In this song, Carson McCullers (a female American novelist) name-drops and compares herself-- favorably-- to her literary contemporaries. She is discussing them with her husband, Reeves.
She dismisses many outright as inferior. Virginia Woolf, she says, has "genius" but "leaves [her] cold" since she isn't as "bold" as McCullers herself. She also finds herself superior to Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, and F. Scott Fitzgerald (her Ballad of the Sad Cafe she rates better than his The Great Gatsby).
She claims Truman Capote "plagiarized [her] cadences." Oh, and he knows that she knows this.
She does admire Marcel Proust, saying he "comforts" her, and that his "words" have a "timeless quality." But... his Remembrance of Things Past just goes "on and on and on and on/ For seven volumes." Its "length is very long." Indeed.
As for playwright Tennessee Williams, she can't fathom why his play A Streetcar Named Desire did better financially than her own novel-turned-play A Member of the Wedding. McCullers' only use for Graham Greene is that he "loves [her] poetic sensibility."
And she feels that Catherine Anne Porter is "the best one now." But only for now: "In about a year, I'm gonna show her how" it's done.
But she's most upset that Harper Lee, to whom she is compared, is "poaching on [McCullers'] literary preserves" and stealing her thunder. McCullers feels Lee gets more attention than she (Harper Lee is also a woman) deserves. After all, McCullers had written three novels and more, while Lee only had the one, To Kill a Mockingbird.
McCullers also mentions that she never reads her reviews because they might give her a "big head," an inflated ego. I think she is fine in that department already... she has already predicted that she will win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Do tell.
I purposely avoided mentioning the works of most of those other authors, because many of them are still household names in 2017. Their works still taught in high schools and colleges, and have been made into movies... and they themselves have been depicted in films by actors like Meryl Streep (Woolf), Tom Hiddleson (Fitzgerald) and Philip Seymour Hoffman (Capote).
Carson McCullers, meanwhile coined the phrase "the heart is a lonely hunter." So, there's that.
Next Song: Lover, Beloved
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label literature. Show all posts
Monday, January 30, 2017
Monday, August 8, 2016
Edith Wharton's Figurines
Edith Wharton's novels include The House of Mirth, Ethan Fromme, and the Pulitzer-winning The Age of Innocence. Her main topics, like Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters before her, were of women's status and the Catch-22 they faced: Since men controlled society, the only way to advance was to be (or at least act) dependent on men. For women who insisted on independence of thought and action, life was difficult and lonely.
(First, we should say that this is one of the prettiest melodies and arrangements Vega has ever composed. Perhaps it is meant to echo the music of Wharton's day.)
Like Vega's previous song on this album, "Pornographer's Dream," this song is about beauty and how it fades. This time, the price for the fading of beauty is examined, and what expenses, sacrifices, and costs people will endure to keep from paying that price.
The speaker examines some figurines that either once belonged to Wharton or which depict characters in her novels. They "still speak" to her with the stories they represent, and they both "play"... and "wrestle."
Another dichotomy appears in the next line: The characters had to weigh their "passions" and "prudences," in other words, being carefree or being practical. They also had to consider how much money they had, and how it could help them face (or not) their "fears."
"Her face and what it's worth to her/ In the passing of the years." So, like the woman in the nursery rhyme who admitted "my face is my fortune," she has to decide how much of her "finances" she is going to invest in her "face," since that is the asset that is worth the most (as opposed to, say, investments, real estate, etc., which women may not have been able to own).
The speaker likens a painted, made-up face to a "portrait come to life," but points out that instead of a canvas, this picture is supported by "vanity." But is that fair? Is it mere vanity that makes people slather on make-up and get facials and chemical peels?
No, the speaker admits: "In the struggle for survival/ Love is never blind." In the world of Wharton, men could not leave women; divorce was almost unheard of in the upper classes. But men could still cheat, giving time, offspring, and even their inheritance to younger, prettier mistresses. So staying pretty was vital for the social and economic "survival" of women. Did their husbands "love" them? Yes, but they also were not "blind." (Were the men themselves attractive? Well, with money, land, status, and power, "attractive" for men became a broader term.)
Anyway, that was 100 years ago! Women, as the cigarette ad assured us, have "come a long way, baby!"
Or have they? Well, let's ask Olivia. Who is she? She's the one "under anesthesia." She feels "her own beauty [is] not enough" and is looking to get it augmented with a "routine operation." Which will leave her "wit and wonder snuffed" under a chemical fog... and also under social pressure.
The next verses and choruses are exactly the same. Women still have to balance being passionate and prudent, while men get to just be passionate (prudent? Pff-- "boys will be boys"). Men still control the "finances"... and a woman still gets to face the "fear" of what losing her "face," her looks, will mean to her over time.
With Photoshopped images of physically impossible beauty to be compared to, women today are even more loudly told that "love is never blind."
The speaker concludes that we have not come that long a way, baby. Women still, she says, have their "wit and wonder snuffed." Women comedians, women scientists, women entrepreneurs, women creators of all kinds are still outnumbered and out-salaried by men.
