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Hala, Teilhard de Chardin, and Channeling
Jun. 1st, 2018 10:20 amI was at CIA buying treats to bring to BB’s house when I heard someone say, “Patrizia? Patrizia!”
I turned around.
A woman in chef’s whites was staring at me. Dark blonde hair, dark blue eyes, round face.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the woman said.
“I don’t.”
“It’s Hala.”
OhmyGAWD.
Hala!
Hala was my old boss at Time Inc! My absolutely favorite boss throughout the entire course of my career! Every four weeks, she would call me into her office: “I don’t think you’re spending enough money. I’m going to increase your budget by [your high figure inflated to its 2018 equivalent goes here.]”
“I guess I must look older, huh?” she laughed.
“No, no, no! It’s just – you know. Last time I saw you, you were in heels, a suit and makeup. The dress-for-success look!”
“Well, you look just the same!”
Which, of course, isn’t true.
She didn’t look all that much older, actually. She looked... rounder. It suited her. Back in the days when Time/Warner was an enormous media empire, she’d always had that gaunt and haunted look.
We chattered like monkeys for a few minutes: I was off to a Jeff Beals meeting; she had a class. We exchanged phone numbers, and made a date to go lay flowers together on Teilhard de Chardin’s grave next Monday.
“Did you know Teilhard is buried here?” I asked.
“Oh, my God, no!” said Hala. “Teilhard de Chardin changed my life!”
Mine, too.
Who knew?
###
In the afternoon, I drove off to the Catskills to tour BB’s garden, which is huge and impressive though all the seedlings are still under straw, so there wasn’t much to photograph. Instead, I took a picture of BB posing with his spanking new Jeff Beals, Democrat for Congress sign.
BB and I had a wonderful talk as we almost always do. Part of what we talked about was writers who channel their characters. Meaning: writers who get so far inside the heads of their protagonists that they effectively become their protagonists for the duration of the writing process.
It’s kind of a dangerous way to write because you can sink too far inside a character’s head. But unless you’re content only writing autobiographical stuff, you kind of have to do it to some extent. It’s the only way to loan verisimilitude to characters who are not you.
“Give me some examples of what you’re talking about here,” BB said.
“Well, I guess Flaubert would be the most famous example. Madame Bovary, c’est moi. What do you think he meant?”
“Probably the same thing Louis XIV meant when he said Apres moi, le deluge,” Brian said.
I laughed. “Not quite.”
D.H. Lawrence channeled his characters; F. Scott Fitzgerald did not. Vladimir Nabokov channeled his characters, which is why Humbert Humbert remains an oddly sympathetic character despite his pedophilia. Of course, Nabokov would have denied this. Nabokov always characterized himself as a disaffected stylist.
I was so invigorated by this conversation that when I came home, I rewatched Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita, which I hadn’t seen in many, many years. The film stands up remarkably well for a movie that’s nearly 60 years old. Lolita is a very funny novel; Kubrick’s film can’t preserve that humor since so much of it was based on language play, but he introduces a different type of humor that springs from cinematic tropes, so in a way, the humor is equivalent.
I’d forgotten how brilliant and funny Peter Sellers was.
###
I am covered with insect bites from gardening. I am feeling a little bit melancholy as I always do when one of these OKStupid scenarios doesn’t work out. It’s always disturbing to me to be forced to contemplate my yearning for deep connection. I would much prefer it if I didn't have a yearning for deep connection.
I turned around.
A woman in chef’s whites was staring at me. Dark blonde hair, dark blue eyes, round face.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” the woman said.
“I don’t.”
“It’s Hala.”
OhmyGAWD.
Hala!
Hala was my old boss at Time Inc! My absolutely favorite boss throughout the entire course of my career! Every four weeks, she would call me into her office: “I don’t think you’re spending enough money. I’m going to increase your budget by [your high figure inflated to its 2018 equivalent goes here.]”
“I guess I must look older, huh?” she laughed.
“No, no, no! It’s just – you know. Last time I saw you, you were in heels, a suit and makeup. The dress-for-success look!”
“Well, you look just the same!”
Which, of course, isn’t true.
She didn’t look all that much older, actually. She looked... rounder. It suited her. Back in the days when Time/Warner was an enormous media empire, she’d always had that gaunt and haunted look.
We chattered like monkeys for a few minutes: I was off to a Jeff Beals meeting; she had a class. We exchanged phone numbers, and made a date to go lay flowers together on Teilhard de Chardin’s grave next Monday.
“Did you know Teilhard is buried here?” I asked.
“Oh, my God, no!” said Hala. “Teilhard de Chardin changed my life!”
Mine, too.
Who knew?
###
In the afternoon, I drove off to the Catskills to tour BB’s garden, which is huge and impressive though all the seedlings are still under straw, so there wasn’t much to photograph. Instead, I took a picture of BB posing with his spanking new Jeff Beals, Democrat for Congress sign.
BB and I had a wonderful talk as we almost always do. Part of what we talked about was writers who channel their characters. Meaning: writers who get so far inside the heads of their protagonists that they effectively become their protagonists for the duration of the writing process.
It’s kind of a dangerous way to write because you can sink too far inside a character’s head. But unless you’re content only writing autobiographical stuff, you kind of have to do it to some extent. It’s the only way to loan verisimilitude to characters who are not you.
“Give me some examples of what you’re talking about here,” BB said.
“Well, I guess Flaubert would be the most famous example. Madame Bovary, c’est moi. What do you think he meant?”
“Probably the same thing Louis XIV meant when he said Apres moi, le deluge,” Brian said.
I laughed. “Not quite.”
D.H. Lawrence channeled his characters; F. Scott Fitzgerald did not. Vladimir Nabokov channeled his characters, which is why Humbert Humbert remains an oddly sympathetic character despite his pedophilia. Of course, Nabokov would have denied this. Nabokov always characterized himself as a disaffected stylist.
I was so invigorated by this conversation that when I came home, I rewatched Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita, which I hadn’t seen in many, many years. The film stands up remarkably well for a movie that’s nearly 60 years old. Lolita is a very funny novel; Kubrick’s film can’t preserve that humor since so much of it was based on language play, but he introduces a different type of humor that springs from cinematic tropes, so in a way, the humor is equivalent.
I’d forgotten how brilliant and funny Peter Sellers was.
###
I am covered with insect bites from gardening. I am feeling a little bit melancholy as I always do when one of these OKStupid scenarios doesn’t work out. It’s always disturbing to me to be forced to contemplate my yearning for deep connection. I would much prefer it if I didn't have a yearning for deep connection.
