the childhood reminiscence fleshing it out and baltimore hmmm could be (in movie parlance) "diner" or "tin men" the dreyfus character in that was real to me when he revealed love of fats waller
Another wonderful chapter! I particularly love this line (though there are many throughout): "He comes to me like his home movies, overexposed, so much light I can barely see him."
Mary, this one rends me into a useless pile of nothingness….just pure feeling. The brutal longing, the absence of color, the light and its inevitable death. I need to read this one again right now!
The inimitable Jean-Louis Trintignant... The '70s were when I regularly watched French movies. I think the one I remember most vividly was "Jean, François et les Autres" by Claude Sautet. It had an amazing cast including Michel Piccoli, Gerard Depardieu and the great Yves Montand. I should find and watch a copy after all these years.
Yes, Trintignant, inimitable and inspired this chapter. And I remember Sautet as well and how amazing Gepardieu was and is. Thank you so for reading, Dr. Levent. xo ~ Mary
Such a moving piece! "But his quiet, his calm like the sense of the sea receding with the tide; his angles like my father’s, a Giacometti sculpture in shadow at the edge of sand in fading light." I love this line.
What a gorgeous, evocative picture of the power of memory. The color, feel, smell, sound that is forever there, maybe hiding quietly, maybe rushing forth in the moment. Always presenting the unanswerable question. Brilliant.
Mary, I'm in absolute bits. This goosepimpling chapter - this on-the-button, almost relentless staccato delivery of your story - has such colour, such depth, such brutal humanity.
Such a grand and generous read. I wish I knew how to get this comment on Notes. If you know how to do that, please do so, love. Would help me so much. big xo ~ Mary
I've never posted on Notes in my own right, although I *have* lurked. I do know how to share a comment on Notes, though - click on where it says 'Share' below the comment you'd like to share, and then select 'Notes'. Much love. ♥️ And thank you. x
The deepening reverie of this memoir, the ever-graceful flow to its river of memory calls to be read. It's okay, too, if this is your first installment: you'll see clearly, in a piece by itself, what you're getting. Then you can go to the start with conviction.
'At age 82, my father called me in the middle of the night before he died and in the anguish of aging, asked: “What am I here for?”—a despairing cry that expressed the humility of existence and underscored the imperative of continuing to ask the question even as the darkness moves across us. It is the autobiographical, tautological question that starts and ends where it begins.
'My father took my hand, and said, “There’s an inevitability about the present.”
'I understood the way I’d understood when my mother, four years after her stroke, decided not to eat when the new year came, when she took my hand and said “Yitgadal v’yitkadash”—the first two words of the mourner’s Kaddish. It was five years later when my father took my hand one hot day in June.'
the childhood reminiscence fleshing it out and baltimore hmmm could be (in movie parlance) "diner" or "tin men" the dreyfus character in that was real to me when he revealed love of fats waller
Oh, I love both those flicks.
Another wonderful chapter! I particularly love this line (though there are many throughout): "He comes to me like his home movies, overexposed, so much light I can barely see him."
I have to say this, not so eloquently, Ollie: Oh golly ... xo ~Mary
Mary, this one rends me into a useless pile of nothingness….just pure feeling. The brutal longing, the absence of color, the light and its inevitable death. I need to read this one again right now!
The inimitable Jean-Louis Trintignant... The '70s were when I regularly watched French movies. I think the one I remember most vividly was "Jean, François et les Autres" by Claude Sautet. It had an amazing cast including Michel Piccoli, Gerard Depardieu and the great Yves Montand. I should find and watch a copy after all these years.
Yes, Trintignant, inimitable and inspired this chapter. And I remember Sautet as well and how amazing Gepardieu was and is. Thank you so for reading, Dr. Levent. xo ~ Mary
Such a moving piece! "But his quiet, his calm like the sense of the sea receding with the tide; his angles like my father’s, a Giacometti sculpture in shadow at the edge of sand in fading light." I love this line.
You move me so, Jeffrey, with your reads. I am sending my heart out in this memoir and am so helped by being seen.
Sensitive.
Indeed. You're such a fab reader. I am lucky that you are reading and commenting. In one word, well-said.
What a gorgeous, evocative picture of the power of memory. The color, feel, smell, sound that is forever there, maybe hiding quietly, maybe rushing forth in the moment. Always presenting the unanswerable question. Brilliant.
And circling round ... Thank you ... ~ Mary
Just gorgeous Mary
Thank you so, Sam. Means so much that you've begun to read the memoir ... xo ~Mary
Mary, I'm in absolute bits. This goosepimpling chapter - this on-the-button, almost relentless staccato delivery of your story - has such colour, such depth, such brutal humanity.
AWESOME. And extraordinary. 🙌
Such a grand and generous read. I wish I knew how to get this comment on Notes. If you know how to do that, please do so, love. Would help me so much. big xo ~ Mary
Such a pleasure, Mary. 😊
I've never posted on Notes in my own right, although I *have* lurked. I do know how to share a comment on Notes, though - click on where it says 'Share' below the comment you'd like to share, and then select 'Notes'. Much love. ♥️ And thank you. x
Rebecca, when you write a comment, below the comment is a box "also share on Notes"--click that and you help everyone you comment on ... xo
I'll bear that in mind - thanks, Mary.
The deepening reverie of this memoir, the ever-graceful flow to its river of memory calls to be read. It's okay, too, if this is your first installment: you'll see clearly, in a piece by itself, what you're getting. Then you can go to the start with conviction.
'At age 82, my father called me in the middle of the night before he died and in the anguish of aging, asked: “What am I here for?”—a despairing cry that expressed the humility of existence and underscored the imperative of continuing to ask the question even as the darkness moves across us. It is the autobiographical, tautological question that starts and ends where it begins.
'My father took my hand, and said, “There’s an inevitability about the present.”
'I understood the way I’d understood when my mother, four years after her stroke, decided not to eat when the new year came, when she took my hand and said “Yitgadal v’yitkadash”—the first two words of the mourner’s Kaddish. It was five years later when my father took my hand one hot day in June.'
So generous, Jay. Heart swells ...
Not a word wasted Mary. Reading this again, is better. I've changed. I see it so clearly and with more feeling now.
Same with me Krista. I'm enjoying it so much more on this second read.
Lovely to know--"Not a word wasted" --such a grand phrase for a writer. xo ~Mary