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Posted on 08/05/2004 5:47:31 PM PDT by HairOfTheDog
I had a cup of tea with some chamomile in it, which helped a bit. Didn't think of the honey and lemon--might try that next time I make a cup. Would have to go out to get some whiskey and I'm too lazy tonight :)
I told our acting class at church about that tho. Then I told them that, with our productions, it's not Tevye ~ but at least I get to play a singing Hebrew...
BTW, Fiddler is back on Broadway. Our director saw it recently. Wife and I are thinking about using our Marriott points for a weekend in NYC.
LOL!
Yeah, yeah. Go on and play innocent. I know you were waiting for me to post that I did it, just so you could call up the Department of Bedding Security on speed dial. ;-)
How lovely would that be? *sigh*
You ever heard of that tune "Classical Gas"? That is my theme song! I mean, that song is running in the background of my life.
TRIGORIN: Let us discuss this bright and beautiful life of mine.[After a few moments' thought.] Violent obsessions sometimes lay hold of a man: he may, for instance, think day and night of nothing but the moon. I have such a moon. Day and night I am held in the grip of one besetting thought, to write, write, write! Hardly have I finished one book than something urges me to write another, and then a third, and then a fourth--I write ceaselessly. I am, as it were, on a treadmill. I hurry for ever from one story to another, and can't help myself. Do you see anything bright and beautiful in that?
Oh, it is a wild life! Even now, thrilled as I am by talking to you, I do not forget for an instant that an unfinished story is awaiting me. My eye falls on that cloud there, which has the shape of a grand piano; I instantly make a mental note that I must remember to mention in my story a cloud floating by that looked like a grand piano. I smell heliotrope; I mutter to myself: a sickly smell, the colour worn by widows; I must remember that in writing my next description of a summer evening. I catch an idea in every sentence of yours or of my own, and hasten to lock all these treasures in my literary store-room, thinking that some day they may be useful to me. As soon as I stop working I rush off to the theatre or go fishing, in the hope that I may find oblivion there, but no! Some new subject for a story is sure to come rolling through my brain like an iron cannonball. I hear my desk calling, and have to go back to it and begin to write, write, write once more. And so it goes for everlasting. I cannot escape myself, though I feel that I am consuming my life.
To prepare the honey I feed to unknown crowds, I am doomed to brush the bloom from my dearest flowers, to tear them from their stems, and trample the roots that bore them under foot.
Am I not a madman? Should I not be treated by those who know me as one mentally diseased? Yet it is always the same, same old story, till I begin to think that all this praise and admiration must be a deception, that I am being hoodwinked because they know I am crazy, and I sometimes tremble lest I should be grabbed from behind and whisked off to a lunatic asylum.
The best years of my youth were made one continual agony for me by my writing. A young author, especially if at first he does not make a success, feels clumsy, ill-at-ease, and superfluous in the world. His nerves are all on edge and stretched to the point of breaking; he is irresistibly attracted to literary and artistic people, and hovers about them unknown and unnoticed, fearing to look them bravely in the eye, like a man with a passion for gambling, whose money is all gone.
Yes, writing is a pleasure to me, and so is reading the proofs, but no sooner does a book leave the press than it becomes odious to me; it is not what I meant it to be; I made a mistake to write it at all; I am provoked and discouraged. Then the public reads it and says: "Yes, it is clever and pretty, but not nearly as good as Tolstoi," or "It is a lovely thing, but not as good as Turgenev's 'Fathers and Sons,'" and so it will always be.
To my dying day I shall hear people say: "Clever and pretty; clever and pretty," and nothing more; and when I am gone, those that knew me will say as they pass my grave: "Here lies Trigorin, a clever writer, but he was not as good as Turgenev."
Very interesting...do it at ShootMoot!
Heh...I'm sure I'll have forgotten it by then...
Maybe a bit, but you could spiff up on it right beforehand...
I gotta go...jedis will surely be home soon.
So nice to get to visit with you all a bit tonight! See the early birds in the morning!
Nope, never heard of that tune. Not really suprising, though.
Only if he performs it after drinking a few Irish Car Bombs. ;-)
Nighty night, 2J! Feel better soon, sis.
Nite 2J!
mmmmm....Irish Car Bomb...
Perchik: Money is the world's curse!
Tevye: (offering himself to the heavens) Then may the LORD SMITE ME with it!
And may I never recover!
Fiddler / Chekhov - it's kind of a Russian theme...
?
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