My Years With Proust - Day 562

Now the Baron longed only for a reconciliation, and to bring this about by depriving Charlie of everything he had felt assured of, he asked Mme Verdurin not  to invite him again; a request which she met with a refusal that brought her angry and sarcastic letters from M. de Charlus.  Flitting from one supposition to another, the Baron never hit upon the truth, which was that the blow had not come from Morel.  It is true that he could have learned this by asking him if they could have a few minutes' talk.  But he felt that this would be prejudicial to his dignity and the interests of his love.  He had been insulted; he awaited an explanation.  In any case, almost invariably, attached to the idea of a talk which might clear up a misunderstanding, there is another idea which, for whatever reason, prevents us from agreeing to that talk.  The man who has abased himself and shown his weakness on a score of occasions will make a show of pride on the twenty-first, the only occasion on which it would be advisable not to persist in an arrogant attitude but to dispel an error which is taking root in his adversary failing a denial.  As for the social side of the incident, the rumour spread abroad that M. de Charlus had been turned out of the Verdurins' house when he had attempted to rape a young musician.  The effect of this rumour was that nobody was surprised when M. de Charlus did not appear again at the Verdurins', and whenever he chanced to meet somewhere else one of the faithful whom he had suspected and insulted, as this person bore a grudge against the Baron who himself abstained from greeting him, people were not surprised, realising that no member of the little clan would ever wish to speak to the Baron again. 

Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 323-324

As much as we want to blame Morel, and he's hardly blameless, for the angry public "outing" of M. de Charlus there were other agents, most notably Mme Verdurin, who were only too happy to attack the Baron.  We've talked before about the Relational Self and while it is an essential part of the the construction of the Self, it becomes a major problem when that is your only self.  If you live only for other people, and not because your live to serve humanity but because you live for their response and through their machinations, then it never ends well because you don't own or control anything.  Last time we talked about the Baron growing old almost instantly during Morel's outburst, and, truthfully, what makes you either young or old more completely than love? When I was in love with the LBG, and I grew comfortable with the relationship, she suddenly made me feel so young and vibrant, but I also knew that there would come a point when she would make me feel terribly old.

Discography Year Two - Week 1

It's hard to believe that we've started a second year of Discography music discussion, and in some ways harder to believe that it's been half a year since we completed the first one. We have the band back together again, and have added some new souls.  Last year was a wretched, stressful year, and I know how much getting to spend time with you good folks and listening to great music made life a lot easier.

In honor of Gary Beatrice's dominant performance this week I'm including a brief snippet from Whit Stillman's under-rated The Last Day of Disco, where Josh (Matt Kesslar) explains why disco, although it will be misunderstood and parodied, was too big and too important to be dead.  In much the same way, the Discography will be misunderstood and parodied (especially Scudder's pretentious excesses) but it was simply too cool and too much fun not to come back.

Enjoy!!

Gary Beatrice

I'm happy that Gary sent out several year long comments. It was great to revisit forgotten comments but it also saved me from an embarrassing week one mistaken memory. I remembered Dave Kelley criticizing disco in his comments about Sly and the Family Stone. But in rereading his comments I realize we are in full agreement.

 I am paraphrasing, but Dave was saddened that Sly's brilliant funk gave way to its generally watered down offspring: disco. And compared to funk disco was often tepid.

But what I forgot was Dave's comment in the next paragraph, recognizing that some disco was great. And here Dave was again 100% correct. Most of us white teenagers during the mid-seventies peak of disco, hated or ignored it, often for reasons that were racist, even if we didn't recognize them as such. If we wanted to be a bit easier on ourselves we could blame the music industry. Radio aggressively divided listeners into rockers or dancers with no room for fans of both.

Regardless if you wanted to shake your ass, whether while drinking 3.2 beer at Lighthouse Limited, or at a wedding with friends who grew up in the area, you couldn't do much better than playing this soundtrack:

GREAT DISCO SONGS

10. How about a little controversy right out of the chute? When Hot Chocolate released "You Sexy Thing" I did not know a guy who didn't hate it. But Margie liked it. And all the ladies at the teenage nightclubs loved to dance to it. Listen to it now, 4 decades after its release, and hear how those vocals rock. This song is a blast.

9. Race issues abound in disco music, and the issues weren't raised with subtlety. Even in 2017 would a band name itself "Average White Band"? Regardless, listen to "Pick Up The Pieces" in the morning and damned if that great riff ain't buzzing through your brain at night.

8. More than a few disco divas hit the big time. Diana Ross wasn't the best of them, but Love Hangover was the best diva song.

7. Not all funk bands mellowed out in the disco era. I believe Parliament's biggest seller (and best song) was disco favorite "Give Up The Funk". Here's a tune that you can shake your ass and scream your head off with.

6. If there was ever a doubt that Heatwave's "BoogieNights" captured the disco era brilliantly, those doubts were put to rest when a movie about the seventies' porn industry chose the track as its title.

5) Just in case you didn't get enough Heatwave, try on the even stronger tune "The GrooveLine". It's not as well remembered today as "Boogie Nights" because it wasn't selected as the title of a porn biopic (although it would work). I find the groove even more infectious. I also can't resist the "whoo hoo" chant. Good disco does a great job of incorporating memorable chants, and this ranks with the best.

