should be Glen Campbell and Colonel Parker. But Colonel Parker doesn’t manage Glen Campbell, so hard to sort out.
OCTOBER 6TH
Tried to watch second debate, but too tense. Tried to sort out Presley-Parker-Campbell image, but couldn’t. Way behind Teddy White. Decided to do highlights: strong vignettes to illuminate the whole. Tried to decide which vignettes, but had to give it up.
OCTOBER 22ND
Decided to write little essay strongly condemning Teddy White approach. Wrote note: “Teddy White has done for politics what Anaïs Nin has done for women.” Felt very good to have written so much. Tried to watch third debate, but got the shakes and had to lie down.
OCTOBER 24TH
Decided on whole new angle—for novel. Take one typical politician, juxtaposed to Presidential candidate, etc. etc. Local issues vs. national issues, etc. etc. Similarities, differences, etc. etc. etc. Hopes, dreams, etc. etc. A governor, maybe. Only thing is, must try to figure out which governor.
OCTOBER 26TH
Found press release about a governor. So depressing I had to sit down. These people live lives you wouldn’t wish on a disc jockey. Decided to write screenplay. Long, lonely shots (definitely use concrete bunkers from Convention, etc. etc.). One man’s hopes shattered, etc. etc., in the midst of triumph of another man, etc. etc. etc. Reversed, though. Real triumph the inner growth made possible by defeat, etc. etc. etc. Human-interest figures based on Amy, Miss Lillian, etc. etc. etc. Could be big. On the other hand, could be ghastly.
NOVEMBER 1ST
After months of thought, have definitely decided to do instant book. Personal approach—the election from my hotel room. Very pleased, because Teddy White won’t have it.
NOVEMBER 20TH
Personal approach won’t work out, because too grim. Also worried about right hand. Right hand won’t stop shaking. Can’t write with left, so very down.
THE NEW ADMINISTRATION
JANUARY 20TH
Went to Inauguration. Tried to refocus on whole new free spirit, but got the jitters. Tried to lighten up, roll easily in the crowd, etc., but broke out in a small red rash (mostly on left hand) and had to go home. Best approach now: no-frills journalism. No gimmicks. Just good strong stuff. Chance to stress First One Hundred Days. Amusing, though—include little glossary of “cracker” terms so Washingtonians can understand Carter team, etc. etc.
FEBRUARY 2ND
Very down. Spotted two little “cracker” glossaries out already. Must do something soon. What about a sort of who’s-who approach? Rosalynn Carter so tough under that sweet exterior, etc. etc. Juxtaposed to Amy, Miss Lillian, and Alice Roosevelt Longworth. Wish I knew Alice Longworth better. Use tape recorder for chapter on New Southern Personalities. Racist clubs, etc. etc. Almost definitely have title: “The Reign in Plains Falls Mainly on the . . .”—but can’t come up with last word.
FEBRUARY 10TH
Decided best thing go to racist club. Went to door, met by Bill. “Good evening, sir,” etc. Bill said club had to let Sam go, because wanted to call members by first name. Bill said doormen, waiters, etc., at Union League Club call members by first name. Very gripping. Took mental notes. Good to be reporting again. Went upstairs, had Wild Turkey Old-Fashioned. Hand stopped shaking.
FEBRUARY 17TH
See now must zero in on energy, Carter’s plan: the new expectations, the new more modest life styles.
APRIL 25TH
Tried to focus on energy, but too worried about small red rash.
MAY 6TH
Definitely decided not to stress First One Hundred Days because too limiting. Definitely decided to forget whole New South angle because too stale. Definitely decided not to try to lighten up because too nervous.
JULY 15TH
Now see must focus on revisionist theories. New Populism really New Conservatism. Carter Administration as caretaker government, Carter as apostle of closed government, Carter as savior of Northern élite. Ordered big lunch, but couldn’t get it down. Decided small red rash definitely spreading.
1977
POLLY FROST
NOTES ON MY CONVERSATIONS
Conversation has been [Fran] Lebowitz’s lifetime work. The writing of her books, like the plastering of a wall for a fresco, is best viewed as a preparatory phase. . . . Instead of bemoaning Lebowitz’s failure to publish, one might envy her progress. Her work is now custom-tailored, her clientele is elite. She has gone from prêt à porter to haute couture.
—Vanity Fair.
