The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in Current Austen Affairs

THE GOOD:  Dr. Cheryl Kinney Speaks at JASNA-Southwest Conference

Our local JASNA-SW Jane Austen's birthday celebration at the Los Angeles Athletic Club was one of our most wonderful meetings in years. Great turnout, speakers, authors, food, good cheer. For many, the outstanding feature was a talk by Dr. Cheryl Kinney. She is a Dallas gynecologist as well as Austen scholar, who was co-coordinator of the Ft. Worth JASNA AGM, and is one of the best speakers I've ever heard. She's got it all: intelligence, wit, sparkle, liveliness, allied to serious knowledge. Listening to her you are learning while being diverted, and are aware that this is a remarkable woman as well as speaker. I took a few notes on her intensely interesting speech, and here are a few of the odd and alarming facts I learned about her subject, which was "A Dangerous Indulgence: Women’s Health in Jane Austen’s Time."

In Jane Austen's day, men used to make medical decisions for women. The women of the household did all the nursing, however. Women were not allowed to be trained to use forceps, yet midwives often knew more than doctors: for instance, in a cookbook of the era, in the back pages dealing with health matters, a midwife wrote about how bed linen should be changed to stop the smell of infection. This means that 50 years before Lister, women knew about infection.

Barber poles were white, and with a red stripe it meant the barber was also a surgeon.

Christie's auctioned off an 1810 condom recently, for L20,000.

Abortion medications were sold everywhere, and could kill you.

Douching could kill you too, as it was done with dirty water and could cause infection.

Mr. Woodhouse's medical advice was all good - London really was unhealthy! Bad water, typhus, plague, abounded.  VD was everywhere, spread by upper class men.

The Royal Navy spread clap (gonorrhea) due to stowaway prostitutes.

A lovely young lady at sea
Who complained that it hurt her to pee
Said the brawny old mate
That accounts for the state
Of the cook and the captain and me.

Women in Jane Austen's day had menopause at age 44. Women were bled once a month for menopause troubles, by an apothecary. One treatment involved leaving leeches in the vagina for hours. With cervical cancer, women simply rotted inside.

Giles King-Lyford treated Jane Austen in her last two weeks, and she improved during that time. He was one of four sensible thinking physicians, and took excellent care of her, apparently until others were brought in. In Austen's detailed observations of her illness she described Addison's Disease 30 years before doctors did.

Dr. Matthew Bailey may have written something about her illness in his private diary - but it is in family hands and they won't release it.

To hear a podcast of a talk Dr. Kinney gave on "Jane Austen and the Body" at the Chicago Humanities Festival, click on this link. Her thesis is that “Austen-itis” as the recurrent use of sickness, health, frailty, and injury to develop Austen’s characters, drive her plots, and establish the comedic side of characters’ suffering.

http://www.chicagohumanities.org/Genres/Literature/2010-Jane-Austen-and-the-Body.aspx

"Jane Austen turned herself into a physician whose patient was society." - Dr. Cheryl Kinney

THE BAD:  Death Comes to Pemberley by P.D. James


 

 

Oh lord. I thought to write a regular book review, just like a proper book blogger, but really I haven't the patience. This book was very much anticipated, since to have England's surviving grande dame mystery writer take on Pemberley, sounded an intriguing, possibly amusing prospect. But it's a disappointment, and I think the book will fail to please both Austen-lovers and P.D. James lovers alike. As one of the former category I was shocked to see an egregious error smack dab in the middle of page one. James calls Mr. Collins a nephew of Mr. Bennet, not his cousin. This may seem a very minor detail, but it informs you right up front and center that you are not going to be in the hands of someone who truly inhabits the world of Austen or cares about the details, so you are likely to be ceaselessly irritated; and it also distracts you from reading enjoyment as you sit there gobsmacked that an author as eminent and best-selling as P.D. James does not have a competent editor or copy editor!

