something quieter, such as mutual interests and genuine affection.”
“Do you fear unbridled passion, of being swept away by your feelings? Of losing control?” I know how to go for the jugular of these academic types, just lead them into unfamiliar territory, like the land of emotions.
He ignores my question. “I don’t think it was passion for Mitch that motivated Blanche. She was attempting to escape her past, which simply isn’t possible,” he says, pompously.
“This nation—the most powerful in the world,” I throw in for effect, borrowing a favorite phrase of Dylan’s, “was built by people who successfully escaped their pasts and reinvented themselves.”
“I don’t know that it’s the most powerful,” he snarls, though with his accent, everything he says sounds somehow eloquent.
“Look, you guys no longer rule the world. The sun does set on the British Empire, so just get over it!” I’ve had these very same tiresome conversations with British friends back at school.
We arrive at a fuming standoff, facing one another like two outlaws at the O.K. corral. Then, as if remembering we are civilized beings, we both turn and continue to walk, neither one speaking for some time. We walk an astonishing distance in silence, David occasionally flicking glances my way.
“Well, you can run from the past, but you can’t erase the past,” he returns to the former point, not willing to let it drop, or perhaps incapable of cutting his losses.
“Well, actually, you can erase the past, if you choose to. If you really love someone, you could make a conscious effort to forget his or her past, which is the same thing.”
“But that isn’t realistic, that is just denial. You wouldn’t really be forgetting. For Blanche, it was just inevitable, that the truth should come to light, as it always does, in the end.”
“So, if you could step inside the play, and change it all around, you wouldn’t alter it so that Blanche could be happy with Mitch? You prefer the sad ending?”
“Well, that’s a silly question. It is what it is. I didn’t write the play!”
“But if you had the power to change the ending, to deliver Blanche to a happier fate, would you?” I have learned, from my Ivy League days, that for all their brilliance, many of these intellectuals lack heart.
“It was reality! You can’t deny reality!” He snaps open the umbrella, as a light rain falls.
“Why, when speaking of depressing things, do people always call it reality? But anything happy or magical is always labeled an aberration from reality.”
“That’s very American,” he says, bemused. He attempts to get me under the brollie, but I’m keeping a safe distance. “The forced cheerfulness.”
I halt in my tracks, and regard him as if he were an extra-terrestrial. I’m outside the shelter of the now-open brollie, but he doesn’t take notice. “What makes you think it’s forced?”
“Because it’s impossible to be as happy as you Americans always appear to be.”
“Oh, all these people are just faking it!” I gesture to the colorful waves of personalities that crash past us on all sides. “Give it up, people! You may be architects of your own destiny, but we all know in reality you’re just fooling yourselves!” I call to the oblivious crowds, waving my arms wildly like a crazed ringmaster. “Maybe we have more to be happy about. After all, we founded a country on the concept, the pursuit of happiness.” I resume my pace, which is suddenly adopting the cadence of a patriotic march.
“What is this ‘have a nice day’ slogan that you all constantly banter about? It’s not as if any of you mean it.”
“Oh, well, quick, book me a ticket to Britain, that bastion of
“Do you fear unbridled passion, of being swept away by your feelings? Of losing control?” I know how to go for the jugular of these academic types, just lead them into unfamiliar territory, like the land of emotions.
He ignores my question. “I don’t think it was passion for Mitch that motivated Blanche. She was attempting to escape her past, which simply isn’t possible,” he says, pompously.
“This nation—the most powerful in the world,” I throw in for effect, borrowing a favorite phrase of Dylan’s, “was built by people who successfully escaped their pasts and reinvented themselves.”
“I don’t know that it’s the most powerful,” he snarls, though with his accent, everything he says sounds somehow eloquent.
“Look, you guys no longer rule the world. The sun does set on the British Empire, so just get over it!” I’ve had these very same tiresome conversations with British friends back at school.
We arrive at a fuming standoff, facing one another like two outlaws at the O.K. corral. Then, as if remembering we are civilized beings, we both turn and continue to walk, neither one speaking for some time. We walk an astonishing distance in silence, David occasionally flicking glances my way.
“Well, you can run from the past, but you can’t erase the past,” he returns to the former point, not willing to let it drop, or perhaps incapable of cutting his losses.
“Well, actually, you can erase the past, if you choose to. If you really love someone, you could make a conscious effort to forget his or her past, which is the same thing.”
“But that isn’t realistic, that is just denial. You wouldn’t really be forgetting. For Blanche, it was just inevitable, that the truth should come to light, as it always does, in the end.”
“So, if you could step inside the play, and change it all around, you wouldn’t alter it so that Blanche could be happy with Mitch? You prefer the sad ending?”
“Well, that’s a silly question. It is what it is. I didn’t write the play!”
“But if you had the power to change the ending, to deliver Blanche to a happier fate, would you?” I have learned, from my Ivy League days, that for all their brilliance, many of these intellectuals lack heart.
“It was reality! You can’t deny reality!” He snaps open the umbrella, as a light rain falls.
“Why, when speaking of depressing things, do people always call it reality? But anything happy or magical is always labeled an aberration from reality.”
“That’s very American,” he says, bemused. He attempts to get me under the brollie, but I’m keeping a safe distance. “The forced cheerfulness.”
I halt in my tracks, and regard him as if he were an extra-terrestrial. I’m outside the shelter of the now-open brollie, but he doesn’t take notice. “What makes you think it’s forced?”
“Because it’s impossible to be as happy as you Americans always appear to be.”
“Oh, all these people are just faking it!” I gesture to the colorful waves of personalities that crash past us on all sides. “Give it up, people! You may be architects of your own destiny, but we all know in reality you’re just fooling yourselves!” I call to the oblivious crowds, waving my arms wildly like a crazed ringmaster. “Maybe we have more to be happy about. After all, we founded a country on the concept, the pursuit of happiness.” I resume my pace, which is suddenly adopting the cadence of a patriotic march.
“What is this ‘have a nice day’ slogan that you all constantly banter about? It’s not as if any of you mean it.”
“Oh, well, quick, book me a ticket to Britain, that bastion of
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