A novel for our times: ‘The Book of the Vanquished’ (Excerpt of Michel Ragon’s ‘La mémoire des vaincus,’ in English translation and in the original French)

by Michel Ragon & copyright Éditions Albin Michel 
Translation copyright Paul Ben-Itzak

Today’s publication of this excerpt is dedicated to the memory of Eileen Darby, who would have been 83 today. To read about Eileen’s extraordinary life as a Grande Dame of New York, click here. Eileen, you really hit the nail on the wall!

“The ideal is when one is able to die for one’s ideas. Politics is when one can live for them.”

— Charles Péguy, cited on frontispiece, “The Book of the Vanquished.”

“Books can also die, but they last longer than men. They get passed on from hand to hand, like the Olympic flame. My friend, my father, my older brother, you have not entirely slid into oblivion, because this book of your life exists.”

— Michel Ragon, Prologue, “The Book of the Vanquished.”

Part One: “The little girl in the fishmongers’ wagon” (1899-1917)
(Excerpt, 1911-1912.)

“As for me, I’m just a poor sap! For those of us at the bottom of the heap, there’s nothing but bad breaks in this world and the one beyond. And of course, when we get to Heaven, it’ll be up to us to make the thunder-claps work.”

— Georg Büchner, “Woyzeck,” cited on the frontispiece of Part One of “The Book of the Vanquished.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be the vanquished than the victor.”

–Vincent Van Gogh, cited in Lou Brudner’s preface to “Büchner, Complete Works,” published by Le Club Français du livre, Paris, 1955.

Translator’s note: With the exception of Fred and Flora, who may be real, may be fictional, or may be composites, all the personages cited below and in Michel Ragon’s novel are based on real historical figures, notably Paul Delesalle (1870-1948), the Left Bank bookseller. Adopting the pen name Victor Serge, Victor Kibaltchich (1890-1947) would become a noted Socialist theorist who, like Fred later in “The Book of the Vanquished,” eventually broke with the Bolsheviks. Rirette Maîtrejean was his actual companion. Raymond-la-Science, René Valet, and Octave Garnier were real members of the Bonnot Gang, the details of their denouement as recounted by Ragon accurate.

 

Every morning the cold awoke the boy at dawn. Long before the street-lanterns dimmed, in the pale gray light he shook off the dust and grime of his hovel at the end of a narrow alley flanking the Saint-Eustache church. Stretching out his limbs like a cat he flicked off the fleas and, like a famished feline, took off in search of nourishment, following the aromas wafting down the street. With Les Halles wholesale market coming to life at the same time, it didn’t take long for him to score something hot. The poultry merchants never opened their stalls before they’d debated over a bowl of bouillon, and the boy always received his portion. Then he’d skip off, hop-scotching between the trailers loaded with heaps of victuals. Every Friday he’d march up the rue des Petits-Carreaux to meet the fishmongers’ wagons arriving from Dieppe, drawn by the odor of seaweed and fish-scales surging towards the center of Paris. The sea — this sea which he’d never seen and which he pictured as a catastrophic inundation — cut a swathe through the countryside before it descended from the heights of Montmartre. He could hear the carts approaching from far away, like the gathering rumbling of thunder. The churning of the metallic wagon wheels stirred up a racket fit to raise the dead, amplified by the clippety-clop of the horseshoes. Numbed by the long voyage, enveloped in their thick overcoats, the fishmongers dozed in their wagons, mechanically hanging onto the reigns. The horses knew the way by heart. When the first carriages hit the iron pavilions of the market, the resultant traffic jam and grating of the brakes rose up in a grinding, piercing crescendo that reverberated all the way back up to the Poissonnière quartier. The drivers abruptly started awake, spat out a string of invectives, and righted themselves in their seats. Those farther back had to wait until the first arrivals unloaded their merchandise. The horses pawed the ground and stamped their feet. The majority of the men jumped off their carts to go have a little nip in the bistros just raising their shutters.