Still, I moved past that, as it would be absurd to let one error put the kibosh on an entire book. Although there were other errors (as her continually describing the Hursts as splendidly rich, when clearly they were spongers), the book didn't turn out to be distressfully messy in that respect. Instead, James fell into another grievous and more serious error - she proceeded to recap and summarize Pride and Prejudice for almost the next solid fifty pages. This was done in a stilted, stupefying way that is incredibly tedious to anyone who knows the book, but also does Pride and Prejudice a disservice by making it sound so tortuous and dull that the P.D. James fans who aren't familiar with P & P would hardly be moved to become so!

Once this section is over, the mystery begins, and James starts to write in a more natural style. Unfortunately the mystery she now unfolds is so dim and low-key, the book is anything but an exciting page-turner. Wickham is drunk in the Pemberley woods when his friend Denny is shot. He is tried for murder. There's a turgid, complicated explanation at the end which I won't go into, but I can't imagine a non-Janeite understanding the half of it, or a Janeite believing it. There are flashes of nice descriptive writing in the woodland scenes, with James wielding prose in a masterly way; and her depiction of early 19th century jurisprudence is well researched and well handled. But oh, dear. If a neighbor hadn't given me this, I never would have read it to the end. P.J. James has amused herself with a stab at being a sequelist, but she is unlikely to amuse very many others.

 

 

THE UGLY:  "The Portrait" and Publicity

On December 5, The Guardian headline read, "Jane Austen Biographer Discovers 'Lost Portrait.'" It's a headline that's both sensational and misleading, as is much of the article. The facts are that this "new" portrait has been in a private collection for years, and was auctioned at Bonham's in March, when Dr. Paula Byrne and her husband acquired it. Deirdre Le Faye wrote about the portrait in the 2007 edition of the Jane Austen Society Report, calling it an "imaginary portrait," done perhaps as early as 1818, possibly by the Revd William Jones, who liked to portray authors he admired.

Byrne is quoted as saying, "When my husband bought it he thought it was a reasonable portrait of a nice lady writer, but I instantly had a visceral reaction to it." This seems extremely disingenuous. Byrne was not unaware of the Le Faye article, or that "Jane Austin" (sic) was written on the back of the portrait. Yet the Guardian present the sequence as: "when Byrne...with an Austen biography due out in 2013, was given a portrait of a female author acquired by her husband, Shakespeare scholar Jonathan Bate, at auction, she was immediately struck by the possibility that it could be a lost drawing of Austen." This beggars belief. Her husband thought he was just buying a nice lady writer portrait? Of course they knew that the picture had been bruited about as a possible Jane Austen portrait, real or imaginary. That's why they were at the auction in the first place!

Byrne says, "The idea that it was an imaginary portrait – that seemed to me to be a crazy theory. That genre doesn't exist." Doesn't exist? What was Jane Eyre doing, for instance, but drawing "fancy portraits" of people from imagination? Obviously it was a thing people did do. In fact, Le Faye's 2007 article is illustrated with several other "imaginary" portraits of Austen. But Byrne says, "[Le Faye] "thinks it is an imaginary portrait. I did try so hard to find one single example of an imaginary portrait, but nobody could find one – they just don't exist." And she asks, "Why would someone have wanted to draw her from their imagination, when she was not popular at that time?" Well, maybe after Austen's death, those who lost her wanted to remember her. How about that for a reason?

Myself, I like the portrait; it does strongly resemble pictures of men of the Austen family, with their long noses, though her nephew and first biographer's description specifically says her nose was small. But what she was doing sitting near a cathedral with a cat (she didn't like cats), and wearing a lot of jewelry, simply seems to indicate that it was not drawn from life.

Byrne is also quoted as saying, "The previous portrait is a very sentimentalised Victorian view of 'Aunt Jane,' someone who played spillikins, who just lurked in the shadows with her scribbling." But what does a Victorian portrait (she means the altered and engraved 1870 version of Cassandra's original sketch) have to do with the case? A late, altered portrait is not pertinent. That the one Byrne bought is of a distinguished-looking author, "very confident in her own skin, very happy to be presented as a professional woman writer and a novelist, which does fly in the face of the cutesy, heritage spinster view," may fit in with Byrne's own (ironically imaginary!) vision of what Austen looked like, but has absolutely no bearing on the question of whether the portrait was taken from life.

