Marc took to professing love for Salvy. He began making nighttime speeches; he would hold Salvy and say, "You're just the dog I always wanted. You are exactly the puppy for me." He began calling Salvy "our baby," and he'd ask, "How is our BAY-by?" over and over again. He also--and this continues to this day--would respond to each and every "daily update" text from the dog-walker. This text was invariably a version of the following: "Salvy had a great walk! He peed and pooped!" Marc would write back: "Good boy!" or "Hi, Baby!" or "Awww! Hi, Salvy!" Whenever a stranger would approach and start to talk about Salvy, Marc would say, "He's a very happy boy," with authority, and with an aura of "freshness," as if he were just now drawing the conclusion. Marc also advanced the theory that Salvy was *unusually* happy, though Dan privately wondered if maybe all puppies are unusually happy.
***
It's Saturday. Let's talk about Stephen Sondheim.
You're either a poet
Or you're a lover
Or you're the famous
Benjamin Stone
You take one road
You try one door
There isn't time for any more
One's life consists of either/or
One has regrets
Which one forgets
And as the years go on
The road you didn't take
Hardly comes to mind
Does it?
The door you didn't try
Where could it have led?
The choice you didn't make
Never was defined
Was it
Dreams you didn't dare
Are dead
Were they ever there?
Who said
I don't remember
I don't remember
At all
The books I'll never read
Wouldn't change a thing
Would they?
The girls I'll never know
I'm too tired for
The lives I'll never lead
Couldn't make me sing
Could they?
Could they?
Could they?
Chances that you miss
Ignore
Ignorance is bliss
What's more
You won't remember
You won't remember
At all
Not at all
You yearn for the women
Long for the money
Envy the famous
Benjamin Stones
You take your road
The decades fly
The yearnings fade, the longings die
You learn to bid them all goodbye
And oh, the peace
The blessed peace
At last you come to know
The roads you never take
Go through rocky ground
Don't they?
The choices that you make
Aren't all that grim
The worlds you never see
Still will be around
Won't they
The Ben I'll never be
Who remembers him?
This is astounding writing. It's haunting, and it's not even in the Top Tier of Sondheim Songs from "Follies" (a tier that would include "Losing My Mind," "In Buddy's Eyes," "I'm Still Here," and "Broadway Baby"). Do you not read it and feel you're immediately understood? So much pain bubbles up immediately. For me, it's a tedious, rocky feud with my brother; serious career doubts; frustration with my apparent inability to get my writing off the ground. Anytime I'm impatient or impetuous--when I rush to judgment about why someone has fucked up--when I put my foot in my mouth. And then there's an urge to bury the memory--to resist self-reflection. That particular urge is what Sondheim is addressing so effectively here. "You're either a poet or you're a lover or you're the famous Benjamin Stone." Ben is satirizing himself; he's celebrated, in the world, but by making various choices, he has sacrificed the option of becoming a poet or lover. "One's life consists of either/or"--do you think of the Baker's Wife, from the future? ("Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand? Is it always OR? Is it never AND?") The short, simple sentences are masterful; images pop up without apparent effort, roads untaken, doors untried; it's tricky to try to achieve this surface-level breeziness. And then we move to the big chorus: "The road you didn't take hardly comes to mind--does it? The door you didn't try--where could it have led?" (Classic Sondheim. The speaker is at war with himself. Self-delusion, self-deception is registered and dramatized. The questions undercut the assertions: "Does it?" Indeed, the door you didn't take is *always* on your mind, even if partly obscured by the buzz of daily distractions. Sondheim knows this; Ben does not, at least not consciously. I was struck by the NYT's decision to pair Lin-Manuel Miranda with Sondheim for a recent piece. Miranda's characters are almost never given soliloquies where their words are at war with their actual meanings. When Angelica addresses us in "Satisfied," she means precisely what she says. Also: Alexander in "Hurricane." Also: Eliza in "Burn." It seems to me that Miranda is much more tightly linked with Howard Ashman, whom he describes with enthusiasm more convincing than the enthusiasm he summons for Sondheim. "I love that Ariel does not know the word for *feet*--!" You see that particular form-underlines-content twist in the end of Act One of "Hamilton," e.g. when AH cannot bring his opening courtroom statement to a climax, and Burr simply says, "My client is innocent. Call your witness." Syntax drives home the point that we are dealing with two opposed beasts. That's one of my favorite moments in "Hamilton.")
