Friday, November 10, 2017

# 99 The Ginger Man – J.P. Donleavy

Carlin: chaos lover
Clarke: crackling copy
Crist: zesty and unique

With considerable quality and quantity, Sebastian Dangerfield violates the Third Commandment: “Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.”

The essence of The Ginger Man, J.P. Donleavy’s 1955 novel, is that it is devoid of respect, utterly in vain. The hero trashes family, lovers, neighbors, country and God (he spares only a few partners in dissolution). His dealing of disrespect differs from the passive stance of another Dangerfield, the American comic Rodney, who merely muttered, “I don’t get no respect.”

Man (or Woman) Behaving Badly is an evergreen, bankable template for the arts and entertainment. As Dangerfield recounts and contemplates his serial transgressions, he reports that a girl in Baltimore told him, “…that is the way to do a lot of things in life—just go ahead and do them.” Donleavy’s protagonist clearly endorses a “do what thou wilt” philosophy, which got a 20th Century spin from the English occultist Aleister Crowley and the Thelemites. Truth be told, Dangerfield favors freedom over philosophy; libertinism over libertarianism.

Moreover, he wants to be free as things fall apart. “I’m a man for bedlam,” he says while recounting his disruption of a Christmas party. The sentiment is not uncommon. Dangerfield’s contemporary in fiction, Sal Paradise of Kerouac’s On the Road, was famously drawn to “the mad ones” for brotherhood and inspiration. In 1992, the comedian George Carlin kicked off a signature rant with “I enjoy chaos and disorder.” While Carlin was exposing society's presumable preference for news about others, Dangerfield is himself an agent of discord--he practices chaos and disorder.

When confronted with the responsibility of fatherhood or conjugal partnership, Dangerfield lashes out or flees like his name source, The Gingerbread Boy, who first appeared in print in the 1875 St. Nicholas magazine. In the folk tale, after the gingerbread cake is transubstantiated into a boy, he leaves his “parents” in the dust to face the perils of the road alone. By absenting fathers and mothers, countless writers of children’s fiction allow their heroes to shed comfort and security and go off and have their adventures, as Nathan Bransford noted. When Dangerfield reminisces about his childhood or envisions the delivery of trust funds, he disparages his faraway father and omits his mother.

Unforgettably, the edible gingerbread boy taunts his pursuers with bursts of verse, “And I can run away from you, I can.” Similarly, Donleavy, through Dangerfield, ends most of his chapters with a set of brief verses that James Campbell calls a "ditty." The centathlete thinks of the appendage more as a “tassel” because of its dangling appearance on the page. Perhaps one instance—"And/Fun/Too”—is meant to be further and naughtily enjoyed by reading the first letters to spell “aft.”

Donleavy was also a painter, so it’s appropriate to think about his book in visual terms, as does Dangerfield when he describes days as “oblong,” “triangular” and “rectangular.” When he regards the weather, he gets concisely, wonderfully lyrical, as in “a rare sun of spring,” “the soft million drops,” and “the gray wet over everything.”

There are other recurring devices in The Ginger Man: the first person vs. third person perspective; riffs about “ould” Irish places and heroes; and the posing and consideration of “Do you like Ireland?” Questioning is a key tactic to Dangerfield’s success as a womanizer, and he knows it. He dives in about a girl’s home life, work, what she wants to do in life, and more, eliciting touching responses before the delivery of the ends to his means.

The stylistic repetition of the book suits its episodic nature and calls out the few big changes that take place. Marion departs with Felicity, leaving the hero free again. Most notably, the action shifts from Dublin to London. The sense is of deliverance to a prosperous Calvinist paradise where dear old Clocklan, thought to have been a suicide, is resurrected as a transfigured, munificent savior—Dangerfield’s personal Jesus. 

Mixing religion with sacrilege is central to Dangerfield’s identity. Before the first time he calls himself “the ginger man,” he says, “Jesus and I have been through a great deal together.” The only other instance of the name is the tassel at the novel’s end, “God’s mercy/On the wild/Ginger Man.” With self-aware mockery, Dangerfield reveals delusions of religious grandeur, one of the characteristics of sociopathology, according to HealthGuidance.

Is Dangerfield a sociopath? The real-life inspiration for his friend Kenneth O’Keefe, A.K. Donaghue, addressed the issue: “Although I firmly believe that Gainor S. Crist was a sociopath, I must say that JPD [Donleavy] never did nor does probably think so now.”

Noel Shrine in Irish America explained, “Gainor Crist was an American student at Trinity College Dublin, in the late forties, and Donleavy acknowledges him as the inspiration for Dangerfield.”

Crist’s widow, Pamela O’Malley de Crist, discussed with The Independent the font, truth and fiction of The Ginger Man: “'Gainor found it a funny book, and it is. Extraordinary things happened to Gainor, and he did extraordinary things...Most of the key exploits were based on fact. Gainor had a zest and a vitality for people.’” Later, the interviewer writes, “She added, ‘Donleavy liked to imply that it was himself. But how could he have done all that? It could only, and did, happen to Gainor. He was unique.’" 

And The Ginger Man is self-consciously unique--indeed, Donleavy called his next novel A Singular Man. Distressingly, for the introduction of its offering of the novel, Grove Press opted for a Name rather than singular content. The result is a cursory, drab piece by Jay McInerny, whose writings over the decades exude a distinct waft of smugness that has been noted by others, such as Tim Dibblee in Salon.com.

What might a worthy intro have looked like? Try this on:
“JP Donleavy is a man that many women want to murder.  After all, he was the creator of Sebastian Dangerfield, ‘The Ginger Man’.  Every woman’s nightmare.  A dashing rogue who would seduce you, shag you up the arse, slap you around the place, steal your savings and abandon you with the baby, while he made the rounds of the pubs, seducing other women.” 
That crackling teaser is by Victoria Mary Clarke, who interviewed Donleavy for French Vogue in 2006. Journalist, vlogger and media coach, Clarke was previously connected to Donleavy through her partner, Shane MacGowan, the lead singer of The Pogues. MacGowan, who was born on Christmas Day, co-wrote “Fairytale of New York,” the Christmas anthem whose title is lifted from Donleavy’s 1973 novel, and “considered by many to be the greatest Christmas song ever,” according to The Guardian. Furthermore, the singer and the writer had met before, and the former was set to play Brendan Behan in a movie production of The Ginger Man, led by Johnny Depp, that was over-reported and ultimately aborted.

