Before anything, a note of thanks to Puss, Jocelyn, & Ben for the dear get-well notes. I was very moved, especially since I’ve rather quickly become attached to you three. ⎯Hey, I’ve been ill, so I’m allowed to gush . . .
I’ve no news really, other than as much as I love my old Berlin flat, I wouldn’t mind a holiday from its white walls. In fact, if I were not earning in dollars (meagre ones, at that) I’d take the first flight to London. But we all know what bullies those Brits are with their currency. Anyhow, if I did go to London I’d miss my Saturday date with Puss⎯in Berlin! Sehr schön.
Two days ago, feeling better but thirsting for some visuals & music, I had the strangest urge to re-watch Joseph Losey’s Don Giovanni & Orson Welles’ Macbeth⎯⎯one after the other. Now, anyone who knows me well will have had the, er, privilege of hearing & watching me sing Leporello’s lines, beginning with the thumping opener: Notte e giorno faticar . . . ! If one is going to play Don Giovanni’s master, then one must be willing to go all out, which I did, with both dogs on my lap. Needless to say Herr Dachshund was unimpressed. Arrogant little bugger.
did once again move me was the Poor player soliloquy. Forgive me, I must write it in full:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That Struts and Frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Perfection. What a delicious march of the tongue in “That struts and frets upon the stage”.
And finally I realised, the next time another woman deliberately rams my ankle
Meine Hände sind blutig wie die deinen. Doch ich schäme mich, dass mein Herz so weiß ist.
Here’s to Shakespearean grace.
