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578. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 4:04:59 PM I sent Arky an email. 579. PelleNilsson - 4/28/2006 5:13:53 PM That's momentous. Nothing will be the same again. 580. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 5:15:49 PM Not for me it won't, I promise you that, Nilsson.(!) 581. alistairConnor - 4/28/2006 5:16:25 PM No, I think that's the opening line of the Novel. 582. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 5:17:11 PM Snobby, intellectual Swede, MF. 583. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 5:17:46 PM Novel in the form of interesting. 584. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 5:19:39 PM Menu posted this weekend. Cafe opens. 585. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 5:21:21 PM Nilsson, you have no idea what you're getting involved with here. 586. PelleNilsson - 4/28/2006 5:26:07 PM Bring it on! 587. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 5:36:50 PM Imagine, if you will, that I went to the trouble of posting
THUNDER in 20pt. type. 588. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 5:41:29 PM Can I get you into the Cantina? Special today: Mother's Own Borsch w/wo a wedge of cave-aged brie plunked squarely in the middld. 589. judithathome - 4/28/2006 5:54:48 PM Wow...that sounds very good!! A hunk of crusty dark bread alongside? 590. uzmakk - 4/28/2006 6:26:51 PM Always good bread, Judith, as you well know. 591. webfeet - 4/28/2006 8:35:32 PM It's 2 a.m and Maurice and I are laying in bed together, post-coitus. It's actually Little Bear's bed, and we are sitting up resting on the wooden headboard, with a tray between us. On this tray are two large pieces of chocolate cake and a glass of milk. We have just discovered that we both love Mozart. Now he is teaching me a little yiddish; what are mishigass again? I ask, sidling up to him as I take a bite of the cake. Mishigass, he says, are your phantasmagoria. As you're drawing you say "oh my goodness! A fish house!" or "oh my goodness a mushroom house!" * It's strange to see them on paper and to recreate them during a production, as I did when I was working on the set of 'Hansel and Gretel'
'Are they like your boogeymen?' I ask, suddenly aware that Owl, Cat and Hen are peeping at us, every now and then through the window. I shew them away. 'They can be,' he says, not noticing. 'They come from inside your head.'
"Maurice, tell me what 'Sendak' means again in yiddish?'
"It means fish," he says, helping himself to the reest of my cake. "I've used it emblematically in my stories, especially to give my father pleasure.**"
"And the moon?"
"That's my mother watching down over me," he smiles. He's tired. "I think webfeet, that I'm getting sleepy," he says, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
'Oh, Maurice," I say sadly, imagining the long shadows on the corridor back to my room. 'Bedtime already? When am I going to see you again?'
'How about the Peninsula Hotel?' he asks, turning over.
'Can we take a bubble bath together and eat warm croissants?'
'We can do anything you want," he says and I know, as I turn to go, pulling the covers over him and shutting off the night light, that he means it. 592. webfeet - 4/28/2006 8:36:54 PM *excerpts from Backstage at Lincoln Center interview with Maurice Sendak
593. webfeet - 4/28/2006 8:41:14 PM In Sendak, I never saw much of a message. Just the genius of his personal universe, immediately accessible, full of childlike wonder. But I'm probably missing stuff.
"The subject of all my work from the beginning, my books and everything I've done is-to put it simply-the extraordinary heroism of children in the face of having to live in a mostly indifferent adult world. Generally speaking, people don't understand what's going on in the heads of small people. I side with the kids all the time."
--Maurice Sendak, excerpt from Backstage at Lincoln Center
594. arkymalarky - 4/28/2006 10:51:12 PM Uzmakk+Nilsson=innovation
Uzmakk+Malarky=REVOLUTION! 595. Jenerator - 4/28/2006 10:51:53 PM webfeet,
That is so interesting. A friend of mine has older parents who survived the holocaust. When you're at their home, food is literally bursting out at you from every pore of the kitchen. They even have three deep freezers full of meat!
I asked the son why they had so much food and the dad heard me and responded, "My dear, we went without for so long, that we will never go without again. If you have ever starved, you will know how important it is to always have cake."
596. NuPlanetOne - 4/29/2006 5:28:35 AM
Web…then I definitely will not read Marquez. Truth be told, my ignorance of modern literature is profound. It is possible that I have not read a living author of fiction in 20 years. I have always entertained the notion that one day I might write a novel, or at least a collection of stories. At some point I decided I didn’t believe I could be original if I absorbed the desire to emulate, or conform to, or compare myself to what is considered exceptional prose. Fortunately, as with my poetry, I can exist in a vacuum here in The Mote with you guys and safely take a crack at it. And by all means, I am the one who attempted to write a serious piece, and you reacted with a serious critique on your way to encouragement. It reflected objective on this end and exhibited nothing harmful and merely pointed to some springs that could be wound a little tighter or loosened to help the flow. I admire your prose, so I will use the advice as the prodding of an editor, rather than react egotistically. I’m not sure how it works actually, these are first drafts, and I have also realized that first person narratives are not the darling of many publishers. What say you of that?
…thanks Mac. You’re right twice. The thread is for fun and it seems Web has the confidence to give real advice objectively. Forgive me Jen, but she’s my new best pal. (“At least till I sign a book deal,” he dreamed.) Anyway, I have scallops to deal with.
597. webfeet - 4/29/2006 5:29:28 AM I hope your friends are always happy. I'd love to raid their fridge in the middle of the night.
With cakes I don't discriminate--sheet cakes, angel cakes, flourless cakes, carrot cake --all are delectable. The only cake, sadly, that sunk, literally off the crest of winners, was belle-mere's 'reine de sheba' or Queen of Sheba that she insisted on making to show off for a french family she had met here, in NY, while walking Juliette in the park.
"il faut que je fasse un gateau!" she said, as she ran to her suitcase to fetch her apron. I couldn't intervene; how could I?
Now, one has to be either quite a good chef to pull off baking a cake if a) you are in a foreign country b) you arrive without your livre de recettes which, if you are like belle-mere you never use anyway because you don't cook, and c) if you are unaccustomed to your daughter in law's kitchen--or--you are an ass.
The cake was disastrous. No-one touched it. It wasn't even the kind of cake you could just take a few bites of, and then leave politely to the sides. Pauvre belle-mere didn't understand my 'baker's chocolate' and it was impossibly bitter.
Apart from the cake, the company, a french bourgeois family who arrived bearing a grotesque assortment of flowers, a bouquet that was obscenely expensive and ridiculously unfit for the occasion--was even worse. The pere de famille, a stiff investment banker, prodded the gateau with his fork, as though it was a turd and then left it aside to the shame of belle-mere. after they'd gone, she couldn't stop talking about it, such was her offense.
It was possibly the most awful afternoon I've spent with anysingle group of people in my life ever. Dimanche apres-midi in hell.
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