Liars and Saints

  One enduring mystery (for me) is what Patricia Highsmith may have meant by her title, "The Talented Mr. Ripley." It seems debatable that Tom Ripley is talented. He leaves an obvious bloodstain on a heavily trafficked staircase -- after a crime. (He gets lucky because the landlady concludes that the blood came from a mouse. The landlady blames the cat.) Tom does not check that he has locked his door before (eerily) dressing as his friend and speaking in his friend's voice. And Tom neglects to change out of a particular pair of ostentatious shoes before meeting Freddie Miles; the shoes tell Freddie that Tom is weaving an elaborate lie. In any case, Tom seems to be slightly *more* talented than the people around him. He can write Marge's book -- when Marge herself is an obviously bad writer. He can quickly reproduce Dickie's paintings, without training (though Dickie thinks of himself as an artist). These are wonderful, pitiful characters. Marge loves Dickie (thoug

  I landed a job; I'm so relieved. I had not thought about how much this means to me. How nice it is to spend some time with a listless student, discussing the use of figurative language in "The House on Mango Street." How nice to hear from another parent: "My child says he couldn't invest one more hour in his essay, because he was upset about his uncle's death. But, between you and me, that's bullshit." How nice to read certain canonical student words: "Sorry this is so late!" (And to think of an immortal line from Beverly Cleary's novel, "Muggie Maggie."  If you're truly sorry, then why is this a recurring behavior? ) I celebrated with pizza, and with a new, apparently trashy novel, "Listen for the Lie." Things are looking up.

  A novel that knocked me over, in my youth, was "A Certain Justice," by PD James.  In that one, Venetia Aldridge, a brilliant criminal lawyer, has many, many enemies. She ruined a family by helping a rapist to evade charges. She refuses to defend a colleague's delinquent brother, etc. When PD James is in the "Justice" phase of her career, she is having enough fun that she can boldly announce, in her first sentence, "Aldridge is going to die." That cheeky narrative voice is part of the pleasure. It seems to say: "I can break the rules. I know what I'm doing." I think, today, the best "James successor" is Anthony Horowitz. I think Horowitz shares James's delight in writing. For example, look at his titles, which combine killing with a narrative or a grammatical device: "A Line to Kill." "The Twist of a Knife." "Close to Death." The new Horowitz novel describes a group of neighbors on a shared bac

 We're planning to attend a dinner--and demands for a ceasefire are happening on various campuses. It's possible that the topic of Gaza will surface at our dinner, and it's highly unlikely that everyone at the table will share just one view, exactly one view, on Gaza.  At the same time, my daughter is demanding a particular kind of bracelet; the bracelet actually tortures her, because it can get so tight that it cuts off the circulation to her hand. But, in the moment, she can't access the memory, and she just wants the damn bracelet. The "superbill" for today's doctor visit is allegedly ready for the insurance company, but this seems debatable. One spouse is prepping for months of "reimbursement" warring. The other spouse thinks that the doctor might (helpfully) intervene. He asks the doctor's receptionist for "filing advice." The receptionist says, "I have no advice." Optimistic Spouse dislikes this response, so he forge

  A friend has useful advice: "Know yourself, and cope." The advice isn't just: "Cope." It's this: "Recognize that there are some particular tar pits that you--and you, especially--tend to wander toward. And *then* cope, bearing in mind your own set of limitations...." My son's school sometimes complains about the diaper situation. There is a fair amount of ignorance and grievance at the school, and no one but my spouse has access to the same nuanced case history that I carry around in my head. The diaper issue can snowball--so that now, if I get an ambiguous note about a "potty accident," I freak out. Recently, I had a small triumph. I felt myself wigging out, and I knew where the spiral was headed--and, oddly enough, I chose to *act* on this knowledge. I pushed back, gently. I asked some clarifying questions. The matter was quickly resolved. My daughter is her own person--my husband has reminded me of this--but, still, I see my own

