CarrollBlog 3.31

There are moments in life that usually happen out of the blue, where you remember something you haven't thought about in years. And as the memory comes and goes, you realize only now how incredibly special that moment was. You've needed years more of life and experience to comprehend that that experience way back when was like few others. At the time it happened it was nice but nothing more. It doesn't necessarily have to have been a big or important event either. Today I remembered a meal with my mother on the Long Island Shore back when I was around 20. Nothing special about it-- just a meal with Mom. But all of the elements together-- where we were, what was going on at the time, what was coming up... all combined to make a perfect storm of happiness. The sadness of course being that it took this long for me to realize that meal together was not just nice-- it was one of the golden times.

CarrollBlog 3.30

Nice lines overheard:

CarrollBlog 3.29

When I began writing WHITE APPLES, I had several long conversations with the man I used as the basis for Vincent Ettrich. We were talking about relationships and got on the subject of first impressions. He said the great relationships in his life have almost always begun with what he calls an "uh oh moment." When he met these important women for the first time, or in some cases even just saw them for the first time, his immediate reaction was always "uh oh." Sometimes he even said that out loud. I asked was it a good "uh oh" or a bad one. He said it depended-- it wasn't a simple thing. All he knew was at those moments both his heart and mind combined for one of those rare times when they were in complete agreement:
Uh Oh-- someone magnificent has just arrived.
Does that mean trouble ahead or wonder?

CarrollBlog 3.28

"When we married, Naomi said: Sometimes we need both hands to climb out of a place. Sometimes there are steep places, where one has to walk ahead of the other. If I can't find you, I'll look deeper in myself. If I can't keep up, if you're far ahead, look back. Look back."

CarrollBlog 3.27

Having lived half a century you would think one would have adjusted to it by now, but for some ridiculous reason I am forever bothered by the change to or from Daylight Savings Time. I know, it's only an hour one way or the other and always falls conveniently on a Sunday when most people have nothing to do. But it still discombobulates me for a few days after it's happened. I'll look at the clock and some strident voice inside says, "It's THAT late?" or "I have a whole hour to kill before I go? I thought it was time." The sky is too bright for that time of evening, or too dark for that time of morning. Small annoyances, like having no hat when it starts to rain, no milk for the coffee, the car alarm out on the street that doesn't stop screaming even after minutes, the extra hour or the lost hour that you thought belonged to you but doesn't.

CarrollBlog 3.26

Early Sunday morning when everything is quiet, the streets are empty and no one is around, a small beat up rental truck is parked in front of an apartment building. The back is open and one glance at what's inside says that someone must be moving house. A mushroom colored couch and three nondescript wooden chairs, a few lamps, a children's desk, an old stereo system are carefully, strategically arranged in there. Someone's small kingdom is picking up stakes and moving across town. You see these scenes often. Sometimes a couple are loading brown cardboard boxes full of books and knicknacks into a truck, a van, or an already full car. Or a woman with unkempt hair holds a tall plant in her arms, waiting for her man to slide things around inside to make room for it. Maybe they can get everything arranged in one load and not have to make two trips. Your whole life, all your possessions, everything you own, have bought, have amassed is in the back of that small truck or on the backseat of your Subaru and crammed into the trunk. Even after you're finished loading, despite all the work getting it there, it doesn't look like much. Kind of puts things into perspective.

CarrollBlog 3.25

A letter from reader BL in Baltimore:
"I did something yesterday that I think you will
find interesting and possibly even amusing. I take the
subway to work each morning and naturally take a book
to read since the ride is almost an hour long. Yesterday I
finished reading "From the Teeth of Angels" which I have
two copies of. There was a homeless person asking for
spare change at one of the stops. I didn't have any change
with me, so instead I gave her the copy of your book that I
had just finished. She seemed mildly confused but genuinely
thanked me as I walked away. It was a spontaneous gesture
and now who knows what adventures the book is
going to have.

CarrollBlog 3.24

I knew a guy who owned a moving van. One of those 16 wheel monsters, this was back in the 70's when trucks were trucks and unlike the automatic transmission trucks of today, it had so many gears that a driver spent most of his time shifting through them if he was driving in town. I asked this man if I could try it and he said sure. My first mistake came within thirty seconds of sliding behind the wheel. After turning on the ignition, I put the truck in first gear. Sitting in the passenger's seat, he frowned and asked what the hell was I doing? I shrugged because wasn't it obvious? He scolded, "You never start out in first gear in a truck like this! First gear is so powerful and slow that you only use it to go up very steep hills when you're fully loaded, or trying to get the truck out of a snowbank. Put it in 8th gear and let's go."