Like a number of other journalists, Clarke stayed at Donleavy's estate, Levington Park, to describe the lion in his Irish winter. She wrote: 
“I put it to Donleavy that the violence against the women and child in the book, while probably considered normal at the time he wrote it, is definitely shocking now, especially when you consider that the rest of the book is extremely funny.
“‘I certainly have never been violent towards any woman,’ he assures me. ‘Quite the opposite. I think I have an exaggerated regard for women, always have. Gainor [Crist] was the same.’”
That comforting response skirts the novel's dramatic actions and intent. Fighting or inciting suits the protagonist, and proximity seems to be his only criterion for selecting a target.

In considering the violent, wild Sebastian Dangerfield, the centathlete was compelled to examine two real men, both older brothers of longtime friends. We’ll call them A. and B.

Some number of years ago, A. texted, “You didn’t tell me you got married.” The note was odd because the centathlete had been married for at least five years, and because it came from out of nowhere: there was no recent history of text messages, phone calls, nor other communications. In fact, A. and the centathlete had never engaged in a one-on-one conversation. The centathlete had always been with his friend when in the presence of A., who had been typically buzzed and barhopping or otherwise preoccupied with his own companions.

As a young man, A. grew up in Manhattan and attended a prominent boarding school and university. He has not worked more than six months in the 30 years since. He belongs to that sizable population (we all know some) about whom one wonders, “What do they do all day?” A binge drinker, he lives comfortably with a successful, polite wife (who bought and owns their house) and their daughter. His father is wealthy and presumably supportive, in gross contrast to Dangerfield’s. In person, A. is skittish and prone to intermittent glowering and condescension. His demeanor and continued overindulgence likely stem from acute insecurity, someone wise told the centathlete. A couple of years later, there came another text:

Hey bud
Long time no chat
You are still in my cell address book—ha ha… 😊
Seriously—hope you and -- and kiddos are doing well
Sorry I don’t know their names—that would be your fault for not telling me?
Probably; but easily understandable. My -- is eight plus and thriving—Greek school, huge amount of music, plus soccer of course. Kiddo is the light of our lives. Hard to believe it turned out this way but I wouldn’t trade it for anything 😊
Talk anytime my old friend.

One might welcome and respond to such lively, if presumptuous, greetings if one considered oneself a veritable "old friend" and if one didn’t know that A. had surreptitiously groped his brother’s fiancee years ago. (Again, that brother is the centathlete’s actual old friend.) Recently, while downing a can of beer with one hand, A. used the other to pinch his sister-in-law’s friend’s derriere and assert, “You know you want it.” When drinking excessively at a somber gathering of his extended family, his wife told him to take it easy and he erupted in front of everyone, including his young daughter, “You’re ruining my fucking life!” Profane, idle, offensive, chauvinistic, defensive, paranoid--Dangerfield traits. Is A. a sociopath?

The other friend’s older brother, B., is Irish American and Catholic. He was openly regarded as the smartest of five siblings, but what does that get you? His brother, the centathlete’s dear friend, has always worshiped him, even through hurtful times. Since adolescence, they both were athletic, preppy and boozy—enamored of Brooks Brothers and Bud Light. They often brought up Irish history and their heritage, and their parents' strain to pay for all five kids’ Catholic education from first grade through college.

Three decades ago, B. attended a prominent university, where alcoholism took hold and was subsequently managed with visits to Hazelden and elsewhere, and continual therapy. B. was kicked out of his house several times but is still married—to a long-suffering, strong-willed, Marion-esque woman from a well-heeled family—and a father of three. He has had a long, productive career on Wall Street.

When sober, B. was witty and sardonic—he could easily make friends laugh with impromptu comments, twisting of names and sayings, and funny voices. When drinking, he was unrestrained, haughty and cruel—the centathlete recalls seeing him once, upon entering a bar, transmogrified with a menacing glare like Mr. Hyde.

B. was unpredictable when he fell off the wagon. After not coming home to Long Island one worknight, he was found the next afternoon asleep on the other side of Manhattan in a Hoboken cemetery. His wife suspended his driving privileges periodically, so he would steal his son’s bicycle—reminiscent of Dangerfield hurtling through Dublin. One spree took him to a craps game in the upstairs kitchen of the neighborhood Chinese restaurant with the staff, a remarkable incident that inspired lyrics still awaiting a melody.

This year the centathlete received a Facebook message from B., a bolt from the blue like A.’s text. It read:

B.
Hey ---- how are you? It's been a long time....

He was right—it had been about seven years since the centathlete had seen him at B.’s father’s memorial service. Before that, at least 20 years. And as with A., there had never been a one-on-one conversation, going back to early childhood. Such a simple inquiry from someone like B. is never that simple. With hesitation, the centathlete responded:

[Centathlete]
The unreeling of the years.

This was an obvious reference to 1972’s “Reelin’ in the Years” by Steely Dan, one of B.’s favorite artists. Four years older than the centathlete and his friend, B. had cultivated strong, predictable AOR tastes for his age. The same day, B., replied:

B.
Nice Steely Dan allusion!

And the following day, he followed up:

B.
Cmon you remember the tune from “Can't buy a Thrill”...

There he was: impulsively, aggressively looking to connect with someone he knows but has never really spoken to. The centathlete looked on B.’s sparse Facebook timeline and saw a past exchange between him and one of his college friends who is now an ER doctor with a bit of a party boy reputation—they privately call him Dr. Feelgood.

Dr. Feelgood
We'll celebrate your 55th in the Hamptons. I'm coming over to watch the big game with you and the boys. I'll bring a mini-keg of Heineken for us and a six pack of O'Douls for you. Ok guy.

Such camaraderie between the Drinker and the Tenuously Reformed could fit in The Ginger Man. Dangerfield’s dialogues with O’Keefe are so enjoyable because they both commiserate and spar while the world deprives them of joy. Whether drinking with O’Keefe or playing house with Miss Frost, Dangerfield revels in his bubble-like existence. One of countless bravura moments in the novel occurs when O’Keefe reports, “Tony Malarkey says the neighborhood is in disgrace over this affair [with Miss Frost].” So, there is no bubble; everyone knows all about Dangerfield’s business.

But Dangerfield blows off that revelation and forges or bumbles ahead—in vain. He will break all the Commandments that he can until he is caught, and he will whimsically and lyrically add a few in order to violate them, too.

Before 2017, the centathlete had not heard of The Ginger Man or its author. Just a few months after completing the novel, as this dilettante clicked around for research, JP Donleavy died. The obituaries rushed to honor the long life of the singular man and his book. If he had requested God's mercy, he didn't need it.

