New Ways to Kill Your Mother: Writers and Their Families

Colm Toibim , Scribners, $26.00

If Hell exists, there is a special place there for critics and reviewers who write that a collection of essays or stories or in fact of anything is “uneven.” Clearly the author or editor or compiler believed there was an overriding, cohering theme, or concept to the book and I bet that she/he actually took a great deal longer to think about and arrange the works exactly so in a particular sequence. A lot longer than the lazy reviewer apparently did to bother to figure out what that sequence was and why it was important. Colm Toibin’s collection of essays about writers sidesteps that by making its concept immediately available in its subtitle just so no one can miss it: “Writers and Their Families;” it is against this idea, among other things, that the critic ought to judge its contents.

It’s not the tightest of concepts, and Toibin doesn’t always work it out that well. Furthermore, his editor and publisher did him no favor with that title, which smacks of the trendiest Boerum Hill authorettes. It’s false advertising. There are no new ways to kill your mother inside this book -- sorry. Nor old ones made new and prosecution-proof either. None of the writers herein actually did kill their mothers although many would have liked to. Actually, fathers are more often targeted than mothers, and reading some of these essays, believe me, you will be, as I was, rooting for the son for to get out the ax.

John Butler Yeats, father of poet William Butler and artist Jack Yeats looms high on the list. A man of Cyclopean ego, he became a painter when one son succeeded in that field, and then switched to being a poet and playwright when son Willy succeeded in that area. Worse yet, he insisted that his famous son read, comment upon, correct and then agent his plays around Ireland, while he lazed about in New York City saloons being semi-famous. Homicidally annoying! No wonder Yeats eventually gave up on the Irish and married an Englishwoman named George. I might have myself.

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Montreux Jazz Festival –1976 –Nina Simone


The nearly breathless phone was from my High School friend Jerry Blatt, Bette Midler’s manager. Nina Simone was in town and would be playing one night only at the Village Vanguard. It was by invitation only and I should tell Art D’Lugoff or whoever was at the door that I was with Bette. Simone, that great singer/pianist/composer, had been battling the I.R.S. and had fled to the Caribbean in 1973 and then taken up residence in France. This trip to New York and the one night concert was totally hush-hush.

The Vanguard was packed and excitement filled the air. Looking only a bit older then when I’d last seen her at the Newport Jazz Festival, almost twenty years before, Simone entered the room, dressed head to toe like an African priestess. “Hello friends,” she said. She was alone, without her famous band. She sat at the piano which had defined her life from when she’d been a child prodigy in North Carolina through her years as a classical pianist at the Julliard School to today. In the midst of one of her jazz/soul concerts Simone was known to toss off a perfect minute-long Bach Gigue or Debussy Etude. But then when Nina Simone was on stage, it wasn’t just a concert, it was a happening, a visitation, a revelation, a political lesson, and a communion. This night would be no different.

She began her concert with standards: "Someone to Watch over Me," "My Baby Just Cares for Me," and “My Funny Valentine,” mentioning other Jazz musicians. Then she stopped, as though receiving a communication from Beyond, and began caressing the piano keys in what I knew was the intro to her cover of “Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair.” Except tonight the opening word was extended, riffed on, scatted, moaned, and suffered through for maybe four minutes. By the time she had reached the second word, I’ll bet everyone in the club understood what it meant to be a person of color in America.

Simone didn’t even wait for applause but sailed into "Little Girl Blue" then “Mississippi Goddam”, and “Four Women.” Ending that set with her trenchant :"I Wish I Knew How it Would Feel to be Free." It had been an extraordinary journey into her and our heart of darkness. Then she was gone.

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Marcel Proust --Les Temps Retrouve

from 50 Books Every Gay Person should Read

In a way, it comes back to those famous photos of the author: the deep-set eyes appearing bruised, as though from seeing far too much for his sensitivity, the complexion that even in black and white looks sallow, yellow, unhealthy to the touch. What nowadays is referred to by Fashionistas as “Heroin-Chic.” My first thought was “God, what a degenerate!” Then I read a bit about his life and realized he was increasingly ill as he aged with worsening asthma that couldn’t be controlled as anyone can today with an over-the-counter inhaler. No, Proust had to lie in bed, unmoving, for hours, in a cork-lined room, as dust and noise and soot and allergy-proofed as money could make it.

I first read Swann’s Way in the summer of my 17th year. I would take that fat Modern Library edition of the Scott-Moncrieff translation with me everywhere that Manhattan summer. I was attending Queens College, City University of New York, a free school not then under open admissions, with a tight student body of 4500 and we had to sustain a B-average and pass a “Comprehensive Examination” to move into sophomore year. Proust, Tolstoy’s stories, and Melville’s novellas were on my summer reading list.

 It took me about ten tries to get into the “Overture” which I finally accomplished on a sizzling August afternoon, shaded by trees at the south end of the lake at Central Park, and only once I felt utterly debilitated and gave in to Proust’s endless sentences. But once “inside” the book, I didn’t look back. Swann’s Way was rejected by all publishers and so printed by Grasset at the author’s cost. Declining it, Andre Gide commented “Too many Duchesses!” Yet, if Proust had never written anything else, he would have made it into the pantheon of great writers.

Five years later I came upon the two-volume Random House set of Remembrance of Things Past in Strand Books and I read volume two– translating the French directly –In the Shadow of Girls in Flower. It’s a painterly book, impressionistic, almost purposely non-dramatic, with characters –-Marcel’s grandmother, Bloch, Elstir, Vinteuil, Morel, Albertine. –- receiving a few new brushstrokes every time we meet them. Marcel’s descriptions of his hotel room at sunset, while he’s supposed to be napping at the seashore in Balbec, vary slightly daily, reminding me of all those Monet haystack paintings, one bluer, one more violet, one almost orange, etc.

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