On this particular Friday, at the rear of one of the wagons sat a small girl. Her naked legs and bare feet dangled off the edge of the cart, and the boy noticed nothing more than this white skin. He drew near. The girl, her head leaning forward, her face hidden by the tussled blonde hair which fell over her eyes, didn’t see him at first. As for the boy, he only had eyes for those plump swinging gams. By the time he was almost on top of them, he could hear the girl singing out a rhymed ditty. He approached his hand, touching one of her calves.

“Eh, lower the mitts! Why, the nerve!”

Click here to read the rest of the excerpt, followed by a partial excerpt of the original French, on our sister magazine the Maison de Traduction.

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War of the Worldviews: We have met the Martians, and they are us

by Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2018 Paul Ben-Itzak

In memory of Bill Clark and of Eileen Darby, whose counsel couldn’t be more relevant today: “Vote Party.”

WEST WINDSOR, New Jersey — Unlike the pre-Halloween, pre-Election fear and division extremist Right-wing hate groups have been attempting to sow in the United States in recent weeks and months, goaded on by President Trump, when the Martians ‘landed’ in this then-rural suburb of Princeton 80 years ago this week, it was an accident.

“Orson put on a blindfold and threw a dart at a map of the United States,” Howard Koch, who co-wrote the adaptation of H.G. Wells’s “War of the Worlds” with Orson Welles for the Mercury Theater of the Air, told me when I interviewed him for the New York Times in 1983 for the 45th anniversary of the October 30, 1938 Hindenburg-style, You Are There format CBS Radio performance of the imagined invasion of pods from the Red Planet and their subsequent anihilation of most of the world’s population, which set off a nationwide panic. In the broadcast, the first pod is spotted on a farm in this Princeton suburb.

Sheldon Judson, then a junior at Princeton and a stringer for the Associated Press (and later to head the university’s Geology department), told me he got a call from his editors “asking me to drive out to West Windsor to investigate.” If the difference between this long-ago (and unintended) fake news and the fake fears being deliberately stoked by Donald Trump and his minions is that Welles was not intentionally trying to sow panic — curtain-raiser and intermission announcements informed listeners they were hearing a dramatic broadcast — the similarity is that both exploited public paranoia. In Welles’s case, it was probably this grand showman’s native instinct to tap into real fears generated by Hitler’s advances in Europe and Japanese grumbling in the Pacific for maximum dramatic impact. Even if he’d chosen the location for the Martian landing at random, the timing was no accident.

The difference between the Martians Welles had debark in New Jersey and the fanatics Right-wing hate-speech and fear-mongering around the Other may have inspired to send suspected bombs to Democratic leaders and other liberal figures, kill 11 Jewish-Americans, and wound several police officers is that unlike the two alleged perpetrators, Welles didn’t mean to hurt anybody.

These perpetrators not only meant to sow panic and, in the case of Robert Bowers if he’s convicted of the Pittsburgh slaughter, kill, but were apparently also motivated, at least in Bowers’s case, by fear of a people who have become today’s fake Martians, or Bogeymen: Refugees and migrants.

For lost in some of the coverage, at least internationally, of the Squirrel Hill massacre is that it wasn’t just targeting Jews, but supporters of refugees. In his last Internet post before he allegedly launched his murderous attack, Bowers, writing on right-wing social media, expressed his ire with the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society over what he called its efforts to help “bring invaders in that kill our people.”

So — to paraphrase Welles’s reassuring closing of 80 years ago in the opposite sense — if you hear someone tweeting on your portal, those were no Immigrants; it’s election time.

June 11, 1998: Birth of a dance magazine

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“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world.”

— Margaret Mead, cited on the back cover of Issue #1 of The Dance Insider, Summer 1998

“Dance writing shouldn’t hide backstage, but should join in the wider cultural critical dialogue.”

— Dancer Z, inaugural issue, The Dance Insider

Please help us celebrate our 20th anniversary by subscribing to the DI today, for just $29.95 / year, or making a donation. Just designate your payment through PayPal to paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to find out about payment by check. Subscribers get access to our DI Archives of more than 2,000 exclusive reviews by 150 writers of performances, films, art exhibitions and more from five continents, as well as our five-year Jill Johnston and extensive Martha Graham archives, plus new articles. Subscribe by June 24 and receive a free photo ad.