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

# 10 The Grapes of Wrath – John Steinbeck

“Certain events such as love, or a national calamity, or May, bring pressure to bear on the individual, and if the pressure is strong enough, something in the form of verse is bound to be squeezed out,” said the author John Steinbeck via The Paris Review.

A personal calamity brought pressure on a woman and evoked not verse, but a poetic, transcendent message. The Stanford rape victim released her court statement to the general media and it continues to impact women and men everywhere through its extraordinary content and courageous tone. The statement concludes as follows: 
“And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought every day for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you… To girls everywhere, I am with you.”
As her refrain, “I am with you,” resonates, we hear echoes of the signature “I’ll be there” passage of Steinbeck’s 1939 novel, The Grapes of Wrath, when Tom Joad tells his mother: 
"Whenever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Whenever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there... I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an'-I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build-why, I'll be there."
Who can forget Henry Fonda’s performance of this passage in John Ford’s 1940 adaptation of the novel? Steinbeck himself was so struck he said that Fonda “…made me believe my own words,” according to The Telegraph.

The scene became “…one of the most famous speeches in film history,” according to Scott Simon of NPR in an interview of film critic Shawn Levy. Levy amplified that appraisal of the scene: “…the way [Fonda] delivers the line--the kind of breathy, halting quality and, of course, the timbre of his voice, you know, is so--there's really no other way to describe it--it's so American. There's, like, hickory and flint and molasses in it.”

One could say that the Stanford student’s statement is very American through its passionate, compassionate and careful consideration of the judicial process and the foundations of justice, and the individual’s inalienable rights of safety and dignity—the conviction that it doesn’t have to be this way, and we can change it. She has the fortitude and the vision to soar above pain, shame and anger, and her wings were the written word. As a result, hers is not just a Stanford story.

Susan Shillinglaw told Lynn Neary that for Steinbeck, who attended Stanford on and off between 1919 and 1925, universality was the aim: 
"He saw dispossession as a theme and as a story much larger than, you know, the California story… So I think he always knew what he was about in terms of the sort of mythic parallels. Tom Joad's exit from the book, for example — you know, he exits saying, ‘I'll be there wherever people are hungry’— so he kind of says: Throughout time, there's going to be a need for me.”
The Swedish Academy in 1962 awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature to Steinbeck, calling out The Grapes of Wrath as “…the story of the emigration to California which was forced upon a group of people from Oklahoma through unemployment and abuse of power. This tragic episode in the social history of the United States inspired in Steinbeck a poignant description of the experiences of one particular farmer and his family during their endless, heartbreaking journey to a new home.” In this presentation speech, Anders Österling said, “Dear Mr. Steinbeck…you have become a teacher of good will and charity, a defender of human values…"

In accepting, Steinbeck said, “…the writer is delegated to declare and to celebrate man's proven capacity for greatness of heart and spirit - for gallantry in defeat - for courage, compassion and love. In the endless war against weakness and despair, these are the bright rally-flags of hope and of emulation."

The Stanford woman has triumphed by reeducating us about human values and the eternal challenge to defeat the abuse of power. She didn’t have to progress from Me to We for the trial, but she did. She wrote and distributed her statement rather than grant an interview or post a video, podcast or series of tweets. If she names herself, she will be honored; even if she chooses not to, her statement testifies to humanity. In evoking The Grapes of Wrath, she reminds us why, at least sometimes, we need and are moved by something like verse, something poetic.


Tuesday, April 28, 2015

# 95 Under the Net – Iris Murdoch

A lesson from the tiger beetle: stop and "think"

The gleam of the hustler
Roderick: revolutionary materialist, Trekkie

Let’s imagine we are at one of those raucous, intellectual cocktail parties where certain stimulating conversations pierce one’s cerebral cocoon, to bury and linger for years, periodically calling out to be resolved somehow. Suddenly, in the middle of the room, a glittering gauntlet is thrown down:

“Can you name a living American philosopher?”

Silence.

The centathlete was about to blurt out, “Rick Roderick,” a charismatic professor from his college days. A self-described revolutionary materialist, Roderick idiosyncratically engaged the classroom, and even participated in a national “superstar” lecturer video series. In parsing Plato, Nietzche or Kierkegaard, he would draw analogies to Blade Runner, Neuromancer and Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. He was unpredictable in thought and deed: he cut short certain classes in order to make it home in time for Star Trek reruns; and he mentioned how as a younger man he had injected psychedelics into his optic nerve for ostensibly faster and more intense results (the benefits have been debunked by various scientist friends in conversation). An authentic provocateur who was ultimately denied tenure at Duke University, he wanted people to think critically and flourish.

But Rick Roderick died in 2002 in his early 50’s of heart disease, so while his name was not mentioned at our party, it is set down here. His insights and legacy are preserved at www.rickroderick.org and at this fine site, which feature his lectures, interviews, and more...

Then, in this odoriferous salon, one luminary—hey, it’s actor and model Lauren Hutton!—proclaims that Camille Paglia, the author, columnist and professor, is “the greatest thinker of our time.” Paglia, an adept, compulsive self-promoter, has echoed Hutton's assessment

Another shadow utters, “Noam Chomsky is America’s greatest intellectual.” It’s Chris Hedges, the celebrated journalist and activist. He’s seconded by two rock ‘n’ rollers: Zack de la Rocha and Tom Morello of Rage against the Machine. They assert, “Noam Chomsky books are the ones most prominently featured on the 'Rage' tour bus.”

Paglia and Chomsky were generally welcomed, although the centathlete may have detected scattered, derisive coughing when the former was announced.  Someone muttered that Paglia had a crush on Madonna, dressed it up as post-feminist aesthetic, and has been essentially recycling the work she published 25 years ago… 

In any case, Philosophy Now recently asked accredited philosophers the following: “Please name the five living philosophers you consider the most interesting or important.”

For those disinclined to click through for the results, Saul Kripke came out on top. Unsurprisingly, the centathlete had not heard of this esteemed thinker, who has on at least one occasion contemplated the importance of first-hand experience in a genuine moral life.

This ground has also been trod by another philosopher, neither American nor living, one Iris Murdoch. She published on metaphysics and morals, and taught at St. Anne’s College at Oxford University.