4) "Play That Funky Music" by Wild Cherry is another song addressing race directly. But I frankly can't understand the significance of "White Boy" and I can't figure out the singer's role in the story he sings. Is he the singer in the story, too? Is he a disk jockey? Is he the white boy? If so, does he perceive himself as being threatened or is he flattered by the feedback? I have no idea, and this is disco so I didn't show up for the lyrics. What I know is the music is brash and heavy on the hooks, and the vocals are rock solid. I may get a lot of resistance from by fellow scribes but I love this song, and I think it has aged surprisingly well. Plus "Wild Cherry" is a great band name.

3) At the risk of eliminating any slimmer of cool quotient that I may have remaining, I find the vocals in the Emotions "Best of My Love" to be among the best group vocals in any pop music, disco or not. The singers complement one another, and reach heights that would make Earth Wind and Fire proud. Since half of the members of EWF produced this song, the connection is probably not accidental. This was released shortly after the Eagles tune by the same name and I can remember arguing with high school classmates (not the ones on this site) that the Eagles' song was better.

2) The disco era was nearing its end when Michael Jackson released the fine album Off The Wall which immediately preceded the masterpiece Thriller. For my money the best song on either album is Off The Wall's "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough". Musically the track is relentless and dynamic, and not surprisingly the vocals are every bit as solid. Ironically "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" seemed to give disco more credibility but also helped it become sucked into mainstream pop and ultimately disappear.

1) In my opinion the best disco tune was released early in the disco era, early enough that disco was not yet considered horribly uncool. Labelle's "Lady Marmalade" is irresistibly sexy with its French lyrics and it's burning vocals which have never been matched in any number of covers. Like the best music of any genre "Lady Marmalade" is timeless.

Dave Wallace

World Party - Put the Message in a Box 

Here's an old favorite from World Party, an underrated band from the '80s-'90s.  In addition to being catchy as all heck, there's something about the universality of the song's theme that I've always loved.  "Now is the moment/Please understand/The road is wide open/To the heart of every man/A few simple words ... Put the message in the box/Put the box into the car/Drive the car around the world/Until you get heard"

Phillip Seiler

Jonathan Coulton, All This Time

Jonathan Coulton is a geek's geek. Is he most famous for his Portal anthem, Still Alive? His annual geek cruise, JoCo? His ode to spring fertility, First of May? Does it matter?

All this Time is a surprisingly deep and beautiful tune that explores the limits of humanity. If the TV series Black Mirror were a song, All this Time would be the best episode. I dare you to watch the video and not have feelings for a robot in a text based adventure game. I do not know why this song resonates so deeply with me but in the age of Trump and man's inhumanity toward man, a song about setting a robot free may be all we need or can hope for. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I do.

Kathy Seiler

Alicia Keys, Tell You Something (Nana’s Reprise)

With the news of the reprise of the Discography blog, I was both excited and intimidated. Last year I joined the blog well into its course and often skipped weeks or struggled with song selection. It was wonderful experience seeing the entries of people I spend time with, and I felt like I was getting to know those of you whom I have never met. That said, I’ve struggled all summer to figure out what the “right” song is for the first week of Year 2 for my post.

I’m writing this as I’ve returned from a vacation where a few folks involved in this blog spent time with us at a lake in New Hampshire. It was, without a doubt, one of the top three most meaningful and fun vacations I’ve ever taken. Both this experience and getting closer with friends this past year has me thinking about the value of relationships we have with others, whether they are family, friends, colleagues, neighbors, or (for some of us), those we teach. This is the inspiration for my song choice this week. But first, some background.

My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 13, then again two years later at 15. I am a middle child, and because of my mother’s illness, I ended up doing a lot of the parenting of my younger sister, who is eight years my junior. The experience left me in a sort of accelerated growth phase (not of height, as anyone who knows me will gleefully tell you), where I couldn’t rebel in the ways that teenagers do. I ended up becoming a responsible adult far too early and realizing my own mortality at a time when I should have been doing stupid, irresponsible things. While I obviously have regrets about this loss of youth, the experience left me with the realization that life is incredibly short and precious at a very young age. And from that, I realized that the only thing that really gives life meaning is the relationships we have with others. That’s resulted in me sometimes feeling like I wear my heart on my sleeve. I usually don’t hesitate to tell people how much I care for them, which I am not ashamed of, even though my candor can sometimes throw them off guard.

So, this week, you all have my heart. This is a wonderful group of individuals who I appreciate and love, even if I’ve never met you. And because I want to tell you this, my song this week is Alicia Keys’ Tell You Something (Nana’s Reprise). It expresses how I feel and my natural impatience to do so, perfectly.

Thank you all for intertwining your lives with mine.