"In our routine operations"-- simply going about the business and busy-ness of life-- "our own beauty [is] not enough." Still.
Next Song: Bound
(First, we should say that this is one of the prettiest melodies and arrangements Vega has ever composed. Perhaps it is meant to echo the music of Wharton's day.)
Like Vega's previous song on this album, "Pornographer's Dream," this song is about beauty and how it fades. This time, the price for the fading of beauty is examined, and what expenses, sacrifices, and costs people will endure to keep from paying that price.
The speaker examines some figurines that either once belonged to Wharton or which depict characters in her novels. They "still speak" to her with the stories they represent, and they both "play"... and "wrestle."
Another dichotomy appears in the next line: The characters had to weigh their "passions" and "prudences," in other words, being carefree or being practical. They also had to consider how much money they had, and how it could help them face (or not) their "fears."
"Her face and what it's worth to her/ In the passing of the years." So, like the woman in the nursery rhyme who admitted "my face is my fortune," she has to decide how much of her "finances" she is going to invest in her "face," since that is the asset that is worth the most (as opposed to, say, investments, real estate, etc., which women may not have been able to own).
The speaker likens a painted, made-up face to a "portrait come to life," but points out that instead of a canvas, this picture is supported by "vanity." But is that fair? Is it mere vanity that makes people slather on make-up and get facials and chemical peels?
No, the speaker admits: "In the struggle for survival/ Love is never blind." In the world of Wharton, men could not leave women; divorce was almost unheard of in the upper classes. But men could still cheat, giving time, offspring, and even their inheritance to younger, prettier mistresses. So staying pretty was vital for the social and economic "survival" of women. Did their husbands "love" them? Yes, but they also were not "blind." (Were the men themselves attractive? Well, with money, land, status, and power, "attractive" for men became a broader term.)
Anyway, that was 100 years ago! Women, as the cigarette ad assured us, have "come a long way, baby!"
Or have they? Well, let's ask Olivia. Who is she? She's the one "under anesthesia." She feels "her own beauty [is] not enough" and is looking to get it augmented with a "routine operation." Which will leave her "wit and wonder snuffed" under a chemical fog... and also under social pressure.
The next verses and choruses are exactly the same. Women still have to balance being passionate and prudent, while men get to just be passionate (prudent? Pff-- "boys will be boys"). Men still control the "finances"... and a woman still gets to face the "fear" of what losing her "face," her looks, will mean to her over time.
With Photoshopped images of physically impossible beauty to be compared to, women today are even more loudly told that "love is never blind."
The speaker concludes that we have not come that long a way, baby. Women still, she says, have their "wit and wonder snuffed." Women comedians, women scientists, women entrepreneurs, women creators of all kinds are still outnumbered and out-salaried by men.
"In our routine operations"-- simply going about the business and busy-ness of life-- "our own beauty [is] not enough." Still.
Next Song: Bound
Monday, May 16, 2016
Last Year's Troubles
This song doesn't seem to need much explanation. Vega contrasts the romanticized way poverty and crime are depicted in Dickens novels (and the movie versions thereof), old ballads, operas, and other entertainments with the poverty and crime of our day, which we see for ourselves and in our news.
"Maybe it's the clothing," she says, "the earrings, the swashbuckling blouses," and the "petticoats." Even their "rags are so very Victorian."
Criminals used to be daring, robbing people on the highway or at sea. Today, a "pirate" is someone who illegally downloads a movie-- hardly a role Erroll Flynn could sink a cutlass into.
Overall, those old problems "shine up so prettily" and "gleam with a luster they don't have today."
Meanwhile, today's homeless "just don't give it their best," she smirks sadly. Also, there seems to be a difference in place as well as time. The above comment is about "the ones here at home." "Here," she repeats, meaning America, "it's just dirty and violent and troubling."
Is there more or less "trouble" now or "last year"? "It would be the same, would be my guess," she concludes.
Which is worse, the threat of debtor's prison for bankruptcy and being hanged for pickpocketing... or the fear of being shot for your sneakers or having to live near a drug den? "Trouble is still trouble," she decides. As for crime, "evil is still evil."
So why are last year's troubles romanticized?
Because everything eventually is. Time softens all tragedy. Conquerors like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun were played for laughs in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Night at the Museum.
Even Hitler is has been a sitcom character already (it was called Heil, Honey, I'm Home, and thankfully it was quickly cancelled. But this year, Netflix launched one called Look Who's Back). And anyone strict about anything-- from grammar to soup-- is called a "Nazi."
Meanwhile, the heroes are played with, too. There is a movie called Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, and a new photo app can put your face on Benjamin Franklin's head.
We romanticize the past. Already, the 1980s victims of AIDS are compared, in the musical Rent, to the Bohemians of La Boheme, which was set in the 1840s. Rap somewhat romanticizes today's urban poverty.
We gave an Oscar and Tonys to a singing Oliver Twist years ago... and this year a rapping Alexander Hamilton looks to sweep the Tonys.