YOU haven’t read anything by me for some time, because I have been devoting myself to what I felt was my true art form: conversation. When I made this transition, the critics labelled me “lazy” and “a procrastinator.” The fact is, I did not stop writing in order to lounge around at parties—that has been only a necessary adjunct to my work.
The moment I said my first word, I knew that talking was all I ever wanted to do, despite considerable discouragement from my family. They felt I ought to accomplish something. Yet I never found doing things satisfying. There wasn’t the sense of completion I’d get from talking about doing something to the point where it couldn’t be done, shouldn’t be done, and nobody even wanted it to be done anymore. But had I done it, it would have been the best thing I ever did.
In response to demand for a retrospective, I have singled out my most famous (and infamous!) conversations. In doing so, I have had to omit numerous smaller works: kaffeeklatsches, yammers, retorts, insinuations, complaints, tipoffs, disseminations, and greetings. This is unfortunate.
My work falls into three major periods:
THE EARLY CONVERSATIONS
The seminal influences on me were the Masters—Dr. Johnson and Oscar Wilde. Many lay people don’t know how carefully Wilde worked on his aphorisms. People seem to think that being a conversationalist means you just get out of bed in the morning and open your mouth. They don’t understand the preparation that’s involved, not to mention the skill and patience required to make your interlocutors stick to the subject.
An example of the kinds of challenges I faced: On October 19, 1981, I met several friends at Dolores’s Coffee Shop, and we engaged in lighthearted banter. Everyone asked me, “What on earth have you been doing lately—if anything?” I didn’t reply. I couldn’t tell them I had been carefully crafting my wit, as that would undercut the element of surprise essential for the conversation to work. I waited until the cheeseburgers were served before introducing my topic. (Note on the participants: The initials “P.F.” stand for me.)
P.F.: I’ve been thinking . . . about death.
T.D.: Thanks a lot—you just ruined my lunch.
P.F.: Perhaps if you simply think of death as annihilation your appetite will return.
L.B.: Can’t we talk about something else?
P.F.: No!
(A critical note: During this time, I was studying Wilde’s techniques for keeping his listeners on the track, and developing a few of my own.)
S.E.: Hey, has anybody seen Jeff recently? He was supposed—
P.F. (cutting him off): Doesn’t anybody want to hear what I have to say?
EVERYONE (resignedly): O.K.
P.F.: Well, forget it—I’ve decided not to tell you.
My reputation as a conversationalist really began to be established when I moved from coffee shops to cocktail parties. It was there that I began to experiment with material and develop techniques. In particular, the technique of cornering enabled me to extend the duration of small talk beyond anything previously known. It has been noted by critics that my small talk was about duration itself.
During what I now refer to as my “representational” period, T.D. would often ask me what exactly it was I brought to the art of conversation. Traditionally, the immortal conversationalists came to talk from other disciplines—Northcote from painting, Socrates from philosophy, Heine from poetry. I began to feel that this was what was responsible for the constant intrusion of subject matter into their speech.
MIDDLE WORKS
More and more, I challenged the assumption that I shouldn’t speak unless I had something to say. Words themselves were becoming of less interest to me than pure sound. I was fascinated by the possibilities of yelling, whispering, and changing my accent midsentence. Also, the visual effects, such as rolling my eyes, drumming my fingers, and grinning inappropriately.
I was able to experiment with these ideas in 1982, when I gave over two hundred interviews, culminating in EXCLUSIVE SELF-INTERVIEW, excerpted here:
You ask if there’s any recurring theme in my work. Well, CONVERSATION #87 was, on the surface, a simple story about dinner at Shirley’s house but was actually about not having been invited to Roger’s for some time. Then, around CONVERSATION #157, Roger pointed out that I was still talking about the same thing. So, yes, there are recurring themes in my work. But, to return to your first question. You asked if I don’t feel my conversations should be a two-way street. No, I don’t. I don’t believe in art by committee. Life and art? There is no separation. Everything—my most recent trip, along with any others I have ever taken, all the facts in the most recent issue of Newsweek, Thursday night’s dinner, as well as its effect on my digestion, the entire plot of the last movie I saw—everything becomes part of my conversation. What’s the most interesting thing I’ve ever said? Impossible to answer. Like all conversationalists, I am always most in love with what I am saying at the moment.
Fierce Pajamas: An Anthology of Humor Writing from The New Yorker Page 28