On June 11, 1998, in SoHo, New York City, a new dance magazine was born, printed on 100% recycled paper paid for by the Eddy Foundation: The Dance Insider, with founding editor Veronica Dittman, founding publisher Paul Ben-Itzak, and a stable of professional dancers, journalists, and photographers, notably Jamie Phillips and Robin Hoffman. Features editor Rebecca Stenn provided the model of the dancer-writer and choreographer-educator Sara Hook the brain trust. Eileen Darby eventually became our senior advisor. Officially launched later that month at (and graciously hosted by) the American Dance Festival in Durham, North Carolina, the issue featured original cover and back cover photography by Phillips of Pilobolus Dance Theater performers Rebecca Anderson, Mark Santillano, and Gaspard Louis. (The Pilobolus connection having been secured by Pils alumna Rebecca Jung.) Our mission (besides going where no dance magazine had gone before):  To give a voice to dancers, to tell stories not told elsewhere, and to build the dance audience. The content included:

** Insider Picks of upcoming performances by the Hamburg Ballet, whose artistic director, John Neumeier, confided in the DI, “The most successful ballets, if they are stories…, are stories we cannot retell — just as it is very difficult to tell what you dreamt last night”; ODC / San Francisco; and, at Jacob’s Pillow and the ADF, respectively, Joanna Haigood and David Grenke, the latter of whom explained to the DI: “All of this stuff comes out of my body, and then it’s a matter of having it make sense to other people.”

** An Insider Forum in which Joffrey Ballet star and choreographer Christian Holder, American Ballet Theatre principal Ethan Stiefel, Joffrey alumna Hoffman (at the time in-house notator with the Paul Taylor Dance Company), Ben-Itzak, and moderator Veronica Dittman debated the question: “Is ballet irrelevant?” The article also featured interviews with Lines Contemporary Ballet director Alonzo King and Kennedy Center president Lawrence J. Wilker, and was illustrated with photography by Marty Sohl and Weiferd Watts.

** Insider News, illustrated with photography by Roy Volkmann of the Alvin Ailey Dance Company’s Mucuy Bolles and Don Bellamy, on personnel changes, promotions, guest appearances, and upcoming performances by the Ailey, Dallas Black Dance Theater, Mark Dendy, the Frankfurt Ballet, and Hamburg Ballet, plus labor strife at the Martha Graham Dance Company. Contributors to the section included recently retired Ailey star Elizabeth Roxas, the DI’s modern dance editor.

** “Fear and loathing with the fungus,” PBI’s inside report from Washington Depot, Connecticut, on the creation of Pilobolus’s collaboration with laureated jazz composer and big band leader Maria Schneider, who told the DI after one session with the dancers and the choreographic triumvirate of Robby Barnett, Jonathan Wolken, and Michael Tracy, “You get the feeling they all want something different….” The article was accompanied by a Pilobolus lexicon, more photography from Philips featuring Anderson, Louis, Santillano, and Trebien Pollard, and a first-hand report from an audition for Momix, the company of Pilobolus co-founder Moses Pendleton.

** An interview with Donald McKayle on the occasion of his 50th year in dance, illustrated with a photograph of McKayle and Carmen De Lavallade performing the former’s “Rainbow ‘Round my Shoulder” provided by fabled archivist Joe Nash and ADF. “When you find the linkage between dance and story,” McKayle told the DI, “you have found something very rich.” The article offered an exclusive excerpt of McKayle’s upcoming autobiography.

** “Inside Presenting,” sub-titled, “From the cradle to the grave, new ways to build your audience,” and featuring interviews with Wilker, ODC co-director KT Nelson, Pacific Northwest Ballet co-founder Francia Russell, Walker Art Center director Philip Bither, and many others, and illustrated with Keith Haring’s body painting of Bill T. Jones. The article was accompanied by a side-bar by Stenn recounting her experience performing for and teaching children on behalf of Pilobolus.

** A farewell to San Francisco Ballet diva Evelyn Cisneros, with a review by Aimee Ts’ao of Cisneros’s swan song and a tribute by Cisneros’s colleague (and DI education editor) Edward Ellison.