 Each week, I take my child to occupational therapy, because an authority figure once made this recommendation--and, after all, my son seems to enjoy the recurring session. He exits with a smile; the therapist says, "He is really maturing, emotionally, and, today, he stuck some stickers on a sheet of paper"; we all drive home.  Yesterday, a *new* expert dropped an "OT" bomb. "The practice can, in fact, be counterproductive. Too many occupational therapists want to make the world  comfortable .  Let's modify this....Let's purchase that special chair.....  But, in truth, the world is a challenging place. You want your child to  find comfort *in* discomfort ...." As my head began to spin, I recalled "The Simpsons," and its observations about adult idiocy. At the start of Season Four, Homer and Marge believe they are doing what is best for their kids, by sending them to "Kamp Krusty." But the camp is, in fact, "a Dickensian hor

 In his most recent book, Andrew Rannells writes about heading (solo) to a performance of "Follies," wishing "to have my heart broken by Bernadette Peters." I know what he means. Peters's character--Sally Durant Plummer--has a special place in my own inner landscape.  One kind of musical theater heroine tells the audience exactly what she wants: I'm thinking of Maria ("I Have Confidence"), Dolly ("Put on Your Sunday Clothes"), Marian ("My White Knight"). Certainly, Sondheim was capable of writing this kind of character: I'm thinking of Momma Rose ("Some People"). But Sally, in "Follies," doesn't fit the mold. Sally's "I Want" moment--when we expect her to be candid and articulate, i.e., "I'm not throwing away my shot"--is actually a song called "Don't Look at Me." And--though she is a stranger to herself--she suggests to us that her great, unexamined wish is t

 I spent the weekend editing college essays. This was to audition for a job as an editor; I didn't realize that was the job until halfway through the interview call, but life is strange. A few things became clear to me--through my interview, and through my homework--and I'm writing them down for the day when my first child turns seventeen. * The point is to make the judge *like* you.  Many students think they are aiming to "seem impressive," but in fact a recitation of triumphs is boring. It's better to pick a failure, and describe the failure in a charming way. A corollary, from my college writing class: "You aren't writing to score a date. You're writing to tell the truth about your life." * This is the time to have the "show, don't tell" talk.  Some writers push back against the cliche.  It's fine to "tell"!  Maybe .  But, since the space on an application is limited, I think "showing" is crucial here. Man

 One thing Stephen Schwartz does extraordinarily well is the "I Want" song: "The Spark of Creation," "The Wizard and I," "Out There," "Just Around the Riverbend." He understands that a musical's protagonist should have absurd ambitions: to play God (as in "Eden"), to act as co-ruler of Oz ("Wicked"). It's nice to see Schwartz returning, so many years after "Wicked," doing the thing he does best. Jackie, in "The Queen of Versailles," is another version of Elphaba, someone with few advantages (and one enormous dream). It's not clear to me how Chenoweth will play the adolescent Jackie, but if any late-career actor can pull it off....? It takes cunning to climb from penury to stratospheric wealth; Jackie eventually obtains the means to build the largest house in America. Though it's easy to focus on Jackie's tackiness (she is tacky), a smart writer observes that Jackie is (also) so

  There is a neighbor of mine I dread; he is in no way objectionable. Every time I see him, he has an appropriate, innocuous remark, e.g., "How about this weather?" or "Gosh.....I can't find anything to do with this little guy on a half-day!" .....The reason I loathe these interactions is that they are so utterly banal. I feel myself gearing up for the performance, and I just want to scratch out my own eyes. And so I appreciated the new (Holly Gramazio) novel, "The Husbands," which is about a woman who discovers that she has a magic attic. If her husband climbs up into the attic, a time-warp transformation occurs, and a new husband emerges. Because it's so easy to dispose of husbands, the protagonist realizes that certain things in this world--overlooked things--really, truly matter. It's a problem if your husband watches too many consecutive episodes of "Mindhunter." It's a problem if your husband wears sneakers with individual &

 I have an interview with an intense Manhattan "tutoring firm," and my career coach has advice. "You still talk too much," she says. "If you have a little question in your head-- Am I talking too much?-- the answer is yes." This makes me laugh. "You can always pause," she adds. "You could pause and say,  Do you need another example from me ?" (Unstated: "The answer will be no!") We are trying to generate "safe" questions for the do-you-have-a-question portion. "Here's one," I offer. "Can you describe a typical family who might seek out your services?" The career coach rolls her eyes. "We know the kind of family who would enlist these services....We know exactly what kind of family they're ensnaring...." I begin to daydream. "I'd like two hours per night, Monday through Friday, and then the daylight hours become planning time...." "Again, no," she says. She

