Liars and Saints

 Broadway has "I Want" and "I Am" songs, and the "I Am" gold-standard specimen comes from "She Loves Me." Will he like me when we meet? Will the shy and quiet girl he's going to see Be the girl that he's imagined me to be? Will he like me? Here, the speaker is saying one thing: "I am anxious." But she doesn't actually say that. The insistent question marks do all of the work. Will he like me? Who can say? How I wish that we could meet another day. It's insanity for me to carry on this way... I'll try not to. Will he like me? He's just got to. There is a "ping-pong ball" effect: We move from questions, to fantasy, to cool common sense, back to all-engulfing doubt. It doesn't really matter what the speaker is saying. What matters is that she can't stay with one thought for more than a second. Despite the speaker's momentary burst of confidence--"he will like me, he's just got to"

 My favorite Lisa Simpson moment occurs at the start of summer vacation.  Lisa considers her own lack of popularity. "I guess I'll spend my summer with the novels of Gore Vidal," she says. "Mr. Vidal has dated more boys than I'll ever even MEET...." Marge looks perturbed. "GIRLS, Lisa," she says. "Mr. Vidal is a boy who dates GIRLS. Boys date GIRLS...." And Lisa rolls her eyes. Lisa seems less outrageous than other members of her family, but a functioning brain is not a death sentence. A smart person can be an interesting person. This is clearest in "Who Shot Mr. Burns?" Disturbed by the incompetence of the local police, Lisa decides that she will take matters into her own hands. "After all, Nancy Drew says you need just a few things to solve a mystery: an inquisitive temperament, and two good friends." Lisa makes a chart of the identities and motives of various suspects (the police chief can't pronounce the word &

 In the "Ramona Quimby" books, Ramona copes with existential horror; she is wearing a costume, for Halloween, and she entertains the thought that *no one* in her world might recognize her. If no one sees her as Ramona, then who is she? I tried to play a game with my daughter; I asked, "Are you my cinnamon donut?" To my surprise, Susie was sort of furious. "I am *not* your cinnamon donut. I am Susie." "Are you my berry lollipop?" "I am *not* your berry lollipop. I am Susie." I understand that I myself am impetuous, but it's a new experience to see this same behavior in a tiny human. Susie will not accept any help, when approaching her carseat, but, also, she lacks a plan; she just hurls herself at the seat, then gets distracted. She throws a look over her shoulder, to give me new instructions: "Papa, do NOT help me. Do NOT carry me right now." Except that she has heard the question, "Carry you?" many, many times,

 A narrative voice does not have to seem clinical, detached. A narrator can be a character, even if we learn few facts about that narrator. Alice Munro understood this. A woman with a high, freckled forehead came into the railway station...and inquired about shipping furniture. The station agent often tried a little teasing with women, especially the plain ones who seemed to appreciate it. "Furniture?" he said, as if nobody had ever had such an idea before. "Well. Now. What kind of furniture are we talking about?" A dining-room table and six chairs. A bedroom suite, a sofa, coffee table, end tables, floor lamp. Also, a china cabinet and a buffet. "Whoa there. You mean a houseful." "It shouldn't count as that much," she said. "There's no kitchen things and only enough for one bedroom." Her teeth were crowded to the front of her mouth as if they were ready for an argument.... Here, so much is happening in a tight space. The narrat

  In "Nowhere Special," James Norton is a young, single father, dying of cancer. He stands out because of what he *doesn't* do; he doesn't have big Meryl Streep meltdowns, he doesn't smile bravely through tears. Norton has the unenviable task of "auditioning" replacement parents for his son; we see Norton and the little boy in various settings, drinking tea, making chit-chat. The range of would-be parents is wide. One instinctively knows to engage the little boy in a guessing game: "How many candies can you fit in this toy truck?" Another makes a loan of a small stuffed rabbit--but it's just a loan, because it needs to be available for other children who find themselves "on the meat market." The clock ticks and ticks. Norton is pressured to initiate a "death conversation," but he resists. "Why should my son have to think about this?" (On a pedestrian level, this made me recall guidance about trips to the doctor

 Therapy has taught me an important sentence: "I can only imagine." It's different from: "I can't imagine."  When you say, "I can only imagine," you are suggesting that you will make the effort to imagine, and this is (possibly) a source of comfort. My neighbor's girlfriend gave birth and lost nearly all of her blood. It seemed that way. The blood just kept draining from her body, and she almost died. I can only imagine; fortunately, the experience is described in a novel, "Leaving," by Roxana Robinson. That was helpful for me. My neighbor's mother flew in from Europe, but then she did something terrible to her spine, and she had to stay in a hospital overnight. I can only imagine. My neighbor's little baby has chronic ear infections. Here, I really can imagine; I can imagine this well. "When my son had an ear infection," I say, "the crying became so intense, he actually made himself puke." My neighbor and

  I have a special fondness for "woodland creature" stories: "Goodnight Moon" (with its bunny protagonist), "Rufus the Bat," the "Frances Badger" series, the birds (and other inventions) of Leo Lionni, the mice tales of Kevin Henkes, the squirrel-centered "Good Day," the close-knit family in "Fantastic Mr. Fox," the Rosemary Wells raccoons. These animals are slightly exotic to children--but they are still "within reach." They are animals that kids can see (and think about) on a daily, or almost daily, basis. Also, a mouse seems so humble, so easily overlooked; there is something beautifully counterintuitive about "centering" the (fictional) concerns of a mouse. This brings me to "Anatole." Eve Titus, the writer, scored a hit with "Basil of Baker Street," which yielded the "Great Mouse Detective" (possibly the best of all Disney animated films). In "Anatole," Titus has