** An exclusive interview with flamenco legend Lola Greco on her controversial departure from the National Ballet of Spain.

** Dittman’s unique perspective on a performance by American Ballet Theater: “It is truly heartening to be reminded that there is still plenty in the world of dance, where lately I’ve seen only paucity.” (Harald Landers’s “Etudes” did not fare so well.)

** The DI’s inaugural issue terminated with a manifesto from “Dancer Z,” the nom de plum of a busy NYC modern dancer. Analyzing the current critical landscape, Dancer Z wrote: “The mere reportage of events which comprises most dance reviews seems directed towards the audience member who fell asleep and missed what happened on the stage, or for the viewer who seeks a poetic recapitulation.” Dancer Z terminated with an appeal and formula which the DI would adopt a year later when it began publishing online Flash Reviews of performances, most written by active dance artists:

“I want opinions, I want comparisons, I want meaning. Dance needs to be talked about not only in the context of its own history and trends, but in conjunction with trends in other art forms. I would like to read reviews which attempt to identify dance’s place in the constellation of ideological, economic, social, and aesthetic influences involved in its creation. Dance writing shouldn’t hide backstage, but should join in the wider cultural critical dialogue.

“I want to feel that writers are not only watching dance, but are asking the questions which need to be asked, drawing the parallels that need to be drawn, and fueling the wheel that struggles always to turn. In providing the push, the next challenge, or simply the truth, dance writers can be more involved in gathering and preparing the audiences of the future. Through writing which looks at dance in a larger context and acknowledges it as a citizen of the world capable of the responsibility which that invovles, dance can find the bridge to understanding itself and making itself understood, a connection imperative to its growth and ultimately, its survival.”

In other words, as Skoop Nisgar said: If you don’t like the news, go out and make some of your own.

Which the DI did.

Your turn.

— Paul Ben-Itzak

DI subscribers who would like to receive text versions of any of the above stories from the DI’s inaugural Summer 1998 print issue, please e-mail DI publisher Paul Ben-Itzak at paulbenitzak@gmail.com . DI subscribers also receive access to the DI’s 20-year archives of more than 2,000 exclusive articles by 150 writers related to performances, films, and exhibitions on five continents. Not yet a subscriber? To subscribe, for just $29.95/year individuals or $49.95 institutions, just designate your PayPal payment in that amount to paulbenitzak@gmail.com, or write us at that address to find out about payment by check or in Euros .

Fall River Legend: Remembering Eileen Darby — She happened to like New York

By Paul Ben-Itzak
Copyright 2014, 2017 Paul Ben-Itzak

First published on November 5, 2014. Eileen Darby — pillar of the dance world, star of publishing, exemplary human being, treasured mother, dedicated friend, the spitting image of Claudette Colbert with a dash of Shirley MacLaine circa “The Appartment” thrown in — died three years ago today.

When I received the news that my friend, my mentor in life and work (we met in 1995 when she was the advertising director of Dance magazine, and she’s been the Dance Insider’s advisor since its founding in 1998), my guide, my ‘repere’ of first resort, my rock, my model for the realization of the New York fairy tale Eileen Darby had passed away, my first thought — after the shock and upset, and I am still in shock, I don’t think I’ve yet realized that Eileen is gone, it’s surreal even to be writing this, as it’s the sort of piece I would send to Eileen before anyone else for input and approval — was that Eileen would have frowned at the euphemism ‘passed away,’ as she did whenever I used it in an obituary. “Just say ‘died’!” And even the first word that comes to mind to describe Eileen — ‘class’ — is one at which she would grimace. “‘Class’ is a word used by those who don’t have it. It’s cheap.” As in, “Classy Chassy Cassie” — George Raft to waitress Ann Sheridan as she turns to pour coffee for him and Humphrey Bogart in “They Drive by Night.” And speaking of coffee, Eileen, who liked to make hers in a French press (they’re actually made in Switzerland), added the touch of stirring the grinds up to better distribute and dissimulate the flavor, a gesture I’d copy early mornings in the narrow kitchen of her spacious two-bedroom on the 8th floor of Peter Cooper, while looking out the window at the green and white road signs along the FDR Drive set against the backdrop of the East River, where Gatsby’s Green Light was mirrored by a purple neon palm tree (“Tacky!” sighed Eileen) on the deck of one of the private boats docked near the heliport: the quintessential New York scene, the New York of my dreams, which always signified this prodigal’s return to the city, Eileen’s pad the traditional gateway as she hosted me for a couple of nights after my ‘aterrisage.’ (Mornings ideally leavened by the best bagels in the world from nearby Essa’s on 21st & First; that Eileen could not eat gluten didn’t stop her from lugging a dozen of them uptown to the Literary Brownstone I was cat/house-sitting at for a bountiful back terrace 50th birthday brunch in 2010.)

