August 20, 2015
Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow
If anyone had asked me about reading a huge biography of Alexander Hamilton, I would have declined, saying I read fiction. But seeing “Hamilton” on the stage in March changed my mind, and when Don Thomas recently offered the book he had just finished, I grabbed it. I am about three-quarters through, and it’s still thrilling. The author, Ron Chernow, knows how to pace his chapters so that the narrative moves along, attempting to match the remarkable energy of its hero.
And for the past two weeks, I have rearranged my life so that I can read the book mornings, after breakfast with the New York Times
and the crossword, when doable. I read for at least two hours into the afternoon, sometimes a bit longer, and I am a rapid reader. Still I have at least another week before me. And though I know the plot, I don’t know the details, despite having seen the dramatic version once.
“Hamilton,” the musical play by Lin-Manuel Miranda, which I saw on March 12, was astonishing not only for its story line, not only for the fact that the founding fathers and mothers were enacted by men and women of color, and not only because the unusual music was a compound of Broadway, rap, and hip-hop, such as had never before been heard. And it all passed my particular test: I could understand every word. Indeed I and the people I went with—the Hunter College High School alumni association had bought out the Public Theatre as a benefit, since Lin-Manuel was one of our very own—were so enthusiastic that we are preparing to see it once more, on Broadway, next November, again as a benefit for the high school.
Reading the biography, I can see Lin-Manuel’s attraction to the abundant energy of Hamilton, his brilliance as a theorist and as a popular writer. And the story itself, of an immigrant born into the squalor of poverty and illegitimacy on an obscure Caribbean island, and rising to be the foremost intellectual founder of this nation, responsible especially for establishing clear monetary policy and the department of the treasury. And all the time, he was a flawed human being, drawn into a degrading sexual affair, and willing to risk its open knowledge in order to clear his name of charges of fiscal or any kind of governmental abuse. It’s impossible not to admire Hamilton, even when he is being most obtuse. (The rhyme appeared in homage to Lin-Manuel.)
August 7, 2015
I watched the Republican debate last night and was appalled or mystified by the crowd, and not only because of the comic central (who was placed in the center) who seemed to be saying that he was going to run separately if the Republicans didn’t choose him as their candidate. He really does have delusions: thinks he can beat Hillary as well as any (or all) of the Republicans. How does a person get to live in such a delusionary world? Is it an illness?
The others were somewhat in awe of him, if not seemingly frightened. He is, of course, a bully, and they all understand the power of money. He seemed to indicate that he has contributed funds to most if not all of them, and his tone towards them was generally scornful. I wonder how many people, ordinary people like me, see him as a bully, a delusionary bully. He does have money and in this culture money is power. He also seems devoid of normal kindness, even towards those with less or no power, less or no money. His normal demeanor is scornful. Those who have less are weak; they are fools.
And the audience? They seemed with him, but I am hoping that someone has listened even more carefully than I, and that someone had had access to faces in the audience after some of the ugly things were being said. I hope someone is analyzing this, and that that person will tell us about the crowd’s response to him. Rachel Madow: are you listening?
As for the others on stage, the two sanest seemed to me to be the former governor of Florida and the current governor of Ohio. Jeb Bush stuck to his views on immigration; and John Kasich offered a vignette about attending a same-sex wedding, saying that, apart from human kindness, such weddings had become the law of the land. They seemed to this 86-year old political junky to be the only ones able to joust with Hillary. They’ve not had her international experience, nor her eight years in the White House. But they can brag about their hands-on management of state bureaucracies.
August 6, 2015
As I wrote in my blog on Yoya, I couldn’t remember whether I’d written a blog about her before. And of course the keeper of my website, dear Jen, reminded me that indeed I had, not once but twice. And so I went to look, and of course then I remembered. So what does it mean? After all, I am 86, and my mother was by this age so deep into Alzheimer’s that she knew no one by name, though she knew I came to visit her regularly, and she sometimes was at the elevator waiting for me (or someone, since people came and went from there).
