Nothing of the kind. No pensive delectations of the limited liability we enjoy as shareholders in bondings immune from mor-alising intrusion; no wistfulness for sweet depletions we could claim; no stirring celebrations, either, of our sovereign right to select our government.
Der Rosenkavalier and I do not go back very far. Possibly, to Blanche in Streetcar,being led a- way, but the sequencing of our assimilations is not always decisive. In music, especially, time cannot confine Octavian.
But I stray. As Cage was dismantling music at my college, a former Editor of the Pulitzers' St Louis Post-Dispatch, a Neiman Fellow and chronicler of Learned Hand, was teaching writing not to relive, but to relieve the past. We find inordinately little of this motive in the possessive individualist, and therefore not a constant fount of social remediation. Just more disgust. Of course disgust is nothing more than a capitulation to snobbery, with a little excuse of aromatics thrown in. As Orwell, himself, portrayed in Wigan Pier, the wedge is sensory, and there-fore natural. Punctilio is its imaging.
Revisiting the arresting, even the self-indicting precision with which Orwell describes "the seam" of class pain, I was placed four-square within the resounding walls of every diner, pit-stop, and unabandon-ed factory in the Pied-mont where I live; but also ensconced in pitter-patter at the Bemelman's Bar.
The most dreadful thing about people like the Brookers [hosts of the miners' rooming house] is the way they say the same things over and over again. It gives you the feeling that they are not real people at all, but a kind of ghost for ever rehear-sing the same futile rigmarole. In the end Mrs Brooker's self-pitying talk - always the same complaints, over and over, and always ending with the tremulous whine of 'It does seem 'ard, don't it now?' - revolted me even more than her habit of wiping her mouth with bits of newspaper. But it is no use saying that people like the Brookers are just disgusting and trying to put them out of mind. You cannot disregard them if you accept the civilisation that produced them. Like you, I've turned for decades to the tracts of social science to account for the ostensibly American dilemma. I've watched Parties contending for the spoils of these fine disciplines, their think tanks paving their way all day with shimmering excuses. Where do I go to close the seam, if only by discovery?
It's very easy to believe one wasn't yet alive, the night they invented cham- pagne, but it's hard not to feel conceived on the spot. This was cinematog- raphy by Sidney Hickox, montage by Howard Hawks. So, sure, it was Scotch. Fastball down the middle. Her arrival is framed by two right arms at once, and spins against the foreground flow, to rock the man back on his heels. That should not be legal.