 I took my daughter to the library, just to return a book, but she wanted to go in. Then, inevitably, she wanted to hold and rearrange each item in a collection of approximately fifty Berenstain Bears sagas. And something else tumbled out. Steven Kellogg is now known for "Pecos Bill," "Johnny Appleseed," "Jack and the Beanstalk"--beautiful, lavish retellings of classic tales. But I hadn't known, early in his career, he had an interest in mystery stories. "The Mystery of the Missing Red Mitten" concerns a little girl, Annie, who may or may not be a victim of theft. Where is that mitten? She has lost five this winter.  Here is the challenging thing about a mystery. It needs to reconstruct the past--but, at the same time, there needs to be forward momentum. Alliances need to shift, and shift again,  in the present.  If it's just a story of one interrogation after another, after another, the plot becomes tedious. The joke of Kellogg's boo

  A movie is only as strong as its villain, and "Arcadian" has a hall-of-fame "baddie." It's an alien modeled on "Goofy," from the Disney cartoons. The alien has a kind of hood, like a snake, and the hood flies up to reveal a series of slimy heads, which convulse (again and again and again) right before the kill. The alien also has a kind of extendable fingernail; it inches forward, silently, approaching your face, while you sleep. For years, in "Arcadian," the aliens have been living in the darkness, in the woods, coming out just at night. Evidence suggests that--recently--the aliens have learned to burrow underground. Soon, they will be invading homes via soil, underneath the cement, and then your locks will be useless. You can tell that I love the aliens, but I also love their nemesis, Nicolas Cage. Cage plays "Paul," a devoted dad who takes sole responsibility for his kids' idiocy. (When one kid betrays the other kid, Paul s

  In her new book, Anne Lamott tells a story about a group of progressives, maybe in Florida, eager to improve the world. The progressives meet in a basement, and they complain about various injustices; perhaps they want to protest antigay curricular revisions. Perhaps they want to shout out their support for teachers of critical race theory. Perhaps they want to hold a drag queen story hour on the front lawn of Ron DeSantis. The leader of the group says, "There is so much rage here. It's exhausting. This isn't what I envisioned." Time passes, and the leader has a new idea. "Maybe we ought to take care of each other first." She asks, "Does anyone need anything?" Gradually, various needs are articulated: One person could use a handyman. Another could use help with meal prep. Still another could use some informal driving lessons. As one person confesses a need, another says, "I can help with that." A functioning group emerges. These people

  Like many others, I was irritated by Bergoglio's ignorant comments about transgender people, and about surrogacy, this week. (Bergoglio is now known as "Pope Francis." In his thirties, he lived in Argentina, where he supported a right-wing Peronist group, and in fact acted as spiritual advisor to the group. Colm Toibin writes: "When Jesuit priests visited poor areas, Bergoglio encouraged them to to talk about religion rather than social conditions, and to have nothing to do with unions or cooperatives...He exercised his authority with an iron fist, as if he was the soul interpreter of Ignatius Loyola.") I think there is mainly one sensible response to the Catholic Church, which is to laugh at it. Christopher Durang, a gay playwright and a recovering Catholic, just died. He knew how to make use of his childhood memories. He invented a crazy nun (for whom he felt obvious compassion), and he wrote an insane monologue, in which the nun fields questions from admire

 One of many strange things about OJ Simpson is that he wandered around for thirty years after having murdered Goldman and Brown. For thirty years, he lived with the open secret. (I'm curious how the world of football will deal with the inevitable revelation that Simpson's brain shows signs of CTE. Maybe there will be a renewed, superficial interest in "anger management.") What happens after you kill someone? And, also, what happens to your parents? This later question is the odd source of inspiration for "What Happened to Nina?" by Dervla McTiernan. In a somewhat tasteless move, McTiernan has spent many months considering the story of Brian Laundrie, the OJ Simpson of 2021. After Laundrie murdered his girlfriend, he hung out with his parents for several days (then he disappeared into the wild, and committed suicide). What were the kitchen-sink conversations like? What did Laundrie's parents suspect, and when did their suspicions take shape? How (and whe