Murdoch is known to pedestrians on account of her novels, such as her first, Under the Net from 1954, not her Neoplatonic endeavors. Cinema furthered her celebrity through the posthumous 2001 biopic Iris. Early in that movie, the young Iris, played by Kate Winslet, says her first novel is about, “How to be free, how to be good, how to love.” For the centathlete, that statement expressed the theme of Richard Eyre’s film, rather than that of Murdoch’s Under the Net. We’re concerned here, allegedly, with the novel.

Under the Net is a funny, picaresque romp whose star is Jake Donaghue, a bumbling, harmless boozer and author. His antagonist is Hugo Belfounder; their love interests are two sisters, Anna and Sadie Quentin. Murdoch liked her pairs for drama and dialectics. She included a nested, platonic dialogue between Tamarus and Annandine--the centathlete thought of “timorous and anodyne" and how those adjectives might fit Jake and Hugo, respectively.

But Murdoch didn't get too heavy. "My novels are not 'philosophical novels,'" she told The Paris Review.  In Under the Net, thought and philosophy emerge sporadically and immediately attract our appreciation, like the spray from a surfacing whale. At one point, Jake describes how, in meeting Anna, “...in the intense equilibrium of the meeting we both experienced almost a moment of contemplation.”

Jake does manage to reflect on various occasions. For example, he tells us, “In my experience the spider is the smallest creature whose gaze can be felt.” This was no idle observation: 36 years after Under the Net was published, Murdoch confessed, "I’m very interested in spiders. I like spiders. Spiders are my friends, and I have read books about spiders."

Donahue's claim can be tested first-hand by readers of all ages inclined to creep around a porch, backyard or park. The centathlete succumbed to the contemporary preference to ask a specialist, and sent a Facebook message to a coleopterist friend. She answered:
“Most of the beetles I studied are basically hidden until you find them and then are killed shortly after to become a specimen, so there's very little time for gazing. One exception is the tiger beetle. They are super hard to catch. They can go 5.5 mph, so if they were our size that'd be equivalent to about 450 mph. Anyway, you definitely get the sense they are watching you and messing with you as they continually elude capture.”
Though concerned with a different branch of arthropods, Miss Murdoch, it seems, was on to something as she sat beside a spider. Regarding the defiant, elusive tiger beetle, this video shows it is too speedy for eyesight to be its sole information gatherer. The creature doesn’t run continuously full-bore; it practices stop-and-start running, which lets it periodically register and process what lies ahead before advancing. For those of us racing, often thoughtlessly, through our workdays and posting impetuously on social media, this behavior seems worth emulating. Jake himself writes, “All one can do is first reflect and then act.”

However, reflection, when overwrought, can misguide us. Hugo tells Jake, “You’re always expecting something,” a critique that goes a long way toward explaining the hero’s recurring disappointment in his quest for meaning. He should expect less, and he ultimately concludes, “One must just blunder on. Truth lies in blundering on.”

At one point, when Jake is over thinking things, he says he undergoes, a “dérèglement de tous les sens.” This is a reference to Arthur Rimbaud’s credo: the poet must make himself a seer through a rational derangement of all the senses. The quotation is a comic step from the ridiculous to the sublime, as Jake was prompted to the Frenchman during a rambling monologue that included ferry and train smells on his way to Paris.

Sadly, Iris Murdoch suffered a form of derangement. Her struggle with Alzheimer’s was played out sensitively by Judi Dench in Iris. Such performances have helped make Dench the second-most admired English woman today and certainly more well-known than any American philosopher.

The centathlete was reminded of his late relative Y., who similarly capitulated. Long ago, Y. secured job interviews for an unformed centathlete who had studied Liberal Arts and was rather uncertain about how to identify and pursue a line of work. One of those interviews resulted in a job and a career began. We look back and recognize how many people helped us on our way, and some acts become in hindsight even more magnanimous and pivotal. Much gratitude and respect owed to Y, and much love: the centathlete relished conversations with him over three decades.

Y. was an erudite, successful and portly man with a mordant sense of humor. He did not suffer those he perceived as fools and consequently could seem imperious. He would offhandedly praise or, more frequently, dismiss select works by his rough contemporaries: Vidal, Mailer, Capote, Cheever, Updike and others. During the Mad Men era, Y. was a senior executive at J. Walter Thompson and other public relations agencies; his duties included traveling the world buying and launching satellite offices. He helped people whom he liked, and he liked many, to advance their careers through heightened introductions.

Y. was a member of The Princeton Club in Manhattan by affinity, not schooling: he’d actually attended Brooklyn College. He dined regularly at the club, where he preferred shrimp cocktail for his belly and sundry cocktails for his significant intellect. His eyes sparkled with both mischief and the calculating regard of someone who has used and hustled others—the same gleam one sees in many photos of Vidal, Mailer and Capote.

The last two conversations with Y. stand out in part because his Alzheimer’s arose during the time between. During the last call, after Y. had been moved to a facility, Y. repeated how glad he was for the call and he asked about the centathlete’s grandmother’s well-being. Other topics were beyond his reach; no literature was discussed. The voice was thin and trebly, and all mischief had been flushed out by the disease or the medication. The man was nearly gone.

Several years earlier, the previous chat was lengthy, probably an hour long. Y. asked the centathlete for help in writing a philosophical novel in a sort of Ayn Rand style. It would be a book about ideas, aliens and atheism, Y. said—he was a devout, vocal non-believer dating back to his college days. The clincher of this book, Y. emphasized with relish several times, would be that, “in the end the bad guys win.” Mischief and calculation emanated from the phone.

Y.’s cynical stance would have placed him at odds with Iris Murdoch. “She had such a sweet nature,” said her widower, John Bayley. Indeed, Under the Net advocates hope. The novelist herself said more broadly, "A readable novel is a gift to humanity. It provides an innocent occupation. Any novel takes people away from their troubles and the television set; it may even stir them to reflect about human life, characters, morals."

A noble, generous thinker and a larger-than-life person, Iris Murdoch inspired much admiration, and some damning praise. A.N. Wilson wrote, “[Murdoch] had all the qualities of greatness except greatness. She seemed like a great woman when one was in her presence, and her novels have a compelling quality of almost-greatness.”

We might rise to Murdoch’s defense by observing that if one’s few detractors are especially eloquent, then one has done something right.

In an earlier interview with The Guardian, Bayley said about his remarkable, prolific wife, “I used to think the attitude she took to her books rather splendid: she'd be in the middle of a novel and she'd say, “Oh I don't think this one is much good, but better luck next time!” She was like a gambler, you know, there was always another roll of the dice.'”

