‘Other Women’ by Nicholas Montemarano
|February 13, 2013|
Black Spot I, Wassily Kandinsky, 1912
From Five Chapters:
It had to be their son.
That was my first thought when Peter called early that cold March morning to say that there was an emergency and could I come over right away.
Before I could say yes, I’d be right there, he said, “We’re in the middle of a crisis here,” and that’s how I knew—that word, crisis, which I associate more with adults than children—that he was talking about him and Diana.
“I’ve been having an affair,” he told me.
“Okay, wow, okay,” I said, trying to sound and be calm.
“I told Diana, and she’s a mess, and Yo is crying, and we need help.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I said.
I’d said yes without knowing what day it was, what time Michael was teaching, and who was going to bring Emma to school.
Emma was still sleeping in bed beside Michael, who was prepping class, notes on his lap, reading glasses on the edge of his nose. He’d been teaching for five years—he would come up for tenure the following spring—but still got nervous before class. The location of his glasses made him look older than he was—he was thirty-eight then, and I was forty—and I wanted him to push them up on his nose.
I walked quietly to his side of the bed and whispered that Peter and Diana were in trouble and I needed to go over to their house.
Inherent Vice’s Two Directions
The jokes certainly strike one as sophomoric and the latter one as clichéd, further below Pynchon’s intelligence than one would like to think he would stoop, at least in print. Discounting them and moving on, or throwing the book across the room as Parker half implies we should do, however, would be to lose sight of “that high magic to low puns”.
Auden, Larkin and Love
I was prompted to revisit these ancient questions anew by a long footnote about a single line in the new Complete Poems edition of Philip Larkin’s poetry. The footnote refers to “An Arundel Tomb” contains a provocative remark about that the poem’s celebrated, controversial, closing line, the one about the true nature of immortality: “What will survive of us is love.”
Plato, Our Comrade?
Not surprisingly, there have already been critics of Badiou’s translation. The first is that his translation breaks the formal rules of translation to such a degree that the original meaning of the text has lost its significance. But this critique is inadequate at face value because Badiou’s hyper-translation is forthright in its intention of taking Plato’s concepts and modifying them into his own lexicon.
You may also like :
The Minister of the Interior stood in the middle of the room, assessing three suits laid over a chair. One was a pale morning-sky blue; the next tan, of light material, intended for these terrible summers; the last a heavy worsted English three-piece, gray, for state visits.
The academic who was to open the Professor A. Katz Memorial Evening wore her best dress. Elizabeth Woolacott was a large-boned, energetic woman. The dress, from an Oxfam shop, was antique gold velvet in sumptuous folds of burnish and tarnish.
The joke of it is,” Henry kept saying, “the joke is that there’s nothing to leave, nothing at all. No money. Not in any direction. I used up most of the capital year ago. What’s left will nicely do my lifetime.”