Someday, people will look at today's leaders with the same bemusement. Lord only knows what they will have Barack Obama sing on Broadway in 100 years.
Next Song: Priscilla
"Maybe it's the clothing," she says, "the earrings, the swashbuckling blouses," and the "petticoats." Even their "rags are so very Victorian."
Criminals used to be daring, robbing people on the highway or at sea. Today, a "pirate" is someone who illegally downloads a movie-- hardly a role Erroll Flynn could sink a cutlass into.
Overall, those old problems "shine up so prettily" and "gleam with a luster they don't have today."
Meanwhile, today's homeless "just don't give it their best," she smirks sadly. Also, there seems to be a difference in place as well as time. The above comment is about "the ones here at home." "Here," she repeats, meaning America, "it's just dirty and violent and troubling."
Is there more or less "trouble" now or "last year"? "It would be the same, would be my guess," she concludes.
Which is worse, the threat of debtor's prison for bankruptcy and being hanged for pickpocketing... or the fear of being shot for your sneakers or having to live near a drug den? "Trouble is still trouble," she decides. As for crime, "evil is still evil."
So why are last year's troubles romanticized?
Because everything eventually is. Time softens all tragedy. Conquerors like Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun were played for laughs in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure and Night at the Museum.
Even Hitler is has been a sitcom character already (it was called Heil, Honey, I'm Home, and thankfully it was quickly cancelled. But this year, Netflix launched one called Look Who's Back). And anyone strict about anything-- from grammar to soup-- is called a "Nazi."
Meanwhile, the heroes are played with, too. There is a movie called Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, and a new photo app can put your face on Benjamin Franklin's head.
We romanticize the past. Already, the 1980s victims of AIDS are compared, in the musical Rent, to the Bohemians of La Boheme, which was set in the 1840s. Rap somewhat romanticizes today's urban poverty.
We gave an Oscar and Tonys to a singing Oliver Twist years ago... and this year a rapping Alexander Hamilton looks to sweep the Tonys.
Someday, people will look at today's leaders with the same bemusement. Lord only knows what they will have Barack Obama sing on Broadway in 100 years.
Next Song: Priscilla
Monday, February 8, 2016
Lolita
Sting, in "Don't Stand So Close to Me," refers to "that famous book by Nabakov." The book he means is Lolita. It is the tale of a man who lusts after a young woman, as in too young.
Most of the works based on this character, like Sting's song and Stanley Kubrick's movie, were created by men, as was the original. Vega's response, as a woman, is to address the character directly; the speaker takes it upon herself to offer a somewhat motherly "a word of protection."
"Lolita, almost grown... go on home," urges the speaker. Have some dignity, she advises, and "Don't be a dog all your life... beg[ging] for some little crumb of affection... a token of blood or tenderness."
The "blood" may refer to the blood that often (but not always!) occurs when the hymen is disturbed during initial intercourse.
This Lolita is trying to "be somebody's wife," and that is not what she needs to be pursuing at this point in her life.
But how can the speaker presume to talk to her, what does she know? Well, a lot, as it happens, and from personal experience: "I've been when you are standing... in your mother's black dress," trying to appear older than she is.
She is "leaning in the doorway" provocatively. But being in a doorway is also being, metaphorically, in a place of transition from one status to the next; she is "almost" grown, but not quite-- so, on the threshold, in the doorway as it were, of adulthood.
Why is this Lolita acting this way? The speaker knows: "So hungry/ For the one understanding." Well, says the speaker, don't go to men for that. Here, I'll be your friend, I'll understand better than any man could.
So don't trade your youth and innocence-- and body-- for the understanding that is not forthcoming from some... guy, dear. Go on home.
Next Song: Honeymoon Suite
Most of the works based on this character, like Sting's song and Stanley Kubrick's movie, were created by men, as was the original. Vega's response, as a woman, is to address the character directly; the speaker takes it upon herself to offer a somewhat motherly "a word of protection."
"Lolita, almost grown... go on home," urges the speaker. Have some dignity, she advises, and "Don't be a dog all your life... beg[ging] for some little crumb of affection... a token of blood or tenderness."
The "blood" may refer to the blood that often (but not always!) occurs when the hymen is disturbed during initial intercourse.
This Lolita is trying to "be somebody's wife," and that is not what she needs to be pursuing at this point in her life.
But how can the speaker presume to talk to her, what does she know? Well, a lot, as it happens, and from personal experience: "I've been when you are standing... in your mother's black dress," trying to appear older than she is.
She is "leaning in the doorway" provocatively. But being in a doorway is also being, metaphorically, in a place of transition from one status to the next; she is "almost" grown, but not quite-- so, on the threshold, in the doorway as it were, of adulthood.
Why is this Lolita acting this way? The speaker knows: "So hungry/ For the one understanding." Well, says the speaker, don't go to men for that. Here, I'll be your friend, I'll understand better than any man could.
So don't trade your youth and innocence-- and body-- for the understanding that is not forthcoming from some... guy, dear. Go on home.
Next Song: Honeymoon Suite
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