Kevin Andrews

I Loves You Porgy, Tito Puente's Golden Latin Jazz All Stars - Live at The Village Gate (at 36:08)

Who doesn’t love show tunes? Me, that’s who. I’m not sure why I considered Porgy and Bess a musical, probably because I was force fed musicals before I was old enough to scratch a needle across a The Association record on the hi-fi. That, and it’s in English. Porgy and Bess is an opera. You knew that, didn’t you? If there’s anything I have a lower opinion of than musicals, it’s opera. I’ll make an exception for George and Ira (Great Jewish-Americans, as my friend Sanford would say) and Julie Andrews.

The first song that comes to mind from P&B is the haunting lullaby Summertime. It’s been performed by everyone and their mother. For the record, the definitive version is by Doc Watson. Though many have recorded it I was not familiar with I Loves You, Porgy until I heard the version on the linked disc. I bought the disc at the Flynn Theater during intermission of Tito Puente’s Latin Jazz All-Stars who headlined the Burlington Discover Jazz Festival in 1993. Soon after it became one of my favorite recordings ever. Twenty years later I heard the Billy Holiday version, heard the lyrics and learned how dark the song actually is.

The performers are a Who’s Who of Latin Jazz and they’re at their professional peak. The solos are emotionally wringing, lyrical and poetic, especially Dave Valentin’s flute. The four percussionists and Hilton Ruiz’s piano add a clockwork precision as a rhythm section. If you listen carefully during the solos you’ll hear the rest of the band quietly doing amazing things in the background.

In considering selections without context I went for songs that keep coming back to me over time. Songs that I like to spend time with like old friends. This record, this song, is to me one of the most beautiful things ever made.

I’d suggest you crank the album (Album?) while cleaning to take advantage of its infectious energy. If you listen too closely you’ll get caught up in its heart wrenching beauty. 

Dave Kelley

Ring the bells, slay the fatted calf, gather the finest donuts, schnecken and muffins in all the land!!!!  A big welcome back to the music blog.  Hello to all of the returning musicologists and a big welcome to those who are joining our merry band for the first time.  Part celebration of music, part opportunity to go on and on about whatever is on our mind, and part group therapy for having a barbarian occupying the oval office.  Let's get the party started!!!!!

"What's So Funny 'Bout Peace Love and Understanding"    Elvis Costello

Although I could put together a pretty lengthy list of Elvis Costello songs that I think are fantastic, I am not a huge fan overall.  I find many of his lyrics to be too clever by a half, and a lot of his music leaves me pretty lukewarm.  Back in the day, Dave Wallace and I had many debates with Gary B. about whether or not Gram Parsons was better than Costello.  Of course, DW and I were correct.  

My selection is a fairly obvious one given all of the nonsense going on in the nation and the world at this time.  This has long been one of my favorite Costello songs despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that it was written by Nick Lowe.  Only a cynic like Costello could get away with song titled like "What's So Funny 'Bout Peace Love and Understanding".  The lyrics are simple and powerful, and the instruments just propel the song forward at a furious pace.  Despite the title, Costello absolutely snarls the lyrics. 

I could go on and on (as I certainly will do in future posts) but this time I will let the music do the talking. 

Miranda Tavares

It feels good to be back. Thanks for getting the band back together!

Josh Ritter, Getting Ready to Get Down

Hi, all! It's been a long time. When we were last here we were all still coming to grips with the feces in the face that is our current president, and I like to think we've all come along way since then (not due to any current events, mind you, but because we are all strong, carefree and resilient), so I'd like to start off this blog year on a lighter note. Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?

I have incredibly conflicted views about religion. Like a weapon, its use depends on its wielder. It can be a drug or an elixir, a poison or antidote, a cancer or a cure. For those who need solace, a connection to humanity or the earth, a purpose, a sense of belonging, or general guidance, I am sure religion is incredibly helpful. However, for those who feel content to ignore their place in the grand scheme of things, who think there are so many questions there couldn't possibly be acceptable answers and so just forget it all and live so that you feel good about yourself and hope the rest will work itself out, religion can be an unnecessary prescription. And for those who have nefarious intentions, religion is an effective, powerful, and harmful means of control.

Getting Ready to Get Down is about a young girl gently rebelling against her conservative Christian upbringing. She's not running wild, she's just questioning the doctrine, declining to take it on faith, turning away and living in the manner of her choosing. I find the description of such tempered actions in the lyrics pretty compelling. In real life, people rarely cut ties with their upbringing in a sudden and violent manner; it's most often one small choice at a time.  Although the song has been hailed as rockin' alt-country, the music comes across as a bit bland on first listen.  However, it is incredibly catchy, and, after finding myself singing it at random, it has grown on me. Perhaps a more complicated, layered sound would not be such an ear worm. The same is probably true for the chorus. "Get down" is such a generic term. I'm sure Ritter was trying to be all-encompassing in his meaning, not wanting to limit the chorus to just sex (the most popular form of religious rebellion, I believe), but I think in his desire to be limitless he became somewhat meaningless as well. But to try to expound on such complicated ideas in a tap-your-foot manner...well, there's a reason he's on the radio and I'm not. Considering I play this song weekly, I'd say he made the right choice.  

Alice Neiley

Mack the Knife, Live in Berlin, 1960 – Ella Fitzgerald.