  I've learned to love the head of my daughter's school, who holds nothing back. She shoots from the hip. You know you're getting the truth. For example, she handled a recent staffing crisis with this blunt email, to parents: Your child's co-teacher quit unexpectedly today, in the middle of the day. She just walked out of the building. The kids didn't notice, and I will be doing interviews over the weekend.... I'm certain if I, personally, were "finessing" this turn of events, I would opt for evasive language, which would only make people more curious (and curious in a pushy way). But the principal's email seems to say: "You can figure out the subtext. Please don't bother me. Everything will be fine." Or, something from last week: We had an earthquake today; we went to our designated safe space. The kids didn't notice. Then, normal activities resumed. I can't help but compare this with my son's principal, who sent eight em

 My neighbor put me on a group text, except that she has me confused with another "Dan"; she thinks I'm the Dan married to "Carolyn." I could have nipped this in the bud, but I didn't, and now it's too late to fess up. Now, I know about the missing dog, the desire for a toddler playdate, the softball game that conflicts with the desired playdate, the upcoming PTA fundraiser. Once, I spoke up under the mask of "Other Dan" (about the missing dog)--because silence seemed inhumane. The newest chain, about the PTA fundraiser, seems particularly invasive. Something buzzes in your pocket--you don't even "activate" the device--and suddenly you have eight or nine messages, and most of them are transparent falsehoods. ("Sounds wonderful! We have soccer lessons, unfortunately.") My favorite falsehood is this: "I will have to check my calendar!" ....Why should fifteen people have to hear about this fictional plan to ( at s

  An odd thing happened on Facebook. My town--which is frequently at war with itself--suddenly discovered self-composure. The reason: an intrusive third party. Someone went on Maplewood Moms, anonymously, and wrote: "I'm thinking of moving to your town, but I have some questions about the public schools. The reputation is iffy. Can you elaborate?" Almost immediately, a Maplewood resident wrote, "Invader! How dare you try to sow discord? Why do you hide behind the mask of anonymity? Show yourself!" And this resulted in a pile-on. My neighbors often argue about how to get rid of a tattered flag, or how to handle the somewhat disorderly public food pantry, or how to support (or not support) the embattled high-school principal. But we can all get behind our hatred for one (maybe innocuous?) "common enemy." And so I have fondness, and admiration, for "Lemon of Troy," a classic episode of "The Simpsons." In this one, residents of Shelbyvi

 One source of wonder, in parenting, is the constant chit-chat about "rigidity." It's a subject on "Daniel Tiger," and it's certainly a recurring topic in the various therapies my family has pursued. "When something seems bad," says PBS, "turn it around, and find something good!" I think this is bullshit. I actually think it's a form of bullying--even if delivered via Mr. Rogers's voice. Often, adults can be as rigid as they'd like--because they're calling the shots. If I'm determined to watch "Elsbeth," and you suggest that we ought to devote our evening to the new Netflix series "Ripley," I'm not going to acquiesce, in a cheerful way. ("It's not the show I want to see....but....look! The buildings are pretty!") My son has discovered the joys of argument; he doesn't always have exactly the right words, but he knows when "pushback" is appropriate. He understands that

 In a musical, the finale is your chance to lay your cards on the table; turn the subtext into text. One perfect example, from "Little Shop of Horrors," urges you to steer clear of capitalist greed: Hold your hat and hang onto your soul. Something's coming to eat the world whole. If we fight it, we still have a chance-- But, whatever they offer you-- Though they're slopping the trough for you-- Please....whatever they offer you... Don't feed the plants! Another moment of perfection, the end of "Sweeney Todd," suggests that you might profit from empathy: To seek revenge may lead to hell... But *everyone* does it, if seldom as well... As Sweeney.... As Sweeney Todd.... Finally, "Kimberly Akimbo" swings for the fences; the cast directly addresses the audience. "Your hours are numbered. So: Live while you're still alive." The day is dying... We're headed for the setting sun; we're crying... Because we're almost done. Time&