Upon buying the portrait, Byrne approached the BBC and they started filming a documentary about it that will be aired later this month. The unavoidable conclusion is that Byrne and her husband bought the portrait to use as part of a campaign to build herself up as the author of *the* new major biography, in a bid for major league fame. The documentary is publicity to showcase "their" discovery. But it's not their discovery. It's their calculated purchase. To me this resembles the "arsenic" story in which a mystery writer recently hypothesized, as a vehicle for book promotion, that Austen was murdered. It's all about the limelight and nothing but the limelight - for the authors. Jane Austen doesn't need it; they do. Funny how both of these stories turned up almost at the same time; it's the way things are done in book promotion now. Find some manuscript or picture, hook your book to it, the truth doesn't matter, all that matters is what you make the public think. The public, not thinking about it very hard, now thinks that Jane Austen may have been murdered with arsenic, and that a brilliant scholar uncovered a new portrait of Jane Austen. Let's buy their books! And they may be good books, too; I'm told the mystery is excellent. This means more sales of good books, so where's the problem? Truth, inconvenient truth, is the problem. Mind you, I have nothing at all against book promotion, in fact I support it enthusiastically. And I have nothing against discoveries. But when people deliberately say they discovered things they didn't, in service of promoting a book, yes, it bothers me. The portrait itself is very interesting. It makes the subject look rather like an early 19th century Virginia Woolf.

"Ambition! Ambition! Cromwell, fling away ambition. By that sin fell the angels."

Quarterly Report: Thrift Shop Finds

Seems to me as if I haven't submitted a summary of my Salvation Army Boutique finds lately, liberally admixed with cats, and with few words (unless a Jane Austen quote or two should occur to me).  So let's get down to brass tacks. 

First up:  the mock Tiffany cat night light, here examined by Marsh-wiggle

Pindar takes a look

A Scottish water-colour, showing the village of Pittenweem.  The little green vase (Royal Winton Grimwades) is new too.  The picture makes me think of the song:

Oh, Pittenweem, Pittenweem,

She's every fisher laddie's dream.

She guts the herrin' doon by the quay,

And saves her kisses just for me.

I have them in my study on the Chinese chest I found last summer at the Salvation Army.

Now I must confess to you a slightly embarrassing problem.  Because the Salvation Army Boutique is so rich in treasures, new ones coming in every day, and I've been haunting the place for over a year now, my crystalline antiquities have...accumulated.  In fact, my dining table was becoming so cluttered that Paul started intoning warningly that he would get Dr. Zazio (the psychologist on the reality show Hoarders) after me!  Here's an unsparing view of my table.  But aren't the blue Bohemian decanter and glasses delicious?  How could I ever resist them? 

Note Catullus sitting amongst the bibelots. The cats often walk delicately around, over, and through the objects, and never break a one!  That's not to say things haven't been broken (there was the time Marshy and Tully took a belly flop onto five Venetian glass goblets of Paul's and did a Full Strike...and Tully has deliberately thrown my watch in the trash and buried my glasses in the litterbox), but not one thing has ever been smashed on my table. Yet. 

"To the Great House accordingly they went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour, with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters of the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in every direction. Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of all order and neatness! The portraits themselves seemed to be staring in astonishment." - Jane Austen, Persuasion

Just as the old rabbi painting, which used to belong to Peter's grandmother, gazes down at my treasure table!

Speaking of which...well, actually, I've only shown you half the table. Here's the other half. The red (or Quadling) half. Aren't the red decanter and glasses pretty, too? The whole set was only $15!  My other favorite new treasure on the Red half is this wonderful red lamp, Victoria china from Czechoslovakia.



About the clutter problem:  We addressed it by acquiring three pieces of furniture and filling them up with the excess bibelots. 

