A Poem, a Tune, &c.

On fame and immortality; the absurdity of race; writing as performance; and more

In the village of Dantali in Gujarat, India (Photo by Rajni Rambhai Patel)

Start off with a little poetry? In a column last week, Bill Kristol quoted the chestnut of Arthur Hugh Clough: “Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth.” “Chestnut” is kind of a putdown word, or at least a condescending one. I should retract it, immediately. Clough’s poem has reached the heart and endured, for good reason.

In 2006, Paul Johnson wrote a column that began,

There are some people who do one distinct thing in their life—only one—but it is enough, just, to confer immortality on them. Such a person was Arthur Hugh Clough (1819–61), the Victorian poet. This gifted and sensitive man was a product of Dr Arnold’s superb teaching at Rugby and won a fellowship at Oriel, then the greatest prize you could get at Oxford.

He went on to write this immortal poem.

Once, Paul was in Perth, and he heard a car salesman recite the poem. He thought, “That’s fame.”

Bear with me for a second. In 2008, I was in India, and, specifically, in a remote village of Gujarat (Dantali). In the stillness of the evening, a cellphone went off. And it played the theme from Love Story, by Francis Lai.

I thought, borrowing from Paul Johnson, “That’s fame.”

***

In 2010, I noticed a phrase: “customer of size.” Where had that come from, and what did it mean? Was it a new PC term, on the model of “person of color”?

I Googled around. A “customer of size” was—still is, I believe—someone too large to fit into one airline seat.

In the course of my Googling, I stumbled upon a short story titled “Customer of Size.” I was moved by it. I was also impressed by it—I mean, by its craft. The story is superbly wrought.

Naturally, I shared it with readers, one of whom wrote this: “The story is a great expression of love and compassion, which reminded me of the first time I read O. Henry’s work.”

The author of “Customer of Size” is Mary Jones. I received an e-mail from her last week. She told me that “Customer of Size” is included in a collection of her stories: The Goodbye Process. The collection was named, by Library Journal, a Best Book of 2024.

It will be in my hands soon.

***

Last week, I reviewed an opera by Gabriela Lena Frank. Here are a few lines:

Frank is an American—a native of California—born in 1972. Our program notes said that she was “born of a Latina mother and a white father.” Is there any subject more screwy than race?

Some Latinas are practically as white as sheets. And there was a time when Jews—such as men whose last name is “Frank”—were not considered white at all.

An asinine subject, race.

To illustrate this asininity, I sometimes tell the story of my friend Pat Gigliotti. His first name was really Pasquale, but a teacher of his changed it to “Pat.” The teacher was an Irish nun.

Very American.

Pat grew up in Kansas City, where certain mothers forbade him to date their daughters. Why? Because he, of Italian origin, was not “white.”

Fast forward. Pat is living in Southern California, where he’s now called an “Anglo.” His quip: “I can’t tell whether that’s a promotion or a demotion.”

What’s more, people around him are called “Latinos”—but the original “Latin lover,” Rudolph Valentino, was an Italian.

A crock, race is.

***

I was corresponding with a friend of mine, whom I called a “doctor-pianist.” He conceded that he was a doctor, or had been, in a phase of his life. But he would not concede that he was a pianist—a “rank amateur,” at best.

My friend is modest. He is also a man of integrity, and I knew what he meant.

I told him a joke that was employed by Norman Podhoretz. Goes something like this.

A man who has succeeded in business buys himself a yacht. By the rules and regulations, he is entitled to call himself a captain. He shows up for Sunday dinner at his mother’s wearing a nautical uniform.

“What’s this?” she says.

“I have bought a yacht, Mama, and therefore I’m a captain now.”

“I see. That’s interesting. By you, you’re a captain. And by me, your mother, who loves you, you’re a captain. But let me ask you: By a captain, are you a captain?”

This puts me in mind of something I heard from my friend Donald Mace Williams, the writer. He is a poet, novelist, journalist, and so on. An all-around writer. I did a podcast with him in March.

A young man went to see Robert Frost, Don recounted. “I’m a poet,” said the young man. Frost answered, “That’s a brag word, son. Let someone else call you that.”

***

The Dispatch published a piece by Austin Albanese called “When Americans Shared Sacred Spaces.” The feature image was captioned, “Portuguese Synagogue in New York City, 1899.” I thought, “That’s the environment from which Cardozo sprang.”

I did a little Googling. Yes, Benjamin Cardozo and his family belonged to that very synagogue: Congregation Shearith Israel. (Cardozo, you remember, was on the Supreme Court in the 1930s.) Shearith Israel is the oldest Jewish congregation in America—established in (get this) 1654. (New York was then “New Amsterdam.”) The congregation moved to the current location in 1897.

Another prominent member of the congregation, apart from Cardozo? Emma Lazarus (speaking of poets).

***

I will now quote my longtime friend and colleague Matt Labash, who in a column last Tuesday wrote,

Any writer who tells you they write just to write and don’t really give a rip about readers is probably a writer not worth reading.

… It’s like a musician telling you they don’t care how their music sounds, which kind of defeats the whole purpose of playing it. Not that music has to be heard to be good. But knowing that it will be heard tends to make the musician pay closer attention to what they’re doing.

Similarly, ninety percent of all writers write to be read. And the other ten percent are lying. And 100 percent of writers would rather be loved than hated, no matter how impenetrable their antisocial armor appears to be.

I thought of Milton Babbitt, the composer. In 1958, High Fidelity published his essay “Who Cares If You Listen?” This is one of the 20th century’s most famous, or infamous, essays about music. Actually, people know the title, rather than the essay itself. Babbitt had not authorized, or known about, the title. And he was furious when his essay came out.

It caused him a lot of trouble, that title.

The gist of the essay is: If composers depend on popularity, or public acceptance, music is dead. (I hope I have done Babbitt justice, even in a gist.)

(Can you say “a gist”? No, but I’ve done it.)

In my column on Friday, I quoted the composer Michael Hersch, who is a friend of mine. Today, I will quote him again. Indeed, I will quote from the same article, an article I wrote about Michael in 2012.

Before I paste—before I quote—please know that Michael is a very, very individualistic person. A colleague once said to him, “You’re the most own‑drummer person I know.” The title of my article is “His Own Drum.”

Okay, I’ll paste:

Toward the end of our conversation, I ask, “Do you care if they listen?” The allusion does not have to be explained to him: In the 1950s, there was a famous essay by Milton Babbitt called “Who Cares If You Listen?” Hersch, somewhat to my surprise, says he does care. “If people listen, and they connect with my music, it’s deeply meaningful. And if they don’t like it, it’s hurtful. But I’m gonna write it anyway.”

Before I go, I’m gonna quote Matt Labash once more:

Writing, while generally occupying the bottom rung of the showbiz ladder—a rung often populated by people who were too homely to make AV Club—is itself a performing art, even if an often discounted one.

Bill Buckley called himself a “performing writer.” He did this when defending his decision to write a book about just one week—and not a very unusual week—in his life. Which he did twice. I mean, he wrote two such books.

Happy Sunday, my readers, and thank you so much. Bless you. Later on.