The centathlete relates to the gambler’s mentality: some posts outshine others. In this running of the centathlon, 29 rolls are now completed and the pace has lagged, but we keep going...

Saturday, June 15, 2013

# 58 The Age of Innocence – Edith Wharton

Ryder: a curious diagnosis
Carson: nostalgic through and through
Wharton: supremely objective? 
Kundera: the State lays claim to Memory
1993 was an eventful year in the life of Winona Ryder. She won a Golden Globe and was nominated for an Academy Award for her performance as May Welland in Martin Scorsese’s The Age of Innocence, an adaptation of Edith Wharton’s 1920 novel.  She was also troubled. The diagnosis was anticipatory nostalgia, “whatever that is,” the actress wondered to an interviewer years later.

Anticipatory nostalgia.  The paradoxical condition begs for a definition, so we turned to the retired psychologist and blogger, Ron Evans, who wrote: “[It] is a scientific sounding syndrome in which one thinks about the stuff that is fading away and might be looked back on as being cooler than it was.”

This folksy summary feels incomplete and overly rosy—even Ryder’s doctor had prescribed her sleeping pills, suggesting some sort of psychopathology and compelling us to ruminate. Isn’t a spell of warm nostalgia accompanied by the melancholic chill of mortality? When an old friend relives glory days that rang out years or decades ago, do you only laugh uproariously as you did then? Or do you also pause, even if long afterward and very briefly, to contemplate the ultimate passing of those times, you and us all?

Milan Kundera, the Czech writer, has spun many chapters on such, er, stuff.  He digested his thoughts for his interviewer, the Top 100 novelist Philip Roth:
“This is the great private problem of man: death as the loss of the self. But what is this self? It is the sum of everything we remember. Thus what terrifies us about death is not the loss of the past. Forgetting is a form of death ever present within life…But forgetting is also the great problem of politics. When a big power wants to deprive a small country of its national consciousness it uses the method of organized forgetting.”
Kundera looks through a European lens that emphasizes the communal and the sociopolitical: remembering, forgetting and nostalgia are tools of the state. Many Americans, we suspect, reject or remain ignorant of that perspective. We cherish our individuality and blithely or defiantly believe we are self-armed with memory; the damn government has nothing to do with it.

These conflicting worldviews may have discombobulated Daniel Day-Lewis, the Irish-English actor who played the hero Newland Archer in The Age of Innocence, and had five years before starred in the adaptation of the Kundera novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being.  The New York Times landed a rare interview with the acclaimed method actor as he prepared for the Scorsese film.
[Day-Lewis] had been studying books on 19th-century etiquette as background for his character, Newland Archer, in Edith Wharton's novel about beau-monde New York during the Gilded Age. Already, he sounded happy to be ‘drawn into the vortex’ of Archer's life – ‘his subtle hypocrisies, his realization of those hypocrisies, the self-detestation…’  As the conversation in the restaurant drifts back to "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," a film he finds too bleak to think about, it becomes apparent how deeply he inherits what he reads and acts. ‘He actually changed my way of looking at things,’ he says of Kundera. ‘For a long time afterward I was very disoriented. I wasn't strong enough to resist him.’"
In The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton explored some of the differences in consciousness and manners between the Old and New Worlds. Archer’s love, Countess Olenska, disparages wealthy New Yorkers’ “blind conformity” to a European-inspired subculture, described as “rich and idle and ornamental.” In its emphasis on bloodlines, ceremony and manners, Newland Archer’s society smacks of Versailles; the New York upper crust is more crème brůlée than apple pie.  “It seems stupid to have discovered America only to make it into a copy of another country,” the countess opines. Her critique means more than simply tolerance of divorce: freedom matters, too.

US Magazine asked Michelle Pfeifer, who played the countess in Scorsese’s film, about her character’s bohemian individualism: 
Q: Countess Olenska likes to shatter conformity and convention. Is that true of you?
 A: I don’t know. Perhaps shattering things, yes. [She laughs.] I don’t know that I’ve ever consciously gone about doing that. I know that I’ve fought in my work against being pigeonholed… All actors are limited to a degree by the way they look. I think if you want to reach beyond the obvious roles that somebody might cast you in, you have to work for it.
The observation about an actress’s appearance sounds refreshingly candid. And the necessity of having to earn something beyond the expected seems like solid advice for thespians, theologians and theoretical physicists alike. The self-effacing Pfeiffer, when asked about one of her co-stars, the aforementioned Winona Ryder, replied, "She’s terribly sophisticated for her age. She’s a strange combination. I felt kind of maternal toward her."

The feeling makes sense: when The Age of Innocence was released, Pfeiffer was 35 and Ryder was 22. Daniel Day-Lewis was 36 and did seem more comfortable with his contemporary than with his junior in the dramatic love triangle.

In real life, Ryder’s relationship status was, to use a Facebook option, “complicated.” Her bout of anticipatory nostalgia was precipitated, at least in her own rear-view mirror, by the end of her engagement to Johnny Depp, not by a statist conspiracy à la Kundera.

This American sympathizer, still seeking to understand Ryder’s affliction, envisions a nine-month old cherub, the most adorable in the world, who is placed on all fours in front of what she wishes to play with most but, as soon as she budges, finds herself moving away in the opposite direction from the toy, which seems even more desirable as it becomes more unattainable. She has just learned to crawl—but only backward. If, beforehand, she had been anxiously aware that such unintentional repulsion would happen over and over to her, then we think we can grasp anticipatory nostalgia.

Newland Archer lived too early to benefit from the insight and chemistry that rescued Winona Ryder.  Left untreated, his symptoms were not so dissimilar from the actress’s; his longing for Countess Olenska is described in one instance as, 
“…an incessant, undefinable craving, like the sudden whim of a sick man for food and drink once tasted and long since forgotten… He simply felt that if he could carry away the vision of the spot of earth she walked on…the rest of the world might seem less empty.”
His anticipation is unhealthy.  Elsewhere, the narrator plainly calls Archer “a man sick with unsatisfied love.” In his serially thwarted affair, Archer is tortured by the cycle of temptation, failure and renewable expectation.

“Each time you happen to me all over again,” Archer tells the countess, who concurs, in the book’s only italicized sentence, the articulated essence of this romance. To readers who live and love, the sentiment strikes us as admirably honest and authentic. 

