spiegelcwq

This is how successful people liveThey're good citizensGod is smiling down on themThere are problems, they adjustAnd then everything changes and it becomes impossibleNothing is smiling down on anybodyAnd who can adjust then? Here is someone not set up for life's working out poorly, let alone for the impossibleBut who is set up for the impossible that is going to happen? Who is set up for tragedy and the incomprehensibility of suffering? NobodyThe tragedy of the man not set up for tragedy--that is every man's tragedy He kept peering in from outside at his own lifeThe struggle of his life was to bury this thingBut how could he? Never in his life had occasion to ask himself, "Why are things the way they are?" Why should he bother, when the way they were was always perfect? Why are things the way they are? The question to which there is no answer, and up till then he was so blessed he didn't even know the question existed After all the effervescent strain of resuscitating our class's mid-century innocence--together a hundred aging people recklessly turning back the clock to a time when time's passing was a matter of indifference--with the afternoon's exhilarations finally coming to an end, I began to contemplate the very thing that must have baffled the Swede till the moment he died: how had he become history's plaything? History, American history, the stuff you read about in books and study in school, had made its way out to tranquil, untrafficked Old Rimrock, New Jersey, to countryside white prada bag where it had not put in an appearance that was notable since Washington's army twice wintered in the highlands adjacent to MorristownHistory, which had made no drastic impingement on the daily life of the local populace since the Revolutionary War, wended its way back out to these cloistered hills and, improbably, with all its predictable unforeseenness, broke helter-skelter into the orderly household of the Seymour Levovs and left the place in a shamblesPeople think of history in the long term, but history, in fact, is a very sudden thing In earnest, right then and there, while swaying with Joy to that out-of-date music, I began to try to work out for myself what exactly had shaped a destiny unlike any imagined for the famous Weequahic three-letterman back when this music and its sentimental exhortation was right to the point, when the Swede, his neighborhood, his city, and his country were in their exuberant heyday, at the peak of confidence, inflated with every illusion born of hopeWith Joy Helpern once again close in my arms and quietly sobbing to hear the old pop tune enjoining all of us sixty-odd-year-olds, "Dreamand they might come true," I lifted the Swede up onto the stageThat evening at Vincent's, for a thousand different excellent reasons, he could not bring himself to ask me to do thisFor all I know he had no intention of asking me to do thisTo get me to write his story may not have been why he was there at allMaybe it was only why I was there Basketball was never like this He'd gucci book bags invoked in me, when I was a boy--as he did in hundreds of other boys--the strongest fantasy I had of being someone elseBut to wish oneself into another's glory, as boy or as man, is an impossibility, untenable on psychological grounds if you are not a writer, and on aesthetic grounds if you areTo embrace your hero in his destruction, however--to let your hero's life occur within you when everything is trying to diminish him, to imagine yourself into his bad luck, to implicate yourself not in his mindless ascendancy, when he is the fixed point of your adulation, but in the bewilderment of his tragic fall--well, that's worth thinking aboutI am out there on the floor with Joy, and I am thinking of the Swede and of what happened to his country in a mere twenty-five years, between the triumphant days at wartime Weequahic High and the explosion of his daughter's bomb in 1968, of that mysterious, troubling, extraordinary historical transitionI am thinking of the sixties and of the disorder occasioned by the Vietnam War, of how certain families lost their kids and certain families didn't and how the Seymour Levovs were one of those that did--families full of tolerance and kindly, well-intentioned liberal goodwill, and theirs were the kids who went on a rampage, or went to jail, or disappeared underground, or fled to Sweden or CanadaI am thinking of the Swede's great fall and of how he must have imagined that it was founded on some failure of his own responsibilityThere is where it must beginIt doesn't gucci silver bag matter if he was the cause of anythingHe makes himself responsible anywayHe has been doing that all his life, making himself unnaturally responsible, keeping under control not just himself but whatever else threatens to be uncontrollable, giving his all to keep his world togetherYes, the cause of the disaster has for him to be a transgressionHow else would the Swede explain it to himself? It has to be a transgression, a single transgression, even if it is only he who identifies it as a transgressionThe disaster that befalls him begins in a failure of his responsibility, as he imagines it But what could that have been? Dispelling the aura of the dinner at Vincent's, when I'd rushed to conclude the most thoughtless conclusion--that simple was that simple--I lifted onto my stage the boy we were all going to follow into America, our point man into the next immersion, at home here the way the Wasps were at home here, an American not by sheer striving, not by being a Jew who invents a famous vaccine or a Jew on the Supreme Court, not by being the most brilliant or the most eminent or the bestInstead--by virtue of his isomorphism to the Wasp world--he does it the ordinary way, the natural way, the regular American-guy wayTo the honeysweet strains of "Dream," I pulled away from myself, pulled away from the reunion, and I dreamedI dreamed a realistic chronicleI began gazing into his life--not his life as a god or a demigod in whose triumphs one could exult as a boy but his life as another le dix balenciaga assailable man--and inexplicably, which is to say lo and behold, I found him in Deal, New Jersey, at the seaside cottage, the summer his daughter was eleven, back when she couldn't stay out of his lap or stop calling him by cute pet names, couldn't "resist," as she put it, examining with the tip of her finger the close way his ears were fitted to his skullWrapped in a towel, she would run through the house and out to the clothesline to fetch a dry bathing suit, shouting as she went, "Nobody look!" and several evenings she had barged into the bathroom where he was bathing and, when she saw him, cried out, "Oh, pardonnez-moi--j'ai pense que--" "Scram," he told her, "get-outahere-moi Driving alone with him back from the beach one day that summer, dopily sun-drunk, lolling against his bare shoulder, she had turned up her face and, half innocently, half audaciously, precociously playing the grown-up girl, said, "Daddy, kiss me the way you k-k-kiss umumumother Sun-drunk himself, vo-89 luptuously fatigued from rolling all morning with her in the heavy surf, he had looked down to see that one of the shoulder straps of her swimsuit had dropped over her arm, and there was her nipple, the hard red bee bite that was her nipple"N-n-no," he said--and stunned them both"And fix your suit," he added feeblySoundlessly she obeyed"I'm sorry, cookie--" "Oh, I deserve it," she said, trying with all her might to hold back her tears and be his chirpingly charming pal again"It's the same at schoolIt's the same with my balenciaga twiggy fri