I can’t answer the question, not the one about me or the one about my mother. But I am preparing to learn more about the question. I’m auditing a course at Hunter College called “Memory across the Disciplines,” taught by Professor Robert J. White, of the Classical and Oriental Studies department. The first class meets on August 31, a Monday night, and I am looking forward to it more than I can say. The reading list opens with Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, a book that was the subject of a thesis I wrote in the mid-1960s. The thesis was rejected for not being 500 pages and 12 chapters, and for being written on an “unimportant writer.” Perhaps I will read that 100-page essay to check whether I touch on “memory.” Clearly, I don’t remember, which is entirely appropriate for the moment.
So, if you are interested in memory, tune in a bit later on. I’m a bit over-whelmed right now: I traded a fat novel I had enjoyed for a fatter biography. I don’t usually read nonfiction. But I’ve been captured by Hamilton and I’m ploughing through it. Much of the history is entirely new to me, since whatever history I studied was British, alas. But that means that the book is as interesting as a novel whose plot you don’t know in advance. Who knew that New York’s upstate power was greater than the New York City’s and that the Governor would be an enemy not only of Alexander Hamilton but of the colonies becoming a country, a nation? Yes, I’ve a lot to learn in that area.
And so Hamilton has knocked me off course for the moment. Without knowing what the course on memory would include, I had been planning to begin to reread Virginia Woolf’s novels from the very first one forward. And indeed, I began with the draft that Louise DeSalvo rescued from oblivion: Melymbrosia, the first draft of The Voyage Out, not an easy read. And, speaking of memory, I thought it much different from the published novel I had first read more than 50 years ago. And yes, I’m reading The Voyage Out right now—in the evening, before bed. Hamilton gets my best morning hours!!
August 4, 2015
Perhaps I’ve never written about her, but that’s hard to believe. Still, I want to write about her now: how she brightened my weekend, though I had her only for two nights and two days and a morning. She is a Maltese named Yoya, who belongs to Don and Jorge, the two men I regard as among my closest friends, at whose wedding four years ago I was pleased to serve as witness. (Yes, it was on the very first day possible in New York.) Yoya knows me and my apartment as well as she knows them, since whenever they leave town, she’s left with me.
Outside of my apartment I use a cane, at least in part so that people made a wide circle around me. Even with Yoya, who has to be walked three times a day, I manage with the cane. And she manages, though she’s as averse to canes as I am. And so the cane resides in my right hand, while Yoya maintains her position to my left, or, if she must—for reason of grates or other conditions she objects to—she moves to the right, but well in advance of the cane. And so, until yesterday, we both managed to walk three times each day, usually two short walks and one long one with an errand or a purpose in mind.
To get to the bank to deposit checks, we walked through a parklike, shady block that was also interesting to a creature whose life is mainly lived through her nose. I could note (or at least sense) her ecstasy at certain revered spots outside of planted areas, and her stops were restful for me. She is also a delightful companion when I want to sit down for a few minutes, for she also sits down to observe the passing world, always on the lookout for other dogs.
She’s the kind of dog whose occupation is to guard me, which means she has to move when I move from one room to another. Even if she is fast asleep, my movement wakes her up and she moves uncomplainingly to find another spot near wherever I’ve located. And if someone out in the hall is coming or going, she offers me her protection in the form of a non-bark that can be described perhaps as “uh, eh, eh, uh.” The sound comes out a little like a rattle. No barking unless the person is headed to our apartment.
|Yoya laying nearby||Yoya on the couch|
But of course she knows the sound of the man’s name who comes to fetch her. If the phone rings to announce him, all I have to say is “Don is coming,” and she’s at the door waiting. And yes, he gets the ecstatic welcome I get when I’ve left her even for an hour, all the wiggling and all the murmurs. And yes, I write this just one day later, missing her.
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