There is also a philosophical resonance that adds to the pleasure of re-reading or contemplating the scene.  Wharton in 1908 told a friend that she enjoyed Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche, according to Carol Shaffer-Koss. The author allowed that she had indulged in “a glance” at the German iconoclast’s Thus Spake Zarathustra, which offers the concept of the Eternal Return, or the Eternal Recurrence, according to your taste in repetition.

Eternal Recurrence is a thought experiment “...on a possible reality in which every action [people] had committed (all faults, setbacks, mistakes, and wrongdoings) was bound to be relived by them, an infinite amount of time.  Where they would be forced to endure their shame and grief over and over again, unable to change or improve on any past misdeeds, for all eternity.  And then to ask the question, “Would you be willing to bear such a reality?” 

Shaffer-Koss saw the theory applied in the Wharton short story, “Roman Fever” but, curiously, not in The Age of Innocence, in which Archer and Olenska are each willing to bear the reality of falling in love over and over again, though the recurrence brings joy and pain.  We might view Archer's line as the expression of Nietzsche's compelling, though controversial idea.  If Wharton didn't intend it as such, she may have at least smiled when it she pulled the German's arrow from her quiver and let it fly to the page.

Martin Scorsese, the expert dramatist, was drawn to the recurring conflict in Wharton’s tale. In making a costume drama of his native New York during the Gilded Age, he did not seek to lovingly recreate an era.  He had other ideas, as he told the critic, Roger Ebert
“What has always stuck in my head is the brutality under the manners. People hide what they mean under the surface of language. In the subculture I was around when I grew up in Little Italy, when somebody was killed, there was a finality to it. It was usually done by the hands of a friend. And in a funny way, it was almost like ritualistic slaughter, a sacrifice. But New York society in the 1870’s didn't have that. It was so cold-blooded. I don't know which is preferable."
Wharton, via Newland Archer, acknowledges the need for a good defense in considering the women of that time and their devotion to fashion: “It’s their armor…their defense against the unknown, and their defiance of it.” 

In an interview with Gavin Smith, Scorsese detailed his choices for virtually every aspect and shot of the film, from angle to number of takes, to lighting and camera movement.  The voluble director has throughout his career discussed his technique and work endlessly—making him the antithesis of his contemporary, Terrence Malick, who may not even speak—and for this reason the centathlete thinks of him as more artisan than artist.

In other words, Scorsese, by opening his kimono after every film, resembles a celebrity chef who strips off the apron and shares each recipe, its preparation and inspiration—with an air of agreeable promotion. In life, dining and cinema, the centathlete prefers ambiguity: more mystery and less history, if you please. How do you lean?

The master craftsman not only explained why he was drawn to The Age of Innocence, he revealed the take-away he sought. “What I wanted to do as much as possible was to recreate for a viewing audience the experience I had reading the book,” he said in a citation by Karli Lukas.

Some of us would argue that the goal should be to tell the story cinematically, rather than having it read to us with accompanying pictures… Any way, it’s not surprising that the film featured much narration (by Joanne Woodward), a bugbear for the centathlete, who prefers gesture to disembodied monologue. "Show, don’t tell" would seem to be a movie maker’s preferred credo.

Another practitioner of the visual arts has expressed admiration for Edith Wharton. Julian Fellowes, creator of the beloved TV series, Downton Abbey, in 2012 visited The Mount, Wharton’s estate in Lenox, Massachusetts. The Wharton Society’s chronicle of the occasion indicates there was no shortage of fawning.

"[Wharton] had the ability to judge the society from which she came from, but not condemn it," Fellowes intoned. "[Her work] is simply an examination of the strengths and weaknesses of society." Adam Poulisse of The Berkshire Eagle added in his report, “Fellowes was too modest to compare his writings to Wharton's, but it's hard to let the similarities and themes go unnoticed.”

Even the multitudinous, cultured admirers of Downton Abbey’s Crawleys and their ecosystem can acknowledge that Fellowes has oversimplified Wharton’s authorial perspective and simultaneously defended his own. In asserting objectivity, Fellowes in fact displays what the Nobel laureate psychologist Daniel Kahneman, the chronicler of cognitive biases, has called “bias blind spot”, in which we assume we think more rationally than others.

In his teleplays and screenplays of big-house aristocracy, Fellowes also exhibits “confirmation bias,” in which we search for memories that affirm our preconceptions, and "status quo bias," which makes us dislike change.

In a statement that could fairly be called representative of Fellowes’ perspective, Lord Grantham of Downton Abbey says, “We all have different parts to play, Matthew, and we must all be allowed to play them.”

Freedom within a track might make some of us recoil: what if you don’t like the part you’ve been assigned or born into?  Fellowes, we gather, upholds the robust molecule and rejects atomic anarchy. His utopia is a big tent that accommodates, eventually, most performers.  He has Carson, the head butler, express an objective, mature perspective that will help one thrive downstairs: 
“To progress in your chosen career, William, you must remember that a good servant at all times retains a sense of pride and dignity that reflects the pride and dignity of the family he serves. And never make me remind you of it again.”
According to his background on a wiki for the series, Carson's dominant trait is that he is “nostalgic for the past." 

Much of the pleasure in Downton Abbey is aspirational; it makes us want to live in fabulous Highclere Castle, wear those clothes, and dine sumptuously as they did back in those days. That sense is not conveyed in The Age of Innocence. The innocence is not something to be recreated because it “...seals the mind against imagination and the heart against experience.”

Wharton’s lovers cannot ever unite, even when offered a late encore in Paris. As the product of his “small, disciplined” society, Archer is fated to live in a melancholic limbo apart from true love—and without the capability to fully remember what might have been. His memory of his almost romance is sterile and “abstract.”

Another theme, a woman’s lack of freedom, suggests Wharton’s lack of nostalgia. Written some 45 years after the portrayed era, The Age of Innocence does not advocate a return to the days when a woman knew her place, which was substantially more conscribed. Incidentally, we suspect that the formula of reflecting on pre-feminist mores two generations ago will always hold a certain appeal.

A progressive analysis of nostalgia is very much a present occupation. In a May 19, 2013 column titled “Beware Social Nostalgia,” in The New York Times, the historian Stephanie Coontz wrote, “...nostalgia can distort our understanding of the world in dangerous ways, making us needlessly negative about our current situation.”

She also encouraged the cross-examination of even happy memories and finds those most sound who have carefully reflected on others’ sacrifices and deference so they “…could see that their own good experiences were in some ways dependent on unjust social arrangements, or on bad experiences for others.”