If forced to choose an Ella Fitzgerald tune to be stranded with—a deserted island Ella tune, if you will—“Mack the Knife” wouldn’t even make my top five. Not if I was put on the spot, anyway. I’m an insufferably sentimental spirit, and lyrics are often just as, if not more, important to me than the melody. “Mack” doesn’t cut it for me in that department. I’m drawn to “Ev’ry Time We Say Goodbye,” “Black Coffee,” and especially “Cheek to Cheek,” the song to which my 96-year-old-grandmother remembers dancing with my grandfather for the first time.  

On the other hand, who’s to say I wouldn’t be allowed to choose a second artist to satisfy my craving for melancholy on the island (who makes these rules, anyway *cough* Scudder)? If those were the parameters, and I had a moment to breathe, to think, “Mack the Knife” would not only make my list, it would be the heartbeat. Ella often provides me with an open door to more elusive emotions—joy, for example—which I imagine would be particularly fleeting as I paced back and forth on a lonely patch of sand. And Ella’s live recording of “Mack the Knife” in Berlin, 1960, conjures joy from the air.

It wasn’t until high school that I became obsessed with Fitzgerald. Her voice stopped—stops—me in my tracks. It’s magic. I was quite a serious singer myself at the time, and memorized her every vocal move the best I could, beginning with her rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I found it on a holiday compilation produced by Pottery Barn and listened to it, and nothing else, on repeat for a week. I subsequently bought the Verve album Pure Ella: The Very Best of Ella Fitzgerald on which “Mack the Knife” is track #1.

There are many (rather obvious) reasons this tune is remarkable, including but not limited to two key changes—modulations upward that perfectly match both the rising energy of Fitzgerald’s voice and that of her brilliant piano/bass/drum trio. And…she breaks every vocal “rule.” Perfectly. She slides between notes, she overemphasizes “r” (“pearrrrrly white”). Classic Fitzgerald.

But this version of “Mack the Knife” is also something akin to revelation. I used to believe, subconsciously I suspect, that sorrow and intensity made for the best (“deepest”) musical experiences, perhaps because songs were my only mirrors for those parts of myself, ones in which I often found myself lost in my teens and 20s. But “Mack the Knife” proved joy could be even stronger—its purity, its spontaneity, its way of bubbling up from an even further depth than sorrow, as if it had been hiding there, waiting for a voice.

Joy: when Ella forgets all the words about halfway through the tune. She’s a pure, natural improvisational genius, and in this moment she lets her forgetfulness (a.k.a. humanness) and her talent fuse. She even dares to imitate Louie Armstrong, and does so in the most charming way possible, capturing not only his rough vocal timbre but also his essence of playfulness.

Joy squared: a more subtle moment (between second 0:30 and 0:33 on the album version; between 0:26 and 0:28 on this youtube version). Subtle and necessary—like the day-in-day-out of love. Between those seconds, on the words “shows them,” you can actually HEAR Ella smile. Those are, without question, my favorite 3 seconds of any song. Unmistakable glee fills the notes. The sudden happiness constricts her vocal chords bit, as if she’s about to laugh out loud but sings instead. In that instant, a warm, expansive feeling blooms up through my whole body. In short, listening to “Mack the Knife” can be the difference between a good and bad mood. I imagine it would also be the difference between a cold, frustrating deserted island experience and a bright one. 

To say the least, I am eternally grateful that I can’t un-hear that tune, that voice, that joy-throated moment. 

Mike Kelly

"Hang Me In the Tulsa County Stars" -- John Moreland

Regrettably, I kick off this second season of the Discography by stating that anything I write about this song will inevitably cheapen the experience of sitting on your deck on a late summer night with a bourbon in hand and letting John Moreland make you feel okay about things for three and a half minutes.  Just go do that. Like now and then read the rest. 

++++++

I think we collectively get into trouble when we're unable to compartmentalize the myriad people, ideas, responsibilities and joys that make up a life.  This is just another way of saying the stuff you've heard before about living in the moment, taking things one day at a time, etc. etc. but it's still so terribly true.  Hanging with John Moreland in that Oklahoma sky is a reminder to do these things, but not necessarily by yourself and that's what makes the song all the more resonate.  

So, darling, let the charmers leave the room
Let them have that Nashville moon
I want to know exactly who you are

Then hang me in the Tulsa County stars 

Being able to shut the world off for awhile and making an authentic connection with someone or something is the reason why some people go to church but for me it's why I listen to songs like this one. I don't want to overstate the case here, but figuring out what it means to do this work is the difference between being miserable about how fucked everything is in 2017 America and being able to find a harbor of serenity that illuminates all the beauty that's still there but a little harder to see.  

Dave Mills

Song: Why Are You So Boring?

