WITHOUT FEATHERS
'Hope is the thing with feathers . . ." —Emily Dickinson
CONTENTS
Selections from the Allen Notebooks 5
Examining Psychic Phenomena 13
A Guide to Some of the Lesser Ballets 23
The Scrolls 31
Lovborg's Women Considered 39
The Whore of Mensa 49
The Early Essays 59
A Brief, Yet Helpful, Guide to Civil Disobedience 67
Match Wits with Inspector Ford 73
The Irish Genius 83
Fabulous Tales and Mythical Beasts 91
But Soft . . . Real Soft 99
If the Impressionists Had Been Dentists 105
No Kaddish for Weinstein 113
Fine Times: An Oral Memoir 121
Slang Origins 129
Selections from the Allen Notebooks
Following are excerpts from the hitherto secret private journal of Woody Allen, which will be published posthumously or after his death, which ever comes first.
Getting through the night is becoming harder and harder. Last evening, I had the uneasy feeling that some men were trying to break into my room to shampoo me. But why? I kept imagining I saw shadowy forms, and at 3 a.m . the underwear I had draped over a chair resembled the Kaiser on roller skates. When I finally did fall asleep, I had that same hideous nightmare in which a woodchuck is trying to claim my prize at a raffle. Despair.
I believe my consumption has grown worse. Also my asthma. The wheezing comes and goes, and I get dizzy more and more frequently. I have taken to violent choking and fainting. My room is damp and I have perpetual chills and palpitations of the heart. I noticed, too, that I am out of napkins. Will it never stop?
Idea for a story: A man awakens to find his parrot has been made Secretary of Agriculture. He is consumed with
jealousy and shoots himself, but unfortunately the gun is the type with a little flag that pops out, with the word "Bang" on it. The flag pokes his eye out, and he lives—a chastened human being who, for the first time, enjoys the simple pleasures of life, like farming or sitting on an air hose.
Thought: Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.
Should I marry W.? Not if she won't tell me the other letters in her name. And what about her career? How can I ask a woman of her beauty to give up the Roller Derby? Decisions . . .
Once again I tried committing suicide—this time by wetting my nose and inserting it into the light socket. Unfortunately, there was a short in the wiring, and I merely caromed off the icebox. Still obsessed by thoughts of death, I brood constantly. I keep wondering if there is an afterlife, and if there is will they be able to break a twenty?
I ran into my brother today at a funeral. We had not seen one another for fifteen years, but as usual he produced a pig bladder from his pocket and began hitting me on the head with it. Time has helped me understand him better. I finally realized his remark that I am "some loathsome vermin fit only for extermination" was said more out of compassion than anger. Let's face it: he was always much brighter than me—wittier, more cultured, better educated. Why he is still working at McDonald's is a mystery.
Idea for story: Some beavers take over Carnegie Hall and perform Wozzeck. (Strong theme. What will be the structure?)
Good Lord, why am I so guilty? Is it because I hated my father? Probably it was the veal-parmigian' incident. Well, what was it doing in his wallet? If I had listened to him, I would be blocking hats for a living. I can hear him now: "To block hats—that is everything." I remember his reaction when I told him I wanted to write. "The only writing you'll do is in collaboration with an owl." I still have no idea what he meant. What a sad man! When my first play, A Cyst for Gus, was produced at the Lyceum, he attended opening night in tails and a gas mask.
Today I saw a red-and-yellow sunset and thought, How insignificant I am! Of course, I thought that yesterday, too, and it rained. I was overcome with self-loathing and contemplated suicide again—this
'Hope is the thing with feathers . . ." —Emily Dickinson
CONTENTS
Selections from the Allen Notebooks 5
Examining Psychic Phenomena 13
A Guide to Some of the Lesser Ballets 23
The Scrolls 31
Lovborg's Women Considered 39
The Whore of Mensa 49
The Early Essays 59
A Brief, Yet Helpful, Guide to Civil Disobedience 67
Match Wits with Inspector Ford 73
The Irish Genius 83
Fabulous Tales and Mythical Beasts 91
But Soft . . . Real Soft 99
If the Impressionists Had Been Dentists 105
No Kaddish for Weinstein 113
Fine Times: An Oral Memoir 121
Slang Origins 129
Selections from the Allen Notebooks
Following are excerpts from the hitherto secret private journal of Woody Allen, which will be published posthumously or after his death, which ever comes first.
Getting through the night is becoming harder and harder. Last evening, I had the uneasy feeling that some men were trying to break into my room to shampoo me. But why? I kept imagining I saw shadowy forms, and at 3 a.m . the underwear I had draped over a chair resembled the Kaiser on roller skates. When I finally did fall asleep, I had that same hideous nightmare in which a woodchuck is trying to claim my prize at a raffle. Despair.
I believe my consumption has grown worse. Also my asthma. The wheezing comes and goes, and I get dizzy more and more frequently. I have taken to violent choking and fainting. My room is damp and I have perpetual chills and palpitations of the heart. I noticed, too, that I am out of napkins. Will it never stop?
Idea for a story: A man awakens to find his parrot has been made Secretary of Agriculture. He is consumed with
jealousy and shoots himself, but unfortunately the gun is the type with a little flag that pops out, with the word "Bang" on it. The flag pokes his eye out, and he lives—a chastened human being who, for the first time, enjoys the simple pleasures of life, like farming or sitting on an air hose.
Thought: Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only food: frequently there must be a beverage.
Should I marry W.? Not if she won't tell me the other letters in her name. And what about her career? How can I ask a woman of her beauty to give up the Roller Derby? Decisions . . .
Once again I tried committing suicide—this time by wetting my nose and inserting it into the light socket. Unfortunately, there was a short in the wiring, and I merely caromed off the icebox. Still obsessed by thoughts of death, I brood constantly. I keep wondering if there is an afterlife, and if there is will they be able to break a twenty?
I ran into my brother today at a funeral. We had not seen one another for fifteen years, but as usual he produced a pig bladder from his pocket and began hitting me on the head with it. Time has helped me understand him better. I finally realized his remark that I am "some loathsome vermin fit only for extermination" was said more out of compassion than anger. Let's face it: he was always much brighter than me—wittier, more cultured, better educated. Why he is still working at McDonald's is a mystery.
Idea for story: Some beavers take over Carnegie Hall and perform Wozzeck. (Strong theme. What will be the structure?)
Good Lord, why am I so guilty? Is it because I hated my father? Probably it was the veal-parmigian' incident. Well, what was it doing in his wallet? If I had listened to him, I would be blocking hats for a living. I can hear him now: "To block hats—that is everything." I remember his reaction when I told him I wanted to write. "The only writing you'll do is in collaboration with an owl." I still have no idea what he meant. What a sad man! When my first play, A Cyst for Gus, was produced at the Lyceum, he attended opening night in tails and a gas mask.
Today I saw a red-and-yellow sunset and thought, How insignificant I am! Of course, I thought that yesterday, too, and it rained. I was overcome with self-loathing and contemplated suicide again—this
Similar Books