"Mrs. Grant, having by this time run through the usual resources of ladies residing in the country without a family of children—having more than filled her favourite sitting–room with pretty furniture, and made a choice collection of plants and poultry—was very much in want of some variety at home" - Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Here is the first piece, an antique wooden desk:

It holds many things (she said darkly), but even more of anti-clutter breakthrough was this mahogany glass-fronted chest:



It made a huge difference to the Hoard on the table!  Why, you can even see the table's surface now: 

An improvement, do admit!

You can see my little animal collection more clearly (if you should care to). The Japanese Zebra perhaps my favorite, but I love the little white running weasel from Carcassonne too.  But perhaps my favorite piece of furniture ever acquired at the Salvation Army is this amazing antique Chinese hand painted red chest.  It cost $75 and I've seen similar pieces online for ten times as much.  (It holds a lot, too.)



Here it is from the side:

"How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open..."  - Henry Tilney in Northanger Abbey.

Now, here are some more pretty things, and cats, from around the house.



Tully and Marshy try to look fierce.  The blue Chinese cushion is Salvation Army ($2)



A pretty dish from Italy.

Red and blue Czech crystal earrings ($4)

"Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters" - John Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility

The lady shows what she thinks about being asked to wear a Halloween hat.

"I am to be Count Cassel, and am to come in first with a blue dress and a pink satin cloak, and afterwards am to have another fine fancy suit, by way of a shooting–dress. I do not know how I shall like it.” - Mr. Rushworth in Mansfield Park

A black Chinese shawl

"Fanny, William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I will have two shawls, Fanny.” - Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park

Three pretty dishes (I love blue and white). Left, Derby Lily; right, Tettau from Bavaria; and French "Amitie" from Quimperle.

The English Wedgewood egg cups ($5) are new

"Serle understands boiling an egg better than any body. I would not recommend an egg boiled by any body else -- but you need not be afraid -- they are very small, you see -- one of our small eggs will not hurt you." - Mr. Woodhouse, Mansfield Park



My little vintage pins - enamel animals, sparkly cats

"You see what a collection I have,” said she; “more by half than I ever use or think of. I do not offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old necklace." - Mary Crawford in Mansfield Park

  

A jewel of a cat

Fast Trip to New York

On the roof, Hunter College Elementary School sixth grade class, 1957 (I'm in lower right corner)

Hunter reunion, on the roof in 2011

Thursday.  Trip got off to a fraughtish start because the storm back East meant that cousins were without power in their Connecticut home, and had to stay at Ezra's Riverside Drive apartment - which meant Paul and I couldn't. So I called around frantically and got the last room at the West Side YMCA, convenient location just off Central Park West near Lincoln Center, $100 a night, with bunk beds. Decent flight, despite sardine seats and a threatened problem with the hydraulic system; but we got to New York safely and on time.

We headed to the Y, a handsome building with a nice lounge where there was wifi, and pleasant staff. But the room! One wild horrified look at the bunk beds, and it was perfectly clear we could not handle it, not for more than one night, and possibly not even that. But there was no help for it, it was already late, so I gamely said I would try and see if I could get up to the top, since I'm smaller. You'd think that wouldn't be so hard, but the thing was so constructed that you had to climb up the high frame, which swayed and wobbled like a weeping willow in an earthquake. It took delicate footwork, upper body strength and agility, all of which I used to have previous to the touch of arthritis in my knee, but now it was a challenge. I finally did ascend, and flopped like an out-of-breath fish on a wooden platter, which threatened to hurl me to the floor, six feet down. "I'll take the top, you can't," Paul said heroically, but the worst part of the challenge still remained: I had to get down. Couldn't get a foothold going backwards, so had to do a body twist and descend with arms behind me - very precarious and twisted my knee as I jumped the last few feet. Paul found it every bit as hard for his younger self to ascend, while his larger frame was completely incompatable with the wobbling-fish-plate-pancake effect. We concluded that of the two, it would be marginally less dangerous for me to sleep up there, but decided to put off thinking about it for awhile and go get something to eat.  Found a really nice Indian restaurant (Moghli) for dinner (Goa fish curry; Hyderabadi chicken), and then retired to deal with the night on the rack of torture.  Incredibly, the bunk bed was not even the worst thing about the Y. That would be the bathroom, which was completely communal! Divided by sex, yes, but that was the only amenity: there was no privacy. Only a tea towel sized shower curtain shielded each stall, which seemed not to be a problem for the large young women shaking their bottoms in thongs, but definitely was for one brought up in the Victorian age. So I limited my showers to thirty seconds at 3 AM, which is not ideal. The less said about the toilets, the better, and I won't say it.