Artist: Desperate Journalist

As I begin another year of teaching philosophy and liberal arts, I think I might have to use this song in my grading. I might just have to send a link to this track instead of making written comments for students like the one in this Onion piece: http://www.theonion.com/article/guy-in-philosophy-class-needs-to-shut-the-fuck-up-1804. The song, by Desperate Journalist, is sort of the musical version of that Onion article. Desperate Journalist are a British post-punk band who debuted about 5 years ago. They grew up listening to punk rock, other British bands like the Smiths and The Cure, along with REM and lots of American grunge. The resulting sound is excellent, if you're into this sort of thing. The singer, Jo Bevan, has a great vocal quality that fits nicely with the aggressive bass, drums and electric 12-string guitar that round out the band. It's all slightly reminiscent of Garbage, but with richer texture, a British accent, and stripped of all unnecessary 90s-ness. "Boring," Bevan says, "is inspired by a certain type of irritating person I've spent many evenings with in pubs and at gigs and at clubs and at houses. People who think they are desperately interesting and original and crucially, more desperately interesting and original than anyone they meet, because they have once in their lives given something cultural or political more than a modicum of thought, or because they have been told that they have. These people and their lack of self-awareness and their patronizing chatter and their awful flirting techniques are everywhere. They aren't charming, and they're ten a penny. It's a protest song about tossers." So, if you end up with tossers of this sort in your classrooms or lives in general this academic year, send them a link to this song.

Cyndi Brandenburg

First Aid Kit, Emmylou

Here we go again, ready to embark on another year of shared sensory
and emotional experience through song. This time around, I'm gonna
take chances all over the place, and I commit to avoiding all the old
standbys as I strive to post something that's new (at least to me)
each week that I participate. I am going to take Scudder's invitation
as an opportunity to push myself to seek out new things when it comes
to my musical preferences and tastes, and I'm not going to worry too
much if I discover and share something that proves to be nothing more
than a one-hit-wonder.  As a result, my contributions here will
undoubtedly capture fleeting feelings of infatuation, occasionally
prove to be downright embarrassing (along the lines of, "seriously?
What are you thinking? That song sucks!"), but hopefully more often
than not, reflect an intuitive gut aesthetic that can not only
recognize a worthwhile new song, but also see the potential promise of
its staying power.

This first post is relatively easy because I've had so much time to
think about it.  Credit goes to both the amazing Alice Neiley and
Arctic expedition naturalist Steve Zeff for introducing me to First
Aid Kit this past summer.   I love this song in particular because,
while we can fill the blank spaces in our hearts and our minds in so
many ways, sometimes all we really need is a reliable, well-harmonized
partner in song.  The thrill of the storm is inexplicably great, but
the comfort of the calm steady matters too.  And in the best case
scenario, we get to have them both all together and all wrapped up
into one.

  

Gary Scudder

Cannonball Adderley, Somethin' Else

Remember last year when I said that if we did this again I wouldn't include so much jazz?  Well, as usual, my word means nothing. However, I couldn't even think about starting the second year with any other song because getting together again makes me crazy happy, and I don't know if I can think of a song which more purely expresses joy than the title track of Cannonball Adderley's 1958 album Somethin' Else.  Last year I championed the song Autumn Leaves from the same album, but I think I actually like this song better (I guess what I'm saying is that this is an essential album).  The truly excellent quintet featured on this album are Cannonball Adderley, Hank Jones, Sam Jones, Art Blakey, and, oh yeah, some guy named Miles Davis.  It's about the only time that I can think of Miles Davis essentially acting as a sideman once he had become MILES DAVIS, and maybe that's one of the reasons why it's so good.  We think of Miles Davis as a protean genius who reinvented jazz repeatedly (which is why, as every right-thinking individual knows, Davis was the greatest American genius of the 20th century) but it's sometimes easy to forget that he was an extraordinary musician as well; essentially, the son of a bitch could play.  It was Cannonball Adderley's album and that allowed Davis to just play, and there is an undeniable and infectious joy in his playing.  The strange comparison I'll make is to the Neil Young and Crazy Horse album Americana, where they put their own peculiar stamp on American classics, and they are clearly just having a great time with no pressure to promote new songs.  Everything about Somethin' Else is wonderful, but to me THE MOMENT is around six and a half minutes in when at the end of a Hank Jones piano solo Davis and Adderley just blow it out and bring it home in a transcendent moment that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.  It doesn't matter how dreadful life is at any particular moment, you cannot listen to Somethin' Else and not be instantly happier.

My Years With Proust - Day 561

   "Leave me alone.  I forbid you to come near me," Morel shouted at the Baron.  "You know what I mean all right.  I'm not the first person you've tried to pervert!"