 Judi Dench was drawn to Shakespeare because of the swearing. She wanted to swear on-stage. Her early performance as Ophelia wowed no one (or almost no one), but she persisted. She did "Juliet" at the age of twenty-five. Her director wanted her to seem fourteen; when she sobbed, she collapsed on the floor, as a child would collapse. Dench also noticed Juliet's 3-D nature. Despite her youth, she has brains. When Romeo becomes florid, Juliet sticks to the facts. "Who are you? What do you want? What is your plan?" In the middle of her career, Dench triumphed with "Macbeth." She loves this play because it is fast and well-constructed; she says, "Do it without an interval." The Macbeths are not the Nixons; they are the Kennedys. They must seem "aglow with love" at the start. Because Lady Macbeth's "screen-time" is minimal, the actress must plant "seeds of madness" early on; we must see LM slipping as early as the

  The "Rabbit Hole" is a new picture-book museum in Kansas City, Missouri. It's not a series of framed portraits. Instead, it's like entering a video game. Each room is the setting of a famous children's story. For example, the world of Frog and Toad does not feature Frog, and it doesn't feature Toad; instead, it's a meadow of those famous brownish/green plantings, with Toad's mailbox, Toad's bed, and the frightening snake (see "Dragons and Giants"). You yourself play the role of Frog (or you play the role of Toad). I think this is so smart, because it seems to reproduce my daughter's experience of storytelling. It's clear to me that her idea of fiction is "porous"; she imagines she lives in a castle, when she watches "Encanto." She has not forgiven me for "Frankenweenie"--I think because she now believes a large mutant turtle might walk down the middle of our street. At the ticket counter, the vendor

  When Jayne Houdyshell appeared in "Follies," she had long interludes of "back-stage waiting." But she loved the score so much, she wouldn't return to her dressing room. She would just sit by the curtain; she would listen to the orchestra.  One of the more ravishing songs is "Too Many Mornings," in which Sondheim seems to channel Puccini. On its surface, this is a love duet. Ben, the star, is reaffirming his love for his ex-girlfriend, Sally. He expresses regret for the "many mornings" he has wasted, wishing his life were different from the life he has actually chosen. (Wishing that "the room might be filled with you.") But something is happening between the lines. Ben isn't really singing to Sally, in the present; he is singing to the ghost of Young Sally. He doesn't want a new love affair. He wants to be twenty years old again. As Ben tries to persuade himself that he is ready to leave his marriage, his thoughts become a

  Famously, on the set of "SVU," Kelli Giddish asked for more and more opportunities to show her character at war with herself. She didn't want Rollins to seem indomitable; she knew that interesting characters are flawed characters. This was a smart move; it led to the "Rollins and gambling" subplot, which showed off Rollins's special talent for undercover work. "Prima Nocta"--the return of Rollins--raises intriguing questions. When Rollins left SVU, she was scarred by too much violence; somewhat implausibly, she trained herself to be a profiling expert (overnight), and she was hired by Fordham. Was she running *to* Fordham, or was she just running *away* from SVU? Now, assisting her friend Olivia, Rollins rediscovers her appetite for danger. She assumes a false persona to entrap a local law-breaking custodian. In the process, she goes "off-book" and terrifies her husband. She is creative and just a bit exasperating; she is the Rollins we

 The speech therapist gives me a weary look. "Anxiety is the buzz word," she says, in a Bette Davis voice. "You're going to hear about anxiety." And, indeed, that's the topic that the new doctor wants to discuss. It turns out that everything is a function of anxiety: eating, pooping, sleeping. "What can you control, in your early years? What goes into your body, and what comes out. If you're experiencing inner turmoil, you can act out by refusing to use the potty." My spouse and I are referred to a "behavior coach." She seems friendly. On a Zoom call, she offers certain suggestions: "You may not know this, but a child can sometimes imagine all of life is just... No. Stop. Don't. No. Stop. Don't. And it's possible to make a modification. Catch your child being good! Look for chances to give positive feedback! .....Also," she says, "you can teach your other child to advocate for herself. She could say, Please

  In 2024, "Maybe This Time" seems cheerfully retrograde; not only does the heroine state that happiness is impossible without a romantic attachment, but she also seems to think that she doesn't have agency. She is like tumbleweed, just blowing in the wind. I wonder if Kander and Ebb studied "Guys and Dolls." Famously, in "Dolls," Guy, the male lead, sees "luck" as a willful sparring partner. If Guy loses all his money at the slots, it's because "luck" has opted not to "be a lady." If Guy sees gambling as a form of romance, then Kander and Ebb see romance as a form of gambling. Sally Bowles has been a "loser" in the game of love, but maybe this time, she will "win." The other thing that I love in "Cabaret" is a classic example of "content dictating form." Kander and Ebb know how to conserve syllables; if they seem verbose, then they are being *deliberately* verbose. So consider t