During the nine years that I lived in France, our tradition was that I’d call Eileen right before my parties for last-minute aperitif advice, famously including one year her recipe for Oysters Rockefeller, but the best advice was when she counseled me to make everything ahead of time so that I could actually mingle with my guests and enjoy the party; we also liked to argue over the most authentic recipe for Manhattans (rye-based, with bourbon a suitable back-up). Even the anonymously bleak red-brown brick buildings of Peter Cooper (in which Bogie also made his swan song, as a down-and-out press agent who resided there in “The Harder they Fall”; Eileen always kept good company — or maybe it’s the other way around) — no one would ever think to break in here, Eileen pointed out — concealed, more than the occasional material treasure, a rich cosmopolitan life, above all intellectual. Early in her New York career, Eileen worked for the Modern Language Association, forming friendships with a literary coterie (some of whom would grow up to become essential elements of the city’s intellectual nucleus) that would last a lifetime. It’s this association more than Madison Avenue (or, as another pillar of that nucleus John Leonard wrote in “The Naked Martini,” “the canyons of lower Lexington”) — she spent most of her professional life in advertising and marketing, starting out with Annenberg’s Gourmet and Good Food magazines — that defined her mental life. (Sitting next to Joyce Carol Oates at a dinner organized by one of these figures, Eileen gave me a much needed ego boost by reporting that when she mentioned she was friends with one of the prodigious novelist’s former Princeton students, Oates remembered me.)

If I’ve put off writing this ‘memoriam’ — Eileen died September 27 — it’s because it means recognizing that Eileen is gone.

After my return to New York in 2010, our get-togethers usually involved Cosmos mixed by Eileen in her apartment. (Paul: “It’s fine, but could I have an ice cube?” Eileen, while fetching ice cube in its own petite glass tea-cup from the fridge: “I never use plastic ice trays, because the plastic leaches into the ice.” Grandfather-clock-sized cuckoo clock in entree-way with a different bird popping out of its trunk every hour: “Tweet! Tweet!”) En route to Eileen’s I sometimes stopped for a slice of $1 pizza at the corner of 23rd and Park, really just an excuse to have a NY moment as I chomped the slice down while gazing uptown at the Chrysler Building. I seized another gem of a moment one early morning in 2012 while transferring from Greenpoint digs to Eileen’s place, drinking my thermos coffee on the boardwalk while gazing across the river at Brooklyn; the evening before, on the type of vanishing ramshackle pier you used to be able to access by climbing through an improvised hole in a wire fence made by other pioneers, I looked across the river from the other side at the sprawling Peter Cooper buildings and tried to reconnoiter Eileen’s place to toast her. On my last visit to her place, push/wheeling my luggage from Penn Station south and eastward, I paused in an anonymous parking lot off 7th avenue to munch a slice of whole wheat bread and cheddar while contemplating the water towers set against the grey-charcoal late-summer sky; never mind if I was getting doused by a downpour — I felt euphoric to be on my way to Eileen’s and a much more elevated air.) I felt a bit guilty about always inviting myself over as opposed to inviting Eileen out, but really, who could desire a more idyllic New York scene than drinking Cosmos while overlooking the East River from Eileen’s vast windows, the shelves on the opposite side of the room crammed with the genre of books that marked the second half of the 20th as the New York socio-politico-literary century? It also allowed us to ‘control’ the environment.