"The books I'll never read wouldn't change a thing. Would they? The girls I'll never know--I'm too tired for." Ben's actions directly contradict his assertions. If he's too tired for "the girls I'll never know," then why is he spending his breath and his imaginative power on "the girls I'll never know"? "Dreams you didn't dare are dead. Were they ever there? Who said? I don't remember, I don't remember at all." But that's inaccurate; Ben does remember; he's evoking thoughts of a career in poetry, a passionate love life, a more literate approach to the world. (The one time we see consistent self-delusion in a "Hamilton" soliloquy is in the fascinating King George speeches. When George says, "I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love," we sense that he really doesn't fully perceive the wrongness of his own words, and the lack of self-knowledge is simultaneously funny and chilling.) Ben makes a pivot toward the climax of "The Road You Didn't..."; this is a well-structured Sondheim song, after all. Increasing, gnawing self-doubt manifests itself in a question articulated three times: "The lives I'll never lead couldn't make me sing. Could they? Could they? Could they?" This is too much; Ben must repress more actively; he must move from glib observations to a kind of battle cry. "Chances that you miss--ignore! Ignorance is bliss. What's more, you won't remember, you won't remember at all!" Let the yearnings fade; let the longings die. (Other selves are made literal; Ben Stone stands by and envies "the famous Benjamin Stones," the narcissistic projections, the celebrities who have invaded and occupied his dream-life.) Ben ends by claiming a kind of peace--and the claim isn't convincing. "The roads you never take go through rocky ground--don't they? (Who's to say that they do?) You can always pretend you might become more adventurous tomorrow: "The worlds you never see still will be around--won't they?" (Not for you--not after you die.) And, finally, no one cares about your own inner disquiet but you yourself: "The Ben I'll never be--who remembers him?" (Sondheim especially loves this last line. Sondheim the Grammar Addict. Past, present, and future tenses come together in one pithy observation. Your grade-school classmates will forget the promise you once showed. What you *will* never be *is* a memory, and everyone *has relinquished* the memory, but you. This closing line is among the more famous lines in the history of Broadway.)
And that's all for today. I wish that the NYT had assigned the Sondheim piece to Joni Mitchell or to Bruce Springsteen. I bet I'm not alone in feeling this way. I also wish that the piece had included some objections to Sondheim's work, some reservations; the hagiography in Lin-Manuel Miranda's writing feels oddly, inadvertently condescending and shallow. I felt this way, also, about Roxane Gay's strangely arid NYT profile of Nicki Minaj. Bring it on, Mr. Miranda. Bring it on, Ms. Gay. I'm ready.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvHplu1PulY
The greatest, oft-recurring thrill was to sleep next to Salvy. He would sneak into bed at 4 in the morning. He would sense his parents' excitement, because his tail would start beating the pillow at sixty, seventy beats per second, and sometimes, he'd lick your face, your hands, your kneecaps. He even indulged in face-licking while wearing his therapeutic cone--the cone that was meant to protect his body post-surgery. You felt as if you were getting engulfed by a puppy-amoeba; the plastic of the cone would scrape against your forehead, or your cheeks. Salvy really didn't mind the cone. And Marc would observe this: "He really doesn't mind!" Marc would make the observation over and over--in case Dan had forgotten, or in case Dan had a conflicting opinion (which would then trigger various crisis-management scenarios in Marc's routinely-worried mind). Dan did not have a conflicting opinion.
The cone came off without fanfare. Salvy just chewed through the structural fibers, so the apparatus, once like a crown of cabbage leaves, turned into a long, thin, flat sheet of plastic. Then Salvy ate some of the string from the cone, and Marc had to extract it from Salvy's mouth and esophagus; it had wormed its way down, down into Salvy's innards. Again, Salvy seemed not to have an objection. The record is unclear, but it's likely that Salvy's sense of equanimity prompted further commentary from Marc: "Look at him! He's a very happy boy!"
***
It's Saturday. Let's talk about Stephen Sondheim.
You're either a poet
Or you're a lover
Or you're the famous
Benjamin Stone
You take one road
You try one door
There isn't time for any more
One's life consists of either/or
One has regrets
Which one forgets
And as the years go on
The road you didn't take
Hardly comes to mind
Does it?
The door you didn't try
Where could it have led?
The choice you didn't make
Never was defined
Was it
Dreams you didn't dare
Are dead
Were they ever there?
Who said
I don't remember
I don't remember
At all
The books I'll never read
Wouldn't change a thing
Would they?
The girls I'll never know
I'm too tired for
The lives I'll never lead
Couldn't make me sing
Could they?
Could they?
Could they?
Chances that you miss
Ignore
Ignorance is bliss
What's more
You won't remember
You won't remember
At all
Not at all
You yearn for the women
Long for the money
Envy the famous
Benjamin Stones
You take your road
The decades fly
The yearnings fade, the longings die
You learn to bid them all goodbye
And oh, the peace
The blessed peace
At last you come to know
The roads you never take
Go through rocky ground
Don't they?
The choices that you make
Aren't all that grim
The worlds you never see
Still will be around
Won't they
The Ben I'll never be
Who remembers him?