Me on the roof at Hunter, 1950s.  Miserable little scrap.  Someday they will discover that sending night owls to day school doesn't work.

Modern version of the little play house, right (picture borrowed from Nancy)

Happily I was able to secure a cancellation at our favorite Larchmont Hotel on 11th Street in the Village, for myself, for our last couple of nights. It's so charming and inexpensive they're generally solidly booked, so I felt fortunate and never have I more appreciated my own room! and bath! and civil guests (the Y clientele, not surprisingly, was large, loud and graceless). We also hated staying near Lincoln Center, nothing but tourist restaurants for half a dozen blocks in every direction, and the Starbucks was so packed you waited on lines to get sloppy swill. Who ever thought that the coffee would be better in L.A.? We have Peets.

Friday.  We spent most of the day visiting my in-laws, who are growing miserably embattled in their old age. Part of the problem was that Peter Cooper Village where they have lived since 1948 has lately decreed that residents must get rid of trunks that have been stored in the basement for decades. I've had one there since moving to California in the early 1970s. This disruption was understandably extremely difficult for elderly people, and made for a lot of tension. They didn't want the trunk in the house, so it had to be arranged for us to go down for an illegal basement peek, bribing a handyman. The man was late and I had to go to my reunion dinner, so I left Paul in charge of this volatile situation, and he performed very well under considerable emotional fire. The trunk was opened; he had five minutes to gather armfuls of old books and his own baby clothes and shove them in a bag, before the trunk was consigned to oblivion. Paul got out of there quickly and I returned from a lovely time at the reunion to hear the whole dismal story.

Fourth grade class (me on left)



Reunion at Roosevelt House

Watching the awards

Beth receives an achievement award from the head of Hunter College

The reunion was to celebrate the 70th anniversary of the founding of Hunter College Elementary School, and it was held at Roosevelt House at Hunter College, where a goodly crowd of people who'd attended Hunter from the 1930s to the present had a warm and wonderful time clustering into their own class groups. There were about ten from my class, some of whom are always kind enough to meet me when I'm in NY, so we've become real friends despite the initial 50-year gap since we last saw each other at age eleven. Beth came from New Mexico and she and her poet sister Rachel were among those honored at the reunion, along with a pioneering advertising woman from the class of 1938, the president of Brandeis, and the writer/composer of The Book of Mormon. After the ceremonies the Class of '57 members went out to a local steak house for dinner and had a jolly, sweet, and congenial time.

Happy Hunter dinner (picture borrowed from Nancy)

I always marvel at how vividly we remember being children together, our personalities so strong and distinct even then. Was that because we were "gifted"? I doubt it; I think it's just that we were together so long in a small group, two small classes. Most of us had nothing to do with each other for our entire intervening adult lives, and we lived them disparately - we are widely diverse in experience, viewpoint, and specialities, yet we are all so fond of each other and listen with great interest to all the varied life reports. Nostalgia seems to descend on one in the sixties, along with knee problems and love of cats and china painted with violets (speaking for myself obviously!). I think the professional tally was two psychologists, two lawyers, a book editor, a newspaper editor, a realtor, a political activist, a games expert, and me. Although I would guess most are comfortably off by reasonable standards, it is perhaps a mark of the recession that only one of the ten is fully retired at age 65, most have no plans to retire any time soon, and one of our most vibrant discussions was of a shared, intense love of thrift stores! Other lively topics included: a psychological consideration of why some people from similar backgrounds are survivors and some not; various political campaigns and the "Occupy" movement; methods of building a real estate practice; the joyful achievement that one of us has a grandchild in first grade at Hunter (even more difficult than in our day, as there are now 2,500 applicants for 50 places); and a host of memories of each other in our Hunter days and the eccentricities of our teachers. Who would not love a reunion such as this?