   My sole consolation lay in the thought that I was about to see Morel and the Verdurins pulverized by M. de Charlus.  For a thousand times less than that I had been visited with his furious rage; no one was safe from it; a king would not have intimidated him.  Instead of which, an extraordinary thing happened.  M. de Charlus was speechless, dumbfounded, measuring the depths of his misery without understanding its cause, unable to think of a word to say, raising his eyes to gaze at each of the company in turn, with a questioning, outraged, suppliant air, which seemed to be asking them not so much what had happened as what answer he ought to make.  And yet M. de Charlus possessed all the resources, not merely of eloquence but of audacity, when, seized by a rage which had been simmering for a long time, he reduced someone to despair with the most cruel words in front of a shocked society group which had never imagined that anyone could go that far.  M. de Charlus, on those occasions, almost foamed at the mouth, working himself up into a veritable frenzy which left everyone trembling.  But in these instances he had the initiative, he was on the attack, he said whatever came into his head (just as Bloch was free to make fun of the Jews yet blushed if the word Jew was uttered in his hearing).  These people whom he hated, he hated because he thought they looked down on him.  Had they been civil to him, instead of flying into a furious rage with them he would have taken them to his bosom. Perhaps what now struck him speechless was - when he saw M. and Mme Verdurin turned their eyes away from him and that no one was coming to his rescue - his present anguish and, still more, his dread of great anguish to come; or else the fact that, not having worked himself up and concocted an imaginary rage in advance, having no ready-made thunderbolt in hand, he had been seized and struck suddenly at a moment when he was unarmed (for, sensitive, neurotic, hysterical, he was genuinely impulsive but pseud-brave - indeed, as I had always thought, and it was something that had rather endeared him to me, pseudo-cruel - and did not have the normal reactions of an outraged man of honour); or else that, in a milieu that was not his won, he felt less at ease and less courageous than he would in the Faubourg.  The fact remains that, in this salon which he despised, this great nobleman (in whom superiority over commoners was no more essentially inherent than it had been in this or that ancestor of his trembling before the revolutionary tribunal) could do nothing, in the paralysis of his every limb as well as his tongue, but case around him terror-stricken, suppliant, bewildered glances, outraged by the violence that was being done to him.  In a situation so cruelly unforeseen, this great talker could do no more than stammer: "What does it all mean?  What's wrong?" His question was not even heard.  And the eternal pantomime of panic terror has so little changed that this elderly gentleman to whom a disagreeable incident had occurred in a Parisian drawing-room unconsciously re-enacted the basic formal attitudes in which the Greek sculptors of the earliest times symbolized the terror of nymphs pursued by the god Pan.

Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 321-322

For sometime now the specter of scandal tied to M. de Charlus's homosexuality has been lurking in the shadows, and it has finally made an appearance, and a dramatic one.  In front of a crowd Morel, who, I've determined, is the most reprehensible character in Remembrance of Things Past, shouted accusations against the Baron, including, "I'm not the first person you've tried to pervert!"  Beyond the creative rewriting of history by Morel, it is certainly a shocking and devastating public accusation. Marcel, who didn't like many of the other people in the crowd, was looking forward to what he was certain was sure to follow: the Baron taking instant revenge and mowing down his enemies.  We're told: "My sole consolation lay in the thought that I was about to see Morel and the Verdurins pulverized by M. de Charlus.  For a thousand times less than that I had been visited with his furious rage; no one was safe from it; a king would not have intimidated him." But instead the unexpected occurred: the Baron suddenly grew old.  "Instead of which, an extraordinary thing happened.  M. de Charlus was speechless, dumbfounded, measuring the depths of his misery without understanding its cause, unable to think of a word to say, raising his eyes to gaze at each of the company in turn, with a questioning, outraged, suppliant air, which seemed to be asking them not so much what had happened as what answer he ought to make." Often we age gradually, sometimes gracefully and sometime not.  Any baseball fan of a certain vintage can remember the once magnificently young and graceful Willie Mays stumbling around the outfield as a New York Met at the end of his career, a sad shadow of his former splendor.  Sometimes we seem to grow old overnight.  Babe Ruth had been declining for a while when he ended his unrivaled career with his sad little chapter with the Boston Braves.  Still, he was not that far removed from a three homer game when he played the Cincinnati Reds at Crosley Field (still the greatest baseball park of all time, as all right-thinking individuals know).  The Babe stumbled climbing up the terrace in the outfield and retired a few days later.  It's common in sports, although usually less apparent in other works of life.  One of my great terrors is being seen as weak - and I'd much rather be hated than pitied - and so much of that will relate to when I grow old, or maybe it's more appropriate to say more old.  People's perception of me is already changing, and, as I've discussed, I'm not handling it well and it won't get any better.  I'm sure I'll have my classroom moment equivalent to Babe Ruth stumbling up the terrace at Crosley Field, and then I suspect I'll walk away pretty quickly.  I don't know if I could face what the Baron faced: "In a situation so cruelly unforeseen, this great talker could do no more than stammer: "What does it all mean?  What's wrong?" His question was not even heard"

My Years With Proust - Day 560

   "I'm not interested in history," replied M. de Charlus, "this life is sufficient for me, it's quite interesting enough, as poor Swann used to say."

   "What, you knew Swann, Baron? I didn't know that.  Tell me, was he that way inclined?" Brichot inquired with an air of misgiving.

   "What a mind the man has!  So you think I only know men of that sort? No, I don't think so," said Charlus, looking at the ground and trying to weight the pros and cons.  And deciding that, since he was dealing with Swann whose contrary tendencies had always been so notorious, a half-admission could only be harmless to him who was its object and flattering to him who let it out in an insinuation: "I don't deny that long ago in our schooldays, once in a while," said the Baron, as though in spite of himself and thinking aloud; then pulling himself up: "But that was centuries ago.  How do you expect me to remember?  You're embarrassing me," he concluded with a laugh.

