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That evening the monks’ singing was harmonious and inspired; a young, black-bearded priest was officiating. When he heard the ‘bridegroom who cometh at midnight’2 and ‘the mansion richly adorned’, he felt neither penitent nor sorrowful, but a spiritual peace and calm as his thoughts wandered off into the distant past, to his childhood and youth, when they had sung of that same bridegroom and mansion. Now that past seemed alive, beautiful, joyful, such as it most probably had never been. Perhaps, in the next world, in the life to come, we will remember that distant past and our life on earth below with just the same feelings. Who knows? The bishop took his seat in the dark chancel, and the tears flowed. He reflected that he had attained everything a man of his position could hope for, and his faith was still strong. All the same, there were things he did not understand, something was lacking. He did not want to die. And still it seemed that an integral part of his life, which he had vaguely dreamed of at some time, had vanished; and precisely the same hopes for the future which he had nurtured in his childhood, at the college and abroad, still haunted him.
‘Just listen to them sing today!’ he thought, listening intently. ‘How wonderful!’
After that came a sitting-room, with a round table, sofa and armchairs upholstered in a bright blue material. A large photograph of Father Andrey, in priest’s hat and wearing decorations, hung over the sofa. Then they entered the dining-room, with its sideboard, and then the bedroom. Here in the half-light, two beds stood side by side, giving the impression that the room had been furnished with the intention that everything there would always be perfect and could never be otherwise. Andrey Andreich led Nadya through the whole house, keeping his arm around her waist all the time. But she felt weak and guilty, hating all those rooms, beds and armchairs, and nauseated by that naked lady. Now she clearly understood that she no longer loved Andrey Andreich and that perhaps she never had. But how could she put it into words, whom could she tell and what good would it do? This was something she did not and could not understand, although she had thought about it for days and nights on end. He was holding her round the waist, talking to her so affectionately, so modestly – he was happy walking around his new house. But all she saw was vulgarity, stupid, fatuous, intolerable vulgarity, and that arm round her waist seemed as hard and cold as an iron hoop. Every minute she was on the verge of running away, sobbing, throwing herself out of the window. Andrey Andreich led her to the bathroom, where he placed his hand on a tap set in the wall – and suddenly water flowed.
Only now did Nadya begin to cry. Only now did she realize that she was actually leaving – even when she had said goodbye to Grandmother and looked at her mother she still hadn’t believed it. Farewell, dear old town! Suddenly she remembered everything: Andrey, his father, the new house, the naked lady with the vase. None of these things frightened or oppressed her any more – it all seemed so mindless and trivial, and was receding ever further into the past. When they climbed into the carriage and the train moved off, all that past existence which had seemed so large, so serious, now dwindled into insignificance, and a vast, broad future opened out before her, a future she had hardly dreamt of. The rain beat against the carriage windows and all she could see was green fields, with glimpses of telegraph poles and birds on the wires. Suddenly she gasped for joy: she remembered that she was travelling to freedom, that she was going to study – it was exactly the same as running away to join the Cossacks, as it was called long, long ago. She laughed, she wept, she prayed.
‘Don’t worry!’ Sasha said, grinning. ‘Everything’s going to be all right!’
‘I’m going down to the Volga the day after tomorrow,’ Sasha said, ‘and then I’ll be taking the fermented mare’s milk cure – drinking koumiss. A friend of mine and his wife are coming with me. The wife’s quite amazing. I’ve been trying to win her over and persuade her to go and study. I want her life to be transformed.’
what a mensch
[...] "The Führer himself," Virginie said heavily, "is an artist, after all." Reproductions of his barely competent watercolors, his hesitant lines, his featureless faces, his vacuous, pretty, empty urban façades, had circulated as curios in occult Paris. Virginie and Thibault shared a glance of contempt.
FORESHADOWING
I saved Paris, Thibault makes himself think. Destroyed a new utter demon. I saved th world. He feels flat. Outside, the sunlight hits them differently than it did within the old city.
Is this it? Are they done?
thought this was a nice passage
"He never could paint people," Sam whispers. "He always left them out. Painted everything empty. Even when he drew himself, he couldn't do features ..."
The figure turns and Thibault glimpses its faceless face. Empty. A faint graphite sweep where there should be eyes. Blank as an egg. A poor, cowardly rendition, by a young bad artist.
"It's a self-portrait," he hears Sam repeat. She and Thibault reach for each other, hold each other up in fear.
Thibault says, "Of Adolf Hitler."
—Why are you talking about gender? —León complained—. When have we ever cared about gender? We’ll call him Blanco del Bosque. I’ll lose a bit of weight and fuck that brute Kowalski. If Tennessee could see it, he’d be thrilled to finally have a guy fuck Kowalski. It’s a lot more humiliating for the character than having fucked delicate little Blanche. I always imagined Kowalski would end up screwing some guy during one of his drunken binges.
lmao
Against all odds, and after attempting to convince León that we could be very bold as long as we didn’t fall into the grotesque, I got down to work and adapted T. Williams’s drama so that a 198-pound, forty-five-year-old León could play Blanche DuBois, without dressing in drag. It was a challenge for both of us.
For those who had known him since that start to his career, the second Streetcar was a metatheatrical show in which they witnessed a conversation between the León of twenty-five years ago and the delirious León-Blanco-Blanche of today, as strong and arrogant as the Polack, but more intelligent, with a mixture of fatal femininity and masculinity that disarmed all those around him. I don’t know if the show was very true to Tennessee Williams, I suspect not. Gone was the lyricism of a female Blanche, withered and mad, but the family tragedy exploded into a more brutal, more sinister, more contemporary piece, with hints of Jean Genet. Genet was a sauce we sometimes used to douse our work together.
León was ecstatic. Late triumphs are the ones you savor most intensely. With early triumphs, you don’t have time and you don’t realize how hard it will be to have another.
amazing