The world is an aesthetic jumble sale and sometimes you have to think fast.  Yesterday at my local bookseller I had to choose, and I was in one of those moods where there seemed to be so much to choose from, but I am very happy with my purchase, "The Slaves of Solitude," the NYRB reissue of Patrick Hamilton's story of war-time London, first published in 1947. 

The tale opens in a time of "intense war, intense winter, and intensest black-out in the month of December" as the evening train from Paddington Station returns a load of workers from London: "One waiting at the barrier to meet a friend could see compartment doors being flung open rapidly everywhere (as though some sort of panic had occurred within the train) and the next moment a small army of home-seekers, in full attack, came rushing towards the dim black-out light -- like moonlight gone bad..." [italics mine].  Once through the bottle-neck of the ticket-collector, the crowd thundered over the bare wooden floor and out into the "three-times-night" where "torches came flashing on and going out like fireflies..."

Los Angeles Tube Station Train Subway Station at Wilshire and Western.

Needless to say  I was quickly drawn into the world of London during the War and was about to meet the principal character/heroine, a Miss Roach, when I happened to glance up from the page and at the television which I had left on, muted, so as to keep an eye on the crawl for the voting results in South Carolina and Nevada.  I must have inadvertently bumped the remote because "Chinatown" was now playing on HBO.

Residents of Los Angeles are not required by law to watch "Chinatown," "Blade Runner," and "Sunset Boulevard" whenever they can but it never hurts, in the same way I am sure there are New Yorkers who wouldn't
miss a Woody Allen retrospective or late night showing of "Manhattan."  And this is what I meant about life being so rich with aesthetic choices, since I was soon completely absorbed, Patrick Hamilton splayed on my chest, as a young Jack Nicholson slapped Faye Dunaway (my sister, my daughter, my sister, my daughter).  I'd also forgotten about the completely effective and compelling soundtrack score -- genius.

Then to top it off, and because friends are always recommending things to me, either as diversions, or for my edification, or out of a concern for the huge  gaps and lacunae in my education, the dear Miss Liza Basset forwarded a YOUTUBE clip (not included here) and a link to the official site for ROBERTO BOLLE, dancer for the LaScala Theatre Ballet Company, whose physique if not face will be familiar to many New Yorkers because of the GAP ads he's done which are apparently in subway stops and bus shelters throughout the city. 

As you are proabably aware, there are important 1904 associations with the ballet, not the least being George Ballanchine's birthday on 22nd January 1904.  [see the 1904 post Marius Petipa].  But if you have not already done so, I urge you to set aside that novel, pause your favorite show and peruse young Roberto's site or google or YouTube him as soon as reasonably possible.  The Divine comes in many forms and Beauty is all around us, beckoning, calling to us.  And yes, I know, I know, you may be tempted to say, "No, it's too much, please; no more.  Let me keep my life small and safe.  There was Rudy; there can be no other."

But I say to you, life continues to unfold, ever expanding, a tapestry whose exquisite, intricate pattern has not yet been fully revealed.  Hide not your eyes, cease resisting -- join me in affirming, in crying out, Bravissimo!  Io Adore!  Roberto sei un DIO!