 A novel can be bad in an entertaining way--and so we have Anna Quindlen's new book. This is as cliched as a Lifetime Original Movie, but, because Quindlen is a Pulitzer winner (and her name generates sales), she has the support of a major publishing house.  The new book concerns a mother of four who suffers a fatal aneurysm right after dinner. Her friend, Annemarie, once wrestled with a near-deadly addiction to painkillers--and of course the new death triggers a relapse, or a near-relapse.  Annemarie has many fond memories of her friend. (The two grown women called each other "babe," almost continuously--and this is so strange that it seems like material for a Kristen Wiig sketch on "Saturday Night Live.") Annemarie once had a near-O.D. experience on the steps of a Mennonite house, and, having awakened, she found a new sense of purpose in Mennonite art. She built up a Mennonite business and, with some "tough love" speeches (apparently generated by A.I

  My family tried "The Croods," which was pretty to look at, but lacking in substance. Then Marc suggested "The Little Mermaid." Susie will watch almost anything; Josh is a mixed bag. I find the best strategy is to allot thirty minutes, toward the start of the day. Small children can focus--briefly--at an early hour. Let me concede that "Mermaid" isn't perfect. Scuttle and Flounder are boring (and they established an unfortunate template for the "cutesy animal friend," which provided diminishing returns, over a span of years, in the nineties. Witness "Pocahontas.") Eric is a misfire. The weird choral music at the end puzzles me. "Now we can walk, now we can run...." Why not just give these lines to Ariel? All that said, I'm astounded by the brilliance and gayness of this story. Ariel is, quite clearly, a young gay man; she is Howard Ashman. She will "bed" a bipedal creature--rules be damned. Ariel's nemes

 The other day, I went to see a show on Broadway that was not for children. The show's website said, "This is not for children." I paid a fair amount for my ticket, and I also paid for sitter coverage; this was not a small expenditure. When seated, I discovered that a tiny child was directly in front of me. She bounced around in her seat, "conducted" alongside the orchestra, and asked many questions of her mother, who happily engaged her in chit chat.  Note: Everything is on a spectrum. This kid wasn't whining, wasn't asking to leave the theater; it was clear that most of her conversation was growing out of a genuine sense of curiosity, regarding the plot. She had trouble following the plot--because it was complicated, it continued to unspool itself in a second, and even a third, hour, and it was not designed for children. I did "shush" once during Act One, and the mom seemed to realize that she'd made at least one substantial error (i.e. b

 Some writers seem to have instant success. Lorrie Moore, Amy Bloom, Alice McDermott--all seem to have flashed across the sky like lightning, blah blah blah. (I think McDermott's "origin story" is especially irritating.) By contrast, Jami Attenberg failed--again and again. At the age of twenty, she made the mistake of seeking approval from the novelist Robert Stone. Stone was a terrible teacher (I feel I know this, because I observed him in action)--and he sighed, when he saw Attenberg. "Honey," he said, "not everyone can make it as a writer. You could try a career in publishing...." Attenberg dusted herself off and continued to write. She went broke three times. She noticed that her own preferred topics ("a woman waits, for twenty pages, to get her period") didn't always line up with conventional "Pulitzer" material ("a history of the Vietnam War").....She traveled. She made friends with established writers--not for s

  I'm getting ready to do an SAT interview; this career guru has me practicing my spiel.  "You talk too much," she says. "Most adults have taken the SAT. You do not need to remind them about the process of elimination." She does get excited when she hears the term "growth mindset." This is a trendy topic in education. The idea is that anyone can get better at just about anything; improvement is a matter of practice. So, the notion that someone is inherently "bad" at writing is just toxic: Writerly skills are waiting to be cultivated, in each and every person. Adults get very fizzy about the growth mindset, but I notice some cognitive dissonance. For example, my career coach quickly begins to talk about her own daughter, and her experience with SAT tutoring: "I hired two different experts, and yet the needle didn't really budge...." A parent I speak with says this: "The growth mindset is so inspiring. By the way, my own son