Even if, by her own admission, Eileen did not go out a lot in her final years in New York, she insisted that she liked knowing that it — it being New York — was there if she wanted to take advantage of the city’s myriad stimulations. (When she did go out, she usually had adventures. On one blustery New York late afternoon of the type that turns the city’s belly into the vortex of a canyon, Eileen’s response to a woman who stopped her to compliment her tan beret was to give it to her.) Sometimes Eileen would order Chinese food delivered for our confabs and insist I take the leftovers with me; sometimes she’d cook up a Portuguese specialty stew combining pork, beans, and usually sweet potatoes or yams. We consumed these feasts on a simple, huge but elegant light mahogany rectangular table which Eileen proudly boasted was built by hand by her late second husband Roger, as manually adept as he was mentally sharp. (Eileen insisted that her daughter Diane, about whom she also never stopped boasting, got her smarts from her father, but, ‘Mom’s math’ not withstanding, I’m sure a healthy dose came from her sharp mother, not so incidentally a ‘numbers-cruncher’ sans pareil, who helped make the owners of Dance magazine rich.) The table (long enough so that Eileen could keep her work papers on one end and dine on the other) was one of the few things she took with her when she moved from New York to Miami Beach to be with Diane, along with Beat era paintings that she and her first husband, Jimmy, had collected in the late 1950s ‘at the scene’ in San Francisco, where they met at Enrico’s or another North Beach club. (Jimmy would later work at the Old Spaghetti Factory.) Another in Jimmy’s party was courting Eileen, but Jimmy took his time and persisted, and they ended up together. I think Eileen never stopped loving Jimmy (she might refine that to just appreciating the adventures they had together). I liked the synchronicity between that Jimmy was the first president of Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Lady, and that from 1995 to 2001 I lived next door to the legendary recording studio on W. 8th Street, where my favorite singer, Carly Simon, also recorded her early albums “Carly Simon” and “Anticipation.” (Another synchronicity: Carly’s children played with Diane when they were neighbors on the Upper West Side.) It seems that Eileen and Jimmy were everywhere where the Scene was being created in the late ’50s and early ’60s — they probably helped create those scenes in San Francisco and Greenwich Village (not to mention Ebiza), where they rented the classic cold-water flat for $25 a week. It’s no accident that when Hollywood tried to make a movie musical about the Village at that time, they called it “My Sister Eileen.” (Later Eileen would visualize, and she and Roger would subsequently — consequently? — find, the brownstone of their dreams, complete with yard. Eileen was sure she was psychic, and the many many times she anticipated what I was going to say confirmed this gift.) As far as Roger was concerned, she appreciated that when he accepted an executive post with Metropolitan Life, his condition was that his (by then ex-) wife Eileen and daughter would get the apartment in Peter Cooper, then owned by the insurance company. “He wanted to make sure we were taken care of — that’s the kind of man he was.” This is typical Eileen; far from harboring rancor towards her exes, she appreciated how they’d enriched her life and that of her daughter. She also didn’t waste negative energy on those who might have exasperated the rest of us. If it’s true that on the political level Eileen didn’t ‘suffer fools gladly,’ as a colleague has recalled (nor on a societal level; looking out her window on the FDR Drive, packed at NY’s extended rush hour, she’d excoriate the commuters who gassed up the planet instead of taking public transportation), when confronting a fool face to face, her advice was to smile and say “Thank you” or “That’s nice.” It wasn’t so much that Eileen believed in turning the other cheek, but that here too, she didn’t like to waste energy.

