"The Tale of Two Bad Mice" is published
And believe it or not, there's a segue here from Jack Williams the anarchist of yesterday. I'm no fan of Beatrix Potter; I mean, her work's not as creepy as Kate Greenaway's Village-of-the-Damned little girls, or as scary as Charles Kingsley's "Water Babies" (hello, don't go to pool parties at that guy's house), but under the cutesy surface, I can't help feeling like Potter's getting at something more with that Mr. MacGregor/Peter thing. And when the two old rats talk about cooking and eating Tom Kitten? A little disturbing, if you ask me.
Well, if you look at Potter's work as Humphrey Carpenter does ("Secret Gardens: the Golden Age of Children's Literature," Boston 1985, and a terrific read), he says Potter was going for this whole ironic dissection of the social order of the era. Interesting, huh?
As Carpenter sees it, "In Two Bad Mice the target is the pretentious, over-furnished, middle-class life of the dolls' house... into which come the destructive mice... a typical late Victorian mansion in which everything is for show rather than use. The food appears to be suberb, but 'underneath the shiny paint it was made of nothing but plaster' [so] the mice ... pull everything to pieces." (S.G. p. 149).
That's what makes the story, coming when it does, so compelling, see? There was not only this fin de siecle sense of a world having truly already ended by 1904 -- there was not only a feeling of loss (of innocence -- Peter Pan, of love -- Butterfly, of the past -- Cherry Orchard) but also an awareness that it was necessary for it all to end, that it had been flawed to begin with (the crack in the Golden Bowl), and along with that realization came a kind of urge to help it along. Blow it up. Make it stop. Bring it all down.
I have to admit, I identify; who doesn't? It's like Pauline Kael said about the movie Earthquake, there's just something so satisfying about seeing Los Angeles destroyed, because you know the people who built those houses on stilts on the sides of sandy cliffs were stoned blind drunk and giggling when they did it.
You can't help it. Or like that other Potter, not Beatrix but Harry. Harry's the new Peter and MacGregor is an Edwardian Voldemort, out to destory him. (And Weasley's another version of Tom Kitten.) The world of the Muggles is shit, but the World of Hogwarts is doomed too, cracked like the lightening bolt scar down Harry's forehead. Of course, the antidote to the anxiety you little ones are feeling is that you get (vicariously) to have some cool fun and games and magical powers (or an X Box) before it all comes crashing down. That's the deal with late capitalism; it's a pretty doll's house (Ibsen was ahead of his time), but the bad mice are gonna trash it; the rats are gonna mess you up.
Sometimes I feel like Rutger Hauer at the end of Blade Runner, hunched on a roof top in the rain: Time to die.
Next: The Kite Runner as Gothic Romance.
G,
What an undertaking this is! I like it best when history is mixed with current commentary about your life in LA. And I feel compelled to dig in the archives for my own 1904 contributions. Since Google is just a couple of keystrokes away, I have settled for a quickie search and would like to note that Johnny Weismuller was born in 1904. While that factoid may not excite my Midwest heterosexual counterparts (anybody like that here?!!), Tarzan's beautiful naked upper torso sure sent chills up and down my spine as a youngster. I must say it is also a thrill to see my Midwest capitalized although for me at times there seems little to the Midwest other than my Chicago.
A friend of George's and mine - a 55 y.o. woman - died after a six week illness with pancreatic cancer. I was able to participate in the "transitioning" process much more directly, and I must say it was powerful to every other day say goodbye only to come back several days later and say goodbye again to a mind and body that was increasingly no longer of this world and actively seeking to move to a life beyond of her understanding.
Remember fireflies?!! There are lots here, and outside there's a warm heavy dampness and fireflies that light up the darkness.
To quote you my friend,
"There was a time I could sit on the porch and drink coffee and smoke cigarettes and feel like I was having a busy day.
I miss that sometimes."
I do too.
Oh how sweet you are, and how good to see you show up. I did Chicago for you on purpose, you know. There's a great picture of a little boy smoking a cigarette they use to reference the stockyard strike, but I liked the boy with the bomb better. I was hoping to hear from you.
And fireflies! Bless you. If you could just see the light right now, like looking through opaline glass at the Hollywood Sign and Griffith Observatory, as the marine layer drifts in. But no fireflies.
I'm off at dawn for Montreal, but I'll be checking in here.
I've finally given up smoking completely. Now there's nothing between me and the world. Sophia was here today for tea, she thinks she's met you all, and says hello. I've shaved my head and she says I look deeply spiritual, that I have a lovely glow. I told her it was just the absence of caffeine and nicotine.
And Johnny Weismuller! Bravo. Love to you and your George,
G
G,
Loved your description of LA through opaline glass. Hello to Sophia!
I must say I had a great time digesting the descriptions of apartment hunting in NYC - something that I could endlessly daydream about while smoking and drinking cups of espresso. And Sophia's description prompted thoughts of Weegee photographs and cameras with flashes that smoked! Your reference to the photo of a little boy smoking a cigarette and the stockyard strike I think may be a Lewis Hine. Now that we're talking photos, it might be nice to inquire as to what Alfred Stieglitz was doing in 1904. I will explore that and let you know.
OMG, a shaved head - so you are without caffeine, nicotine, and your beautiful head of hair??!! OMG!! And the glow, might it generate a current or guide you in the dark?!
Godspeed to Montreal.
JR
PS. I shudder at the time of this. I'm a bit sleepless this noc.
I think it was Julia Margaret Cameron. I know she was Virginia's Great aunt. She also photographed the likes of Tennyson & Gladstone. She had access to everyone. The Little Holland House crowd.
M