   "In any case he was never what you'd call a beauty!" said Brichot who, himself hideous, through himself good-looking and was always ready to pronounce other men ugly.

   "Hold your tongue," said the Barton, "you don't know what you're talking about.  In those days he had a peaches-and-cream complexion, and," he added, finding a fresh note for each syllable, "he was as pretty as a cherub.  Besides he was always charming.  The women were madly in love with him."

   "But did you ever know his wife?"

   "Why, it was through me that he came to know her.  I had thought her charming in her boyish get-up one evening when she played Miss Sacripant; I was with some club-mates, and each of us took a woman home with him, and although all I wanted was to go to sleep, slanderous tongues alleged - it's terrible how malicious people are - that I went to bed with Odette.  In any case she took advantage of the slanders to come and bother me, and I thought I might get rid of her by introducing her to Swann.  From that moment on she never let me go.  She couldn't spell the simplest word, it was I who wrote all her letters for her.  And it was I who, later on, was responsible for taking her out.  That, my boy, is what comes of having a good reputation, you see.  Though I only half deserved it.  She used to force me to get up the most dreadful orgies for her, with five or six men."

   And the lovers whom Odette had had in succession (she had been with this, that and the other man, not one of whose names had ever been guessed by poor Swann, blinded by jealousy and by love, by turning weighting up the chances and believing in oaths more affirmative than a contradiction which the guilty woman lets slip, a contradiction far more elusive and yet far more significant, of which the jealous lover might take advantage more logically than of the information which he false pretends to have received, in the hope of alarming his mistress), these lovers M. de Charlus began to enumerate with as absolute a certainty as if he had been reciting the list of the King of France.

Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 302-303

It's difficult to know what to make of this passage.  When M. de Charlus says, "She used to force me to get up the most dreadful orgies for her, with five or six men" I found myself thinking of of Propopius writing in The Secret History that Theodora wished she had larger holes in her nipples so that she service five men at once instead of the usual three.  Even though M. de Charlus is a pompous ass most of the time I've tried to feel sympathy for him mainly because he was a homosexual in a very homophobic age.  Yesterday we discussed compassion, at, much like Proust, I almost always naturally defend the weaker against the stronger, even if it, to my shame, never rises above the level of sentiment.  In this case it's difficult to have much sympathy for the Baron when he's clearly as guilty as Mme Verdurin (who we saw trash his own reputation a couple days ago) of airing loads of dirty laundry but also potentially just making shit up for the benefit of the audience.  What also bothers me about this is, in regards to the need to defend the weak, it's hard to find someone who is weaker than the dead.  Yes, on the one hand the dead are free of the cares of the imbecility of this world, but at the same time they're not hear to defend themselves (not that they would probably care) and the Baron is clearly scoring points at the benefit of the deceased Swann.  Also, in a society where women then, and sadly now, are at an almost constant disadvantage, spreading stories about Odette's orgies is pretty reprehensible.  Essentially, it's hard to have much sympathy for M. de Charlus.

My Years With Proust - Day 559

I had come to learn from my experience of life that it was a mistake to smile a friendly smile when somebody made fun of me, instead of getting angry.  But this absence of self-importance and resentment, if I had so far ceased to express it as to have become almost entirely unaware that it existed in me, was nevertheless the primordial vital element in which I was steeped.  Anger and spite came to me only in a wholly different manner, in fits of rage.  What was more, the notion of justice, to the extent of a complete absence of moral sense, was unknown to me.  I was in my heart of hearts entirely on the side of the weaker party, and of anyone who was in trouble.  I had no opinion as to the proportion in which good and evil might be blended in the relations between Morel and M. de Charlus, but the thought of the sufferings that were in store for M. de Charlus was intolerable to me.  I would have liked to warn him, but did not know how to do so.

Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 293-294

Proust continues to ruminate on the trials and tribulations of M. de Charlus, and whether or not he will end up in trouble as his homosexuality becomes more widely known and more people take an interest in using it against him.  Marcel is troubled by the threat of impending trouble for M. de Charlus, no matter how pretentious and annoying the Baron was normally, and he was worried about whether or not he should try and share the information with him.  Proust reports, "I was in my heart of hearts entirely on the side of the weaker party, and of anyone who was in trouble."  Whether or not we can believe Proust or not, and, truthfully, I do believe him, it's hard to read this and not think of our mad king Trump's decision to end Obama's Dreamers program.  I'm amazed, not because it's cruel and heartless and stupid, but how one little orange assclown can be so routinely cruel and heartless and stupid (I think we've figured out his default setting).  That said, what I'm horrified by is the passionate support that so many American "Christians," who I've just taken to referring to on Twitter as alt-Christians, can be so thoughtless and cruel, never mind the fact that they're supporting the most morally bankrupt president on record.  I want to think that, beyond the teaching of Jesus with whom they seem to be completely unfamiliar, that people are supposed to possess a natural sense of compassion for their fellow human beings.  It's like we've (or at least the 34% who actually voted for Trump) have become a nation of sociopaths.  In our faith we're taught, in addition to fighting against injustice, we're supposed to be compassionate and dedicated to the well-being of our fellow humans, and one of the biggest reasons why we're so adamant on those topics is because of our love of the teaching of Jesus.  Who knew that in the Bizarro Christianity in Bizarro America it would be the Muslims who would end up being the better Christians.