Neither Julian Fellowes nor his man Carson would find servile arrangements as unjust as does Coontz.

In April 2013, Winona Ryder once again described the phenomenon of distortedly looking back, albeit in her hazy fashion. She seems to have a broader perspective when she regards her salad days when she played the goth teenager in Beetlejuice, the 1988 Tim Burton movie. Or, when we read her words through a lens of wish fulfillment, should we see her as still afflicted by her originally diagnosed condition?

“I think there's a nostalgia going on for that era,” she told The Huffington Post, “or something.”

Monday, July 23, 2012

# 2 The Great Gatsby – F. Scott Fitzgerald

Foreboding in the Pool

Norma's drowning pull?
Sarah peeks under the pool cover.
If you make your inflatable bed...
Marat: cherub slain by a maiden

Gaius Maecenas is a name that readers of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel The Great Gatsby should reckon with for two reasons.

First, Mr. Maecenas (70 BC – 8 BC), a very wealthy, connected Roman politico and “munificent patron of literature,” referenced early in the text as a member of an alliterative triumvirate of lucre ("Midas and Morgan and Maecenas"), is credited as having built the first heated swimming pool. Jay Gatsby died in his own fabulous marble pool, so naturally we look back to the origins of chlorinated currents.

Secondly, he is a name source for a character in Satyricon, written around 61 AD by the Roman author and “party animal” Petronius, one “Gaius Pompeius Trimalchio Maecenatianus.” An anonymous scholar noted: “This name…shows how pretentious [the character] is. Gaius is a popular name in the family of the Caesars, Pompeius is the name of a Roman general, Maecenas was the name of the Emperor Augustus’ ‘spin doctor.’” Petronius’s character, a classical representative of the life of superluxury, is commonly known simply as “Trimalchio,” and he so inspired Fitzgerald that he modeled Jay Gatsby after him and even named an early version of the novel, "Trimalchio." Gaius Maecenas is therefore the forebear of Gatsby’s forebear.

By invoking Trimalchio, Fitzgerald was walking in the fresh footsteps of T.S. Eliot. The epigraph of Eliot’s "The Waste Land," published three years before The Great Gatsby, is a quote uttered by Trimalchio while relating the story of the Sibyl, described by a devotee of the poem as “an old, withered, but immortal woman who is tired with life and wants to die…”

In The Waste Land’s first stanza we are presented with another woman’s ominous vision. “Fear death by water,” sniffles Madame Sosostris, the tarot card reader with a cold. This warning gets our associative synapses firing as we imagine Gatsby’s fresh corpse floating on a “pneumatic mattress” in his swimming pool.

John McGuirk explained that Madame Sosostris’s warning is inapt because the purported seeress misunderstands myths and therefore the possibility of rebirth: “Avoiding such a death of self is to avoid renewal and remain in a living death.” In the later stanza titled “Death By Water” we read of the recently drowned Phlebas the Phoenician and we again rush for exegesis, in this case furnished by Arwin van Arum: “The majority of interpreters…see Phlebas’ drowning as a death by water that brings no resurrection, although there is a strange sense of peace in the death.”

Not all deaths by water invoke peace, nor do they involve drowning. Some are in fact fearsome and violent. Along with the shooting of Gatsby, we recall the stabbings of Marion Crane while showering in the Bates Motel (in the 1960 movie Psycho), and Jean-Paul Marat while reading in his bathtub (memorialized in Jacques-Louis David’s 1793 painting, “La Mort de Marat”).

Hitchcock, with his frantic pace and varied perspectives (cut to Face! cut to knife against torso! cut to silhouetted slasher!), dialed up the victim’s fear and vulnerability—to such an extent that one poll named this the “most nail-biting moment of all-time” in cinema. This death and its ensuing prolonged, clinical clean-up, deprive the criminal Marion Crane of the rebirth or spiritual comfort she may have desired. IMDB.com writes, “She goes to her room and takes a shower, which feels to her like absolution. But it’s too late for that.”

David, in contrast, glorified Marat the victim, whose draped, languid posture and cherubic smile suggest not fear but stoic heroism, even though his death was sudden and at the hands of a stranger, Charlotte Corday. The painter, who had visited Marat just the day before, assigns him a rebirth, according to the Web Gallery of Art: 
“…the most striking element is the arm hanging down lifeless. Thus David has unobtrusively taken over the central image of martyrdom in Christianity to his image of Marat. Revolutionary and anti-religious as the painting of this period claimed to be, it is evident here that it very often had recourse to the iconography and pictorial vocabulary of the religious art of the past.”
Unlike David, who in his painting honored the face and flesh of a close friend, Fitzgerald via Nick Carroway focused on the icon and the dream. Gatsby is noticeably depersonalized through the gospel of his death and burial; the emphasis is on the insufficient mourning. His body is not described.

The novelist is neither a movie director nor a painter. Fitzgerald gives us a kill without the hysteria and immediacy of Hitchcock, and without the sensual adoration of David. We experience the scene in the past tense through Nick’s eyes, memory and pacing. There is the unraveling of the lies in the wake of the accident, the build-up of Wilson’s unhinging and revenge wish, and Nick’s measured but charged vocabulary (“the holocaust was complete”) after finding George Wilson’s body.

Marat was slain by a “cool, gracious, studious maiden”; Crane was offed by a man behaving and dressed as his mother; and Gatsby was done in by a publicly cuckolded, needy widower. Murdering a bather is evidently not a macho deed.

Fitzgerald displays a painterly technique throughout his masterpiece, most obviously through his use of color (white, yellow, green, etc.). In the final image of Gatsby, the slain hero slowly rotates on his mattress as blood traces a circle around him “like the leg of transit.” Nick had circled his train schedule before rushing out to the mansion, foreshadowing this symbolic circling.

Gatsby’s corpse spins because the mattress had bumped into leaves, affirming that it is the first day of autumn, and evoking nature-worshipping concordant with pagan observance. Casie Hermansson wrote of the narrative’s emphasis of Time, “This seasonal calendar is more than just a parallel, however. It is a metaphor for the blooming and blasting of love and of hope, like the flowers so often mentioned.” In his death representation, Gatsby becomes a human water-clock marking the end of youthful exuberance and sexuality, and announcing the season to cease sowing and begin reaping.

As the body turns, we gaze at the water and contemplate related classical imagery. The Mythical Creatures Guide cites Walter Burkert: “The idea that rivers are gods and springs divine nymphs is deeply rooted not only in poetry but in belief and ritual; the worship of these deities is limited only by the fact that they are inseparably identified with a specific locality.” The guide adds, “Nymphs are personifications of the creative and fostering activities of nature, most often identified with the life-giving outflow of springs.”