To be accepted at Hunter in the 1950s you had to have an IQ in the top percentile and your picture taken in a bathing suit. Mine was taken in Central Park.

We parted early enough for me to meet up with Paul and go to Veselka's in the East Village so he could have dinner - Ukranian stew and ambrosial apple crumble.

Saturday.  This morning, on only 4 hours sleep, I got up early for the second phase of the reunion, which was a tour of our old school. The outside and the roof looked as they always had, and the lobby was recognizable, but the classrooms themselves were so changed and remodeled I don't think any of us got much of a real deja vu feeling; also it was all so long ago we found we really collectively didn't remember much. Memory, I have concluded, is not a reliable record. The great thing is that we all do still really remember each other, and it's perhaps the greatest part of our education to see what became of us, or what we became, after the elapsing of most of a lifetime.

The older generation looks at the work of the new

After the school tour they took us by bus up to the new school building on East 94th, for a light brunch and some more time to socialize in classrooms. From there "our ten" went to Chef Ho's for what is becoming our traditional reunion Peking Duck. Great fun. Shared a cab to the West Side, where I fell fast asleep for three solid hours, and awakened to find that by general agreement we weren't having the evening drinks party we'd planned: everyone was just too exhausted. I had a nice email from my bonhomious friend Jay, who mentioned a favorite restaurant around the corner from him and his wife Susan at Columbus and 89th, Saigon Grill, and we went over to see them at their fantastic, cultured-New Yorker, book-and-art stuffed apartment. A delicious dinner in the most delightful company put the capper on a thoroughly enjoying-New-York mood, topped off by dessert at Cafe Lalo (cappuccino and Frenchified cakes). Now I've caught up on internet and diarizing, and will hazard my last ghastly YMCA shower...Tomorrow we visit my mother.

Family visiting my mother

Youth and age.  Beautiful New York girl cousin Joanna, age 14 1/2

Men of the family:  Tom, Jim, David, Paul

Joanna, Anne, me

Sunday. Here I am comfortably ensconced at the Larchmont - my goodness, how this modest bed and breakfast feels like the lap of luxury! When I came in, the staff was polite and friendly, the other guests well behaved, there were flowers in the lobby and complimentary slippers and bathrobe...yet it costs the same as the Y! I simply hated staying right by Lincoln Center, awful tourist area, but it's just wonderful staying in the Village. Today, Paul and I took train and bus up to see my mother. She didn't look bad, just weak, and was so pleased we were there. Cousins Anne, Jim, Joanna, David and Tom all came, and it was a very warm, pleasant gathering, a real family party. Joanna has dyed her hair red and is a spunky beautiful teenager, enormous fun, now she's old enough to really get to know. It was a lovely time and we all then took the train back again, together.

On the subway going home

Tired out

Love this picture of Joanna (taken by Anne)

 Me at same age...

I then met my JASNA-New York friends at Lincoln Center (had to pass through a horrendous crowd as the New York Marathon had just finished up right there), and we went out to an excellent Indian restaurant and had some delightful Janeite talk that got me even more excited about the upcoming Brooklyn JASNA-AGM a year from now. I was pretty tired after a day of such intense socializing (more than I get in several months in Los Angeles) but joined Paul at the Y, and waited till he finished his work. Then we packed up all the remaining bags and took them by taxi to the Larchmont. We walked from the Larchmont to Veselka's where he had a late dinner (stuffed cabbage and pierogies).