CarrollBlog 3.23

For anyone interested and who is in the neighborhood, I'll be doing a reading in Vienna next
Thursday night, March 30, at the "Mord & Musik" bookstore on Lindengasse 22/1 in the 7th district
at 7 in the evening.

CarrollBlog 3.22

Three kids are waiting for the traffic light to change. A boy and two girls, about 16 or 17. They're all very good looking and they know it, the boy especially. He's dressed in the latest fashion (turquoise baseball cap turned askew, super baggy jeans, "Evisu" sweatshirt...) and self-consciously smoking a cigarette. This is one male pleased with who and where he is in the universe. Some people get their cigarette smoking straight out of the movies-- the gestures, the way they squint against the smoke in their eyes, the placement of the cig in their hand or mouth... You've seen it all up on the big screen--Gary Cooper, Humphrey Bogart, Brad Pitt in FIGHT CLUB. So have they, which is clearly where they picked up their moves. Both girls are watching their boy smoke Brad-style, while little hearts and birds flow up out of their heads, like cartoon characters in love.

CarrollBlog 3.21

There is an Italian restaurant nearby that serves terrific food in elegant, tasteful surroundings. Because it is a small place, you can see into the kitchen and watch the cook at work in there. He is very good at what he does and like all accomplished chefs, he moves with the precision and grace of an athlete or dancer. He's a dignified looking man around sixty, unsmiling and maybe a little too permanently serious, but you can tell that's probably because his work is his life. The funny thing is that in good weather, almost every time I walk the dog in the park nearby at a certain late hour of the afternoon, I see this man stretched out on a bench sleeping. If you didn't know who he was, you might think he was a bum because he wears frayed jeans and old sneakers, sweatshirt, etcetera. At work he's dressed in spotless white, and all business, but it seems to be his thing to have a catnap in the park in his civvies before going off to the job. For some reason this contrast really tickles me and makes the food taste better whenever I go there to eat. But sometimes I'm tempted to tiptoe into the kitchen and say to him, "I know what YOU were doing this afternooooon!"

CarrollBlog 3.20

As I was about to enter my building, a well dressed old man came up and politely asked if we could speak for a minute. I said nothing but smiled and nodded. He asked if I lived here and I said yes. Did I know if any of the apartments in the building were free? I said I didn't know but didn't think so. His face fell in what looked like genuine disappointment. It was a little odd because where I live is not an interesting or special building, other than being old. Plus it's on a busy street that's noisy much of the time. I pointed to the building across the street and said I bet some of the apartments over there are empty because there are never lights on in them at night. He looked at me alarmed, as if I had slapped his face. "*There*? I would never live there. Are you crazy? Do you know about that place?" And he hurried away, looking back once over his shoulder as if I might be pursuing him.

CarrollBlog 3.19

Interesting medical term of the day:

CarrollBlog 3.18

I once suggested to a magazine editor that a fascinating article could be written about famous lost manuscripts throughout literary history. I'm no scholar so I know of only a few, but those stories alone are worth a long article or even a book-length study. While fleeing the Nazis, the great essayist Walter Benjamin carried the manuscript of his purported masterpiece under his arm as he tried to escape over the Alps to Switzerland. But somewhere along the way he ran into trouble and had to abandon it. The work was never found. Malcolm Lowry lost the long manuscript he was working on after the publication of UNDER THE VOLCANO. Ralph Ellison worked literally for decades on a novel that was to be the follow up to INVISIBLE MAN. But just as he was completing it, there was a fire in his house and the only copy of the work was destroyed. Hemingway lost an early book when he forgot the suitcase that contained it on a train. There was a finished novel by the great Polish writer Bruno Schulz that disappeared after he was murdered by the Nazis. People have continued searching for it unsuccessfully for years. The American writer Cynthia Ozick even wrote her own novel about the ongoing quest for that Schulz-grail. Just this year a novel entitled SUITE FRANCAISE by a woman named Irene Nemirovsky was published to great acclaim worldwide. She wrote it during the war but never completed it because she was arrested and sent to Auschwitz where she died soon after arriving. Before her arrest, she gave a large leather notebook to one of her small daughters for safekeeping. The daughter did not even open the book until forty years later because she said to read what was inside would bring back too many painful memories of her beloved mother. However when she did, the daughter realized this was not a diary but a novel, and a very great one at that about the war years in France.