My Years With Proust - Day 558

   "I don't mind telling you," Mme Verdurin went on, to remove his final scruples, "that I don't feel at all safe with a man like that in the house.  I know he's been involved in some nasty business and the police have their eye on him." And, as she had a certain talent for improvisation when inspired by malice, Mme Verdurin did not stop at this: "Apparently he's been in prison. Yes, yes, I've been told by people who knew all about it.  In any case I know from a person who lives on his street that you can't imagine the ruffians he brings to his house."  And as Brichot, who often went to the Barton's, began to protest, Mme Verdurin, growing more and more animated, exclaimed: "But I assure you!  You can take my word for it," and expression with which she habitually sought to give weight to an assertion flung out more or less an random.  "He'll be found murdered in his bed one of these days, as those people always are.  It may not quite come to that, perhaps, because he's in the clutches of that Jupien whom he had the impudence to send to me and who's an ex-convict - yes, really, I know it for a positive fact.  He has a hold on him because of some letters which are perfectly dreadful, it seems.  I got it from somebody who has seen them and who told me: 'You'd be sick on the spot if you saw them' That's how Jupien gets him to toe the line and makes him cough up all the money he wants.  I'd sooner die than live in the state of terror Charlus lives in.  In any case, if Morel's family decides to bring an action against him, I've no desire to be dragged in as an accessory. If he goes on, it will be at his own risk, but I shall have done my duty.  What is one to do?  It's no joke, I can tell you."

Marcel Proust, The Captive, pp. 282-283

I don't have anything particularly profound to add to this passage, although, truthfully, do I ever?  Mainly I wanted to include it because it brings us back to certain hints that Proust had made earlier about the eventual fate of Baron de Charlus.  This doesn't tell us anything in particular, but earlier I proposed that maybe the Baron was getting indiscreet in his homosexual dalliances and that it would come back to haunt him; at least that seemed to be what Proust was suggesting.  However, it's difficult in this passage to determine how much of this story is true and how much of it is Mme Verdurin in a lather, because, as Proust informs us, "she had a certain talent for improvisation when inspired by malice."  I've known lots of people, and have worked for some, who would say something, sometimes out of malice and sometimes out of necessity, which would through the retelling suddenly take on Quranic veracity.  It sounds like Mme Verdurin is one of those characters, who seem to do far more harm than can be logically explained.  As the tells the story it get more and more wildly extravagant, and one wonders the nature of the initial germ of truth. Although, to be fair, the Baron led the very wild life and was increasingly sloppy in his efforts to cover his tracks.

My Lunch With Jamie

One of the things that I've that I've fortunately enjoyed over the years is the opportunity to spend time with colleagues overseas, in which you realize that they're often a lot more fun than the usual humdrum lives we lead at work.  Recently I had a chance to have some fun in a foreign land with a friend, although it wasn't really that foreign and I already knew the friend was fun.  Since we're so close to Montreal we often fly out of there, which is both cheaper and more dependable than Burlington (since we're so small our flights are routinely late if not cancelled).  I've developed the reputation for being a dependable driver for folks flying out of or into Montreal, not only because, well, I am pretty dependable, but also because I love adventures, even mild ones, and no one can ever turn the opportunity for Tim Horton's TimBits.  The excellent Jamie Kelly, wife of the esteemed Mike Kelly, and long-suffering, patient mother of the Barbarians (Nick, Jack Jack, and Sam) needed to ride up to Montreal to catch a flight out to Nebraska to meet the family for their usual late summer trip home, and she asked me for a ride.  I picked her up at work and she immediately said thank you by handing over a six pack of beer, which led to this exchange:  GS: "Cool, thanks.  Uh, you do know we're going to be crossing an international border twice, right?"  JK: "Sooo, I should put it in the trunk?"  Happily, none of the border guards were that curious, especially since we tend to drive up through the islands and cross at the smaller crossings and they to just be happy for the business.  On the way up we had to stop at Chez Pepe, obviously.  This was our first adventure together.  Normally the closest we come to hi-jinx is when I stop by to gab when I walking the dog (yesterday she, Sam and I discussed where Sam should go to college, although he's only seven; the popular choices were: University of Iowa (Jamie's pick), Notre Dame or someplace in Maine (Sam's pick, because he wanted to be close to his mom) or someplace in Prague (me).  Beyond that whenever there is even a chance of us seeing the Northern Lights in Vermont I pester Mike and Jamie until they agree to sit out in their front yard and we wait, unsuccessfully, but contentedly, fueled by astronomical fervor and adult scholarly beverages.

Jamie posing in front of the sign for Chez Pepe. Clearly, she's having too much fun.

Jamie mulling over the Chez Pepe menu.  Hint: the answer is smoked meat and poutine, it was Canada after all.

I never, well clearly almost never, take selfies, but Jamie dragooned me into snapping one. Obviously, the look on my face shows that I'm not that experienced with snapping selfies.