End of the Marathon

Susan's divine chocolate shortbread cake

Monday. Awfully nice day today, perfect weather. Dropped in to see the in-laws briefly in the morning. From there, took the Lexington Ave. subway up to see my Jane Austen friend Gene, who lives near my home building on East 86th St. Lovely time, she took me to the most exquisite Italian restaurant, Centolire, on Madison and 86th, for a taste of first class New York food. I had little grilled wild mushrooms in polenta cream, delicate and divine, then marvelous grilled sardines on risotto cream, and gelato and cappuccino. Ah, New York Italian! I also stopped by my old building and talked to a kind, chatty doorman, Angelo, who told me that if I wrote in advance, the woman who lives in our old apartment, Mrs. Furman, is very nice and would probably let me see the place! Ah, next trip. He also said that the mother of two of my playmates died only a couple of years ago in her 90s and her apartment was unchanged in all that time - wish I'd known, I could have visited her. Then I met Paul on Broadway and 114th, at Book Culture, a favorite bookstore, and we visited a retired librarian friend and Charlotte Yonge devotee whom I always see when in New York, in her beautiful, book-filled Riverside Drive apartment. Another librarian friend was visiting her, lovely lady, and Paul told them horror stories of modern library work situations and made their hair stand up on end!  Then we went to the charming Jay and Susan's, and they made us the most delicious dinner - can't believe it was still the same day as the fabulous Italian lunch - the tenderest roast pork with endive, and a stupendous molten chocolate cake, the best ever. Paul and I staggered back to our respective hotels and I'm at the Larchmont now. On the way I found that Lafayette Pastry, a favorite bakery in the Village that I'd loved since I was a Music and Art student at 14, but thought was closed, is still in existence; they'd just moved. Though decidedly they've become a little strange. The elderly proprietor is dead, and his son, who does the baking with his elderly mother, has a few screws loose and got into awful public trouble, as well he might, for his Drunken Negro Cookies. There's been a campaign to stamp him out (he's had death and bomb threats), and the online restaurant review sites tear him apart. His mind may be scrambled but oddly there is still absolutely nothing wrong with his pastry; the Greek Cookies are still sublime. Perhaps it's his mother's hand there; how deeply miserable that poor old woman did look, I felt sorry for her.

Lafayette Pastry, what happened?

Tuesday. How pleasant the Larchmont is. Quiet and peaceful, and when I went downstairs with my three heavy bags, everybody simply leaped to help me. I checked out, left the bags, and walked over to 7th Ave. to take the subway uptown. Warm sunny day, must have been 70 degrees. Went to my childhood best friend Mark's psychologist office in my aunt's old building on West End Avenue at 10:30 but he wasn't there; clearly missed my message. He called as I was walking away and said he was a block away, so we met up! Just for 5 minutes but much better than nothing. I then went to Murray's Sturgeon Shop to buy my nova and bialies to take home, and took the crosstown bus intending to have a peek into the Met...but the crowds were vast and the day beautiful, so instead I went for a lovely wander in sunny Central Park, past Cleopatra's Needle where Mark and I played as kids half a century ago, and to Turtle Pond where we floated boats (it's all fenced in now, alas). So many self-conscious prosperous New Yorkers attitudinizing; it used to be just a park where kids played, I swear.

Me and Mark at 10...and when we met again, in our 40s

Me in a quieter Central Park, 1950s



Central Park on an unseasonably warm day in November



Cleopatra's Needle, where Mark and I used to play

Then I took the Fifth Avenue bus down to the building on 29th Street where my cousin Anne had an art exhibit - her meticulous architectural paintings were well placed in an executive office setting. 

It was literally around the corner from "The Little Church around the Corner," where many theatrical people and journalists were married - including my grandparents, Onoto Watanna (the first Asian American novelist) and alcoholic reporter Bertrand Babcock.  Then I took a cab to meet Paul at the Coffee Roast cafe across the street from the Larchmont, where he had a Croque Monsieur and we saw Austin Scarlett of Project Runway sauntering by, a doubly delicious New York moment. Then to the Larchmont to collect bags and take a cab to the airport...and home to Peter and the cats...

"The Little Church around the Corner" where my grandparents married in 1901



One of Anne's "High Line" paintings