CarrollBlog 3.17

Sometimes I think the root of all evil is not money, but impatience.
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She said she wanted this and this and this
from their relationship. When she was finished,
he quietly asked if she was aware of how many times
she had used the word "I" in the last two minutes.
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There is a cutlery store nearby that specializes
in custom made knives. What's interesting is often
the most expensive ones in the window are the crudest
looking. They look like they were forged and hammered entirely
by hand in a medieval blacksmith's shop. But if I were going to
spend four hundred dollars for a knife, why spend it on
something that looks like it came from a Robin Hood or Robinson
Crusoe movie? Just because an object is made by hand
does not mean it is either well crafted or valuable.

CarrollBlog 3.16

A friend of mine used to date a world famous conductor. Every time I see him on television, and that's frequently because he really is one of the super stars of the classical music world, I grin because she once told me a secret about him. Whenever they were alone together he was always eating chocolate. She said he was like a child who would eat it all day long if it were around. Didn't matter what kind-- it could be the best Belgian truffles or a king size bag of Hershey Kisses. As long as it was chocolate, he was happy. The amusing thing about this is that when he is conducting he looks so dour and formal, majestic in his seriousness and gravitas. I'm sure he has made even the best musicians cringe and shiver when his steely glance fell on them for having made a mistake. But seeing him in his elegant suits and baton held high, his face pure concentration and high purpose, all I can remember is her describing how he was never happier than when he was padding around the apartment in his stocking feet eating a Mars bar.

CarrollBlog 3.15

We were discussing what we do with books after we've finished reading them. I said I give mine away. Although I have quite a few, almost every one I own I haven't read yet. Books shouldn't sit on shelves gathering dust like old photographs, only to be looked at now and then; remembered fondly like a pleasant picnic you attended years ago. They should be out circulating in the world; living in other peoples' hands and lives. Adding new pieces of mental furniture to their houses, just like they did to ours'. What greater gift is there than to give someone a book you loved knowing that they'll probably love it too?

CarrollBlog 3.14

At the end of their relationship it seemed like nothing about him was right anymore in her eyes. The planet they had created together had turned upside down and the poles were completely reversed. North was now South, etcetera. She found fault in most of what he did or said. So much the opposite from what it had been like earlier in their relationship when they willingly bent to each other's curves and generally grinned or at most rolled their eyes when the other was being difficult. In certain respects that was more distressing than the unravelling of their connection. He constantly wondered who is this woman sitting across the table from me? Who is this sourpuss that very clearly doesn't like being around me anymore? Previously she had always enjoyed his insight and humor. But these days she snapped or frowned or sighed impatiently when he said something that he knew was genuinely witty or thoughtful. She acted as if she were putting up with his nonsense only because she had good manners. Time and again he wanted to shake this mean, endlessly irritable person by the shoulders and demand to know where is she? Where is the woman I love? What have you done with her? As if Ms. Malcontent were holding his real lover hostage somewhere and wouldn't return her until he had paid an unknown ransom. In the end the cost of that ransom was his leaving, but of course he never knew if she was released afterward unharmed.

CarrollBlog 3.13

One of the great small pleasures in life is getting something for free. A free ride, a free meal, a free sample of something cool or expensive, a free day off from school, a free tip from an expert. On the other hand, many people resent others who have been given free gifts from God, the Fates, or whatever is in charge. I'm talking about the resentment felt towards gorgeous fashion models, naturally gifted musicians, athletes, artists, or intellects. We look at those exquisite faces or innate talents and think they didn't *do* anything to get it. They didn't work for it, discover it, or develop it-- it just happened to be in their chemical makeup from the beginning, like long eyelashes. Yet it allows them a free pass to a world, a special elite, that I'll never know or experience. How come them and not me? It's so unfair. Yet if I'm an innately good dancer, or win millions in a contest that costs nothing to enter, do I ask why me and not them? Do I question the unfairness of my new bank account? Rarely.

