A perfect Friday night, watching Cleopatra Jones.
“Kurt, do you ever have feelings of inadequacy?” — Lou
“I’m not exactly known as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farms.” — Doodlebug
capturing schneider today
in all its dust and beauty
pre-demolition this summer
Beautiful. (We still miss Schneider fries over here in the magazine office.)
For all the former Newsies —
I don’t regret a god damn thing
After party. The Philadelphia Story.
Tracy Lord, at the public library, wearing an amazing hat. The Philadelphia Story.
Tracy Lord and Macaulay Connor, enjoying more champagne in the pre-dawn hour. The Philadelphia Story.
We have meaning then, without specific content, and we have this disconcerting effect thanks to the counterfeiter’s central strategy, which is to suppress traces of origin. That one does not know what modern works are “about” is a frequent complaint, and a misguided complaint since it is their most deliberated characteristic. (And where do book matches come from? Circulars? Old keys? It is a more familiar universe than it seems.)
This is the true Art of Sinking, into which no one ever went so deeply as he [Buster Keaton]. It is quintessential. If we are haunted by analogies to Wordsworth, we shall find no apposite quotation. Wordsworth dips only to recover again; over no sunken grandeur of his do the waters close majestically for ever. Yet whatever quality it is in Keaton’s stoical descent that calls to mind so great a poet, both his habitual grandeur and his lapses, is a quality that has become available to the mind within the past three centuries, to be brought to apotheosis in the silent motion picture of the 1920s.