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Folk devils and chandeliers, someone always disappears
For one thing, [the premise . . . that the private can account for the public, that the subject's accomplishments map onto his or her psychic history] leads biographers to invert the normal rules of evidence, on the Rosebud assumption that the real truth about a person involves the thing that is least known to others. A letter discovered in a trunk, or an entry in a personal notebook, trumps the public testimony of a hundred friends and colleagues. Biographers go into a professional swoon over stories that some famous person has made a bonfire of a portion of his or her correspondence, or that notebooks in an archive are embargoed until the year 2050. That stuff must explain everything! Why should we especially credit a remark made in a diary or a personal letter, though? The penalty for exaggeration and deception in those forms is virtually nonexistent. People lie in letters all the time, and they use diaries to moan and to vent. These are rarely sites for balanced and considered reflection. They are sites for gossip, flattery, and self-deception. But diaries and letters are the materials with which biographies are built, generally in the belief that the "real" person is the private person, and the public person is mostly a performance.
—Louis Menand, The New Yorker
And on the same day as Bergman, Antonioni. It's like losing architecture.
—Louis Menand, The New Yorker
And on the same day as Bergman, Antonioni. It's like losing architecture.
no subject
It's from My Favorite's "Absolute Beginners Again," which is in turn from their first album Love at Absolute Zero (1999). I recommend both it and their second album, The Happiest Days of Our Lives (2003). The latter is a fragmented sort of song cycle that filters the life of Joan of Arc through teenage suburbia in the 1980's, with forays into David Bowie and James Dean; some of its weaker tracks blur unfortunately into the stronger ones, but when it's on, it manages to make saints and monsters rub elbows with synthesizers and television hosts. The former took me longer to warm up to, at which point I fell in love with its blend of everyday detail and such disaffection that the songs almost feel like science fiction, some weird post-industrial nightscape inhabited solely by adolescents listening to music and burning out with frustration that their lives will never start.