What a nymph gives, a nymph can take away. In Argonautica, the chronicle of Jason and the Argonauts by Appolonius of Rhodes in the 3rd century BCE, there is the tale of Hylas, the beloved, handsome friend of Heracles. Hylas is thirsty, so he is drawn away from his entourage to a pool where he meets a nymph and his fate, as we read at the Online Medieval Classical Library: 
“A water-nymph was just rising from the fair-flowing spring; and the boy she perceived close at hand with the rosy flush of his beauty and sweet grace. For the full moon beaming from the sky smote him. And Cypris made her heart faint, and in her confusion she could scarcely gather her spirit back to her. But as soon as he dipped the pitcher in the stream, leaning to one side, and the brimming water rang loud as it poured against the sounding bronze, straightway she laid her left arm above upon his neck yearning to kiss his tender mouth; and with her right hand she drew down his elbow, and plunged him into the midst of the eddy.”
Sweet terror in this death by water! John William Waterhouse captured the boy’s defenselessness in his 1896 painting, Hylas and the Nymphs, which Ezra Pound called, “Foreboding in the Pool.” By calming the waters and cloning six more fair nymphs, Waterhouse accentuated the erotic allure of the event.

Like the springs of yore, the modern swimming pool has been at times linked with the energy and force of female libido. This is unforgettably demonstrated in Billy Wilder’s 1950 film, Sunset Boulevard.

When Joe Gillis arrives at Norma Desmond’s mansion, her swimming pool, like her house and her persona, is a former marvel that is now decrepit. In fact, the pool is filthy and rat-infested. Norma is a withered Sibyl-like figure, unfit to be Joe’s lover because her sexual identity has been neglected and untended for years.

Later, the consummation of their affair is confirmed at the pool, which has been miraculously cleaned and restored. Norma, born again, announces: “I’ve never looked better in my life... Because I’ve never been as happy in my life.” She then towels off Joe and clutches him around the neck from behind. The sinister movement reminds us of Argonautica and the drowning-pull of Waterhouse’s Nymph A. Norma is no longer a Sibyl.

Later still, Joe dies and floats in Norma’s pool and, by association, her dangerously revived perception of herself as a celebrity sex goddess. Like Joe, Jay Gatsby is shot by a mad, spurned lover, though not his own.

The 2003 French film, Swimming Pool, took a few more explicit laps with the motif of an Older Woman and Her Pool. Sarah Morton, a successful English writer, opts to spend a summer at her publisher’s desirable country house in France. When Sarah arrives, the pool is covered with tarp and littered with leaves, and her character’s Dowdy and Uptight Index is at record highs.

This index drops during the film, as the director François Ozon stated in an interview, “As Swimming Pool progresses, Sarah evolves in both her attitudes and her clothes. She blossoms, becoming more feminine and luminous.” The catalyst for Sarah’s metamorphosis from Sybil to nymph is the young, voluptuous and reckless Julie. Her main activity is bathing in and lounging by the water. Watching Julie unsettles Sarah, and one of her coping mechanisms is to painstakingly clean the pool. Ozon elaborated: 
“I’m utilizing the swimming pool for its plasticine quality and also for its enclosed and confining aspect. Contrary to the ocean, a pool is something that you can manipulate. The swimming pool is Julie’s space. The pool is like a cinema screen on which you project things and through which a character enters. It takes a long time before Sarah Morton gets into the swimming pool. She can do it only when Julie becomes her inspiration, and only when the pool is finally clean.”
In view of Sarah Morton and Norma Desmond, we see that an actively used, clean swimming pool connotes a vigorous sex life and nymph-like identity. What about the male Gatsby and his pool? It is notably “unused” the entire summer—Gatsby swims in it for the first time the day after the vehicular manslaughter of Myrtle Wilson, the first day of his loss of Daisy. His swim and his float on the mattress replace an amorous encounter with the woman who dwells across the water.

The tedious 1973 movie adaptation of The Great Gatsby, starring Robert Redford, depicts the murder scene in blinding whites, creating an atmosphere of sterility. Gatsby’s marble swimming pool is not dirty and dingy like Desmond’s, but then he is a young man obsessed with a dream girl, not a faded star dwelling behind curtains. Superficially, his pool resembles Norma Desmond’s as a symbol of Roaring Twenties’ decadence and celebrity, and, because of its non-use and emptiness.

Ah, existential emptiness depicted by a young man floating on a mattress in a plasticine pool—we would be talking now about the 1967 movie The Graduate, right? Incidentally, “plasticine” derives from “plastic,” recalling Mr. McGuire’s one-word career advice for Benjamin Braddock.

Tim Dirks describes Benjamin Braddock as he idles away his summer in both his parent’s pool and in the bedroom with Mrs. Robinson, and he explains how the director Mike Nichols made sure the viewer sees the parallel:

“With a clever transitional device and a montage of images, suggesting the emptiness and joylessness of his life, [Benjamin] walks back and forth transparently between these two pursuits and worlds. He rolls off the raft in the backyard pool, pulls on a white shirt, and enters a doorway to the Braddock home… One of their many sexual contacts is symbolized by his rising up onto a inflatable rubber pool raft (after the dive), inter-cut with his landing on top of Mrs. Robinson in the hotel bed.”
If you make your inflatable bed, you lie in it in more ways than one, like Benjamin and like Gatsby. Benjamin escapes his purgatory of the Pool and Mrs. Robinson, but Gatsby is not so lucky: he succumbs like Joe Gillis and Hylas. Gatsby’s nymph-murderer Daisy is two degrees of separation from the actual shooter, though her action provoked him.

We can only wonder if Mr. Maecenas commissioned a mattress to go with his new creation. We do know that the first swimming pool would have evoked already established conceptions of Life, Death, Rebirth and mainly feminine Sexuality. By the 1920’s, the pool had already attracted connotations of extravagance and celebrity. Its usage, covering and maintenance—and lack thereof—provided powerful imagery for subsequent artists with insights into psychology and astute abilities to press the viewer’s and reader’s button.

In his own death by water, Jay Gatsby participated in and contributed to a long and vibrant tradition of viewing a commonly refreshing recreational activity as something much more complex. The glamorous life is negated, love is lost, and absolution is denied for the hero who was blind to the foreboding in the pool.

See you in the deep end.