This is astounding writing. It's haunting, and it's not even in the Top Tier of Sondheim Songs from "Follies" (a tier that would include "Losing My Mind," "In Buddy's Eyes," "I'm Still Here," and "Broadway Baby"). Do you not read it and feel you're immediately understood? So much pain bubbles up immediately. For me, it's a tedious, rocky feud with my brother; serious career doubts; frustration with my apparent inability to get my writing off the ground. Anytime I'm impatient or impetuous--when I rush to judgment about why someone has fucked up--when I put my foot in my mouth. And then there's an urge to bury the memory--to resist self-reflection. That particular urge is what Sondheim is addressing so effectively here. "You're either a poet or you're a lover or you're the famous Benjamin Stone." Ben is satirizing himself; he's celebrated, in the world, but by making various choices, he has sacrificed the option of becoming a poet or lover. "One's life consists of either/or"--do you think of the Baker's Wife, from the future? ("Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand? Is it always OR? Is it never AND?") The short, simple sentences are masterful; images pop up without apparent effort, roads untaken, doors untried; it's tricky to try to achieve this surface-level breeziness. And then we move to the big chorus: "The road you didn't take hardly comes to mind--does it? The door you didn't try--where could it have led?" (Classic Sondheim. The speaker is at war with himself. Self-delusion, self-deception is registered and dramatized. The questions undercut the assertions: "Does it?" Indeed, the door you didn't take is *always* on your mind, even if partly obscured by the buzz of daily distractions. Sondheim knows this; Ben does not, at least not consciously. I was struck by the NYT's decision to pair Lin-Manuel Miranda with Sondheim for a recent piece. Miranda's characters are almost never given soliloquies where their words are at war with their actual meanings. When Angelica addresses us in "Satisfied," she means precisely what she says. Also: Alexander in "Hurricane." Also: Eliza in "Burn." It seems to me that Miranda is much more tightly linked with Howard Ashman, whom he describes with enthusiasm more convincing than the enthusiasm he summons for Sondheim. "I love that Ariel does not know the word for *feet*--!" You see that particular form-underlines-content twist in the end of Act One of "Hamilton," e.g. when AH cannot bring his opening courtroom statement to a climax, and Burr simply says, "My client is innocent. Call your witness." Syntax drives home the point that we are dealing with two opposed beasts. That's one of my favorite moments in "Hamilton.")
"The books I'll never read wouldn't change a thing. Would they? The girls I'll never know--I'm too tired for." Ben's actions directly contradict his assertions. If he's too tired for "the girls I'll never know," then why is he spending his breath and his imaginative power on "the girls I'll never know"? "Dreams you didn't dare are dead. Were they ever there? Who said? I don't remember, I don't remember at all." But that's inaccurate; Ben does remember; he's evoking thoughts of a career in poetry, a passionate love life, a more literate approach to the world. (The one time we see consistent self-delusion in a "Hamilton" soliloquy is in the fascinating King George speeches. When George says, "I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love," we sense that he really doesn't fully perceive the wrongness of his own words, and the lack of self-knowledge is simultaneously funny and chilling.) Ben makes a pivot toward the climax of "The Road You Didn't..."; this is a well-structured Sondheim song, after all. Increasing, gnawing self-doubt manifests itself in a question articulated three times: "The lives I'll never lead couldn't make me sing. Could they? Could they? Could they?" This is too much; Ben must repress more actively; he must move from glib observations to a kind of battle cry. "Chances that you miss--ignore! Ignorance is bliss. What's more, you won't remember, you won't remember at all!" Let the yearnings fade; let the longings die. (Other selves are made literal; Ben Stone stands by and envies "the famous Benjamin Stones," the narcissistic projections, the celebrities who have invaded and occupied his dream-life.) Ben ends by claiming a kind of peace--and the claim isn't convincing. "The roads you never take go through rocky ground--don't they? (Who's to say that they do?) You can always pretend you might become more adventurous tomorrow: "The worlds you never see still will be around--won't they?" (Not for you--not after you die.) And, finally, no one cares about your own inner disquiet but you yourself: "The Ben I'll never be--who remembers him?" (Sondheim especially loves this last line. Sondheim the Grammar Addict. Past, present, and future tenses come together in one pithy observation. Your grade-school classmates will forget the promise you once showed. What you *will* never be *is* a memory, and everyone *has relinquished* the memory, but you. This closing line is among the more famous lines in the history of Broadway.)
And that's all for today. I wish that the NYT had assigned the Sondheim piece to Joni Mitchell or to Bruce Springsteen. I bet I'm not alone in feeling this way. I also wish that the piece had included some objections to Sondheim's work, some reservations; the hagiography in Lin-Manuel Miranda's writing feels oddly, inadvertently condescending and shallow. I felt this way, also, about Roxane Gay's strangely arid NYT profile of Nicki Minaj. Bring it on, Mr. Miranda. Bring it on, Ms. Gay. I'm ready.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvHplu1PulY
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