CarrollBlog 3.12

The person you love is 72.8% water.
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"Our imagination flies;
we are its shadow on the earth."
Vladimir Nabokov
----------------------------------------
"You're never going to get the thing you want.
Not till you work out what it is you want.
You don't actually want the thing you want.
You only want what you can't have. You want
it blindly. What it is you think you want
is nothing like what you actually want.
You've still got to work it out, what you want
and what it is, the real meaning of want."

CarrollBlog 3.11

Two street musicians-- a guitarist and a violinist-- are playing on the busy shopping street. Both men are on the far side of middle age and bedraggled. Unshaven, threadbare clothes, hats too small for their heads, even their instruments are tired looking. That said, they're also pretty good musicians. But not a soul is stopping to listen or give them money. Nearby, four young mothers are chatting and smoking. Their very small children, half the distance between the moms and these men, are dancing to the music. Whirling, spinning as only a three year old uninhibited child can spin, hopping on one foot and then the other, none of them ever stop. They're having an absolute ball and it's all because of the music. You know that if it weren't there they'd be fidgeting and fussing and whining to leave. They are the most appreciative audience in the world for the musicians. But the two guys ignore them and looking glum, play on.

CarrollBlog 3.10

Everyone has a lock on something. The question is, does the lock really protect anything valuable or just something forgotten? In so many cases, there is not even a key to that lock anymore. It disappeared a long time ago.
--------------------------------
While handing me the gift she said, "It's just a mood wrapped in nice paper."
--------------------------------
As crazy as a car full of rabid dogs
--------------------------------
When the woman in the liquid blue dress left, the party dried up.
--------------------------------
On your birthday, I wish that you wake up smiling and go to bed laughing.

CarrollBlog 3.9

I own a beautiful white dress shirt that originally listed for a fortune, but which I bought for a great price at an after Christmas sale. The third time I wore it I was eating spaghetti bolognese and dropped a big red blop of sauce on the front of the shirt. Despite having it professionally cleaned and then washing it myself on the machine's highest temperature, the stains stayed. At first I thought of giving the shirt away to charity because for all intents and purposes it really was ruined. Instead, I just put it in the closet and forgot about it for months. Since then I have worn it a number of times, always under a sweater or vest, always finding some way of hiding the large stain. The irony is that every time I've worn the shirt since it was murdered by meat sauce, I've been complimented on it. Every time. Despite being more or less hidden beneath another piece of clothing, someone inevitably notices it and says that is one beautiful shirt. There is some kind of metaphor burrowing under this, about to pop out at any moment, but I have not yet deciphered what it is. Maybe you can.

CarrollBlog 3.8

Do you pick coins up individually off the table, or scrape them in a sweep from one hand to the waiting other? Whichever you do, is that any indication of your personality?
------------------------
What goes into your coffee first-- the sugar or the milk? Why?
------------------------
If you smoke, do you obsessively scrape any sign of ash off your cig, or do you wait
till a long drooping one is about to fall before you tap it into the ashtray?
------------------------
Do you look at yourself in the mirror when you brush your teeth, or just at your mouth?
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How many times a day would you say you look at yourself in a mirror when it is not necessary?
-------------------------
When you see them on the street, do you think of them as bums or the homeless?
-------------------------
Why are you angry when you don't receive mail if you don't write to anyone?
-------------------------
When a person says, "I don't read fiction because it's a waste of time." Are they right, or idiots?
-----------------------
A couple that had been married for decades was questioned on the secret of their success together.
One of them replied "We're still waiting for a dull moment."

CarrollBlog 3.7

Once when I was in Hollywood, my agent arranged a meeting with an important television executive who liked my work. I was told this was a very big deal and that I should be excited. I met the woman at a nice restaurant and we chatted over a great, obscenely expensive meal. She asked if I knew about her company. I had to admit I did not, but covered my ignorance by saying I lived in Europe and didn't see much US television. She was cool about that and filled me in on what they were doing, their future projects, etcetera. When she appeared to be finished, she looked both ways to make sure no one nearby was listening. She leaned in closer so she wouldn't have to speak above a whisper. "But there's one project that we're all tremendously excited about. And that's the one I'm here to talk to you about." She was an impressive and obviously high powered professional, but her voice was pure little girl excited now. She had something huge up her sleeve and wanted me to be involved! I was all ears.
"I can sum it up for you in one word, Jonathan." But instead of saying that one word, she fell silent. She smiled smugly because she knew she held the best cards in the deck and was about to lay them down on the table.
Finally I couldn't take the suspense anymore and asked, "One word? What is it?"
"Bhopal."
Stunned, I was speechless. Eventually I managed to croak, "Bhopal? You mean the town in India where Union Carbide leaked the poison gas and killed scores of people?"
She nodded sagely a long time. "We're going to do a four part mini-series about it."
With no tact or diplomacy I instinctively blurted out, "But that's a *horrible* story. All those poor people killed because a big company didn't care enough to take the proper precautions. What kind of television show can you make of that?"
"Huge. It'll win every award."
"But who would want to watch something so depressing? And four parts?"
She glared at me. Her furious eyes said if I opened my mouth one more time with one more negative word, I'd have to pay for lunch.

CarrollBlog 3.6

I know someone who hates public speaking. To them, the worst thing in the world is having to get up in front of an audience and make a speech. For this person doing that is like the bottom circle of Dante's Inferno. Yesterday I called them and said immediately, "What if for some magical reason, you had to be John Stewart tonight? Still yourself, but you're in his body." My friend asked what are you talking about? I said John Stewart is hosting the Oscar presentation tonight. A billion people will be watching him. And abracadabra--you just turned into him-- for tonight only. There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. Finally they said in a haunted voice, "That would be like Room 101 in *1984*. Where you're forced to face your worst fear." I said wouldn't that be an interesting idea for a story? In some fantasy world, you are punished for wrongdoing by having to become the person doing what you hate or fear most; like having to become John Stewart hosting the Oscars. But only for that one night. Then you return to your real self. In contrast, when you do something right, you're rewarded in the same way: You get to be Brad Pitt going to bed with Angelina Jolie tonight.

CarrollBlog 3.5

Sometimes I miss smoking. It's been years since I stopped but sometimes like a delicious pungent smell that appears out of nowhere, nostalgia for them hits me. Pulling that first one from a new pack, the flick of the match or the metallic whizz of the lighter under your thumb, the first puffs that are not very strong because the cigarette hasn't really gotten going yet. The small satisfaction of tapping a long gray ash off in an ashtray. The cha cha twist of the fingers stubbing out the butt when you're done. The half empty pack of matches in your pocket. The circus colored disposable lighters you'd buy two at a time because they were so easy to lose. What more perfect dessert was there than a cigarette after dinner? Or one after sex? That magical, intimate few minutes when you shared a cigarette for the first time with someone new in your life. A friend explained it well: The problem with cigarettes is that they're your best friend because they're always there for you. If you're happy, they're there to share the moment with you. If you're depressed they're there. Tired? There. Nervous? There. They may end up killing you but a better, truer friend is not to be found. The only thing that comes close is a good dog.

CarrollBlog 3.4

"Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless-- it will change. It will not be broken: it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."

CarrollBlog 3.3

Some proverbs by Antonio Machado:

CarrollBlog 3.2

Everyone has their "that was the most embarrassing moment of my life" story. Here's a great one I heard recently:
A woman was teaching a literature course at an American university. It was a tough assignment because the majority of her students were planning on careers in math and science. The only reason why they had signed up for her course was to fulfill an academic requirement. She said they were very smart kids who simply weren't interested in reading or talking about fiction and poetry. She likened teaching them to pushing donkeys up hills. Although there was no animosity between her and the students, there was no love lost either.

CarrollBlog 3.1

People often ask how could I allow such awful illustrations to be on the covers of some of my books. The answer is most of the time the decision is out of your hands. A few publishers welcome an author's input on cover art, others tell you to buzz off, and some don't show it to you at all until the book is published. Their thinking is We bought it-- we'll use any damned picture we want. We know what sells-- you only know how to write them. Leave the business side to us. This morning in the mail I received copies of one of my books in a foreign language (to remain anonymous).The cover was so dreadful and inappropriate that I had to smile. Coincidentally I recently did an interview with a journalist from that country. She specifically asked why I permitted the publisher to "desecrate" (her word) my books with their bad covers. I told her what I am telling you. She brushed my explanation away as if it were an annoying mosquito. But it's your book! No publisher has the right to slap just anything on there! Because people DO judge books by their covers, especially if they are unfamiliar with the author. Etcetera. I said yeah but, if you sell your car to someone else, they have every right to paint it pink once it's theirs, no?