Much as she herself made fun of it, Eileen’s practical side was also revealed in little manias like insisting that the guest unfortunate enough to spill water on her floor be made to traipse over it afterwards with paper towels under his stockinged feet while maintaining his glass on a paper plate to avoid recidivism. And her practical-political side was revealed during elections. In the Bush era of lock-step banana Republicans, she campaigned relentlessly under the banner of “Vote Party!” While her contemporaries were e-mailing silly jokes to their friends and colleagues, Eileen’s solution to the Times’s segregating Krugman and Hebert behind a pay-wall was to share their columns with her circle. But if Eileen was a liberal, she was not opposed to having fun. When she treated me to Cosmos and Manhattans during Christmas 2010 at Smith & Wolensky’s, a favorite since her Annenberg years when she’d entertain clients there, I was not at all surprised that a man 20 years her junior tried to pick her up. Partly because of her gluten-free diet, Eileen had the energy and sparkle of a woman 30 years younger; if it sounds strange to be shocked and stunned at the sudden death of someone 78 years old, it should be pointed out that, notwithstanding her self-deprecating comments that she was becoming batty in her dotage, Eileen hadn’t yet passed through the ‘elderly’ and decrepit stage. Which, fortunately, didn’t mean she never talked about her childhood; I remember and carry forward her memories of Star the goat on her grandparents’ farm, a farm ‘right in the middle of a city,’ in this case Fall River; of a father, born at the turn of the last century, who, marking the ingenuity he’d bequeath to his sons Raymond (“so smart”) and Billy (“perpetually handsome, always with a dazzling younger woman on his arm” — Eileen) and their ‘little sister,’ turned to manufacturing all sorts of parts (related to fire-arms for the military, I believe) at the outbreak of World War II. Too old to serve, he still wanted to be ‘useful.’ When Eileen wanted to move to New York City, instead of trying to bar the way, her family moved with her, setting up shop in New Jersey. They were not misguided in wanting to keep an eye on her as little sister soon became the bell of the Gotham ball; one night, even Knick star Walt Frazer turned from basketball court dazzle to dazzling courtship, ultimately escorting her home in a taxi.

Eileen’s allure (which no doubt owed something to the regal Cabral blood from Portugal, which reference I’ll also use as an excuse to vaunt her hand-made Portuguese tea-cups, a pair of which she gave me) — and smarts — were eventually passed on to Diane. Eileen wasn’t just automatically proud of Diane because a mother should be; I have a feeling she’d have remarked her brilliance even if they weren’t related. That they were merely gave her bragging rights — never empty, but always supported by the beyond-her-years observations Diane had made since childhood and the School of Ethical Culture. But she was just as apt to point out that Diane had studied with Chomsky at MIT as that Diane is the kind of intelligent, intrepid, and resourceful woman who sometimes scares insecure (and sexist) men away, because she can do anything; she once took apart and repaired the engine of a glass-bottomed boat stalled in the middle of the Everglades.

I am sure that Diane is hurting now, and all I can offer is some inadequately anodyne second-hand words of guidance:

**After she moved to Miami Beach, Eileen never stopped saying how happy she was to be near her daughter.

**When you have a problem you can’t resolve, let your brain continue to work on it overnight while you’re sleeping.

** (This might apply to me more than Diane, but… just in case:) Whatever it is, no matter how bad it feels, it won’t last.

** You’re better than that.

** You’re gorgeous *and* smart.

** If it pleases you, don’t deprive yourself of the occasional trip to the Azores, dear to Eileen.

In December 1996, a colleague invited me to a New Year’s Eve party on E. 4th Street. I’d been complaining to her that I never met any women. I told another female friend about the party. Meanwhile, I started the evening at a holiday party hosted by a pal of Eileen’s in Chelsea, a tranquil event with some of Eileen’s older and, let’s say, more staid friends, and Diane. When I was about to leave for the East Village fete, Diane gave me a look as if to say “Get me out of here!” (a comment not on her mom, nor her mom’s friends, but on what even Eileen admitted was the relative tameness of her friends’ New Year’s parties). When we walked into my friend’s fiesta, where my other female buddy and one of her girlfriends had already arrived and introduced themselves as “friends of Paul,’ the hostess took one look at me, entering the party accompanied by the instantly most stunning woman in the room, and burst out laughing, my complaint now seeming ludicrous.

We capped the evening by dancing at an anonymous club in the wall at the corner of Avenue B and 7th. What I remember most about Diane that evening is her calm and repose. I know that, having already lost her father, Diane must be living the most turbulent moments of her life right now. My wish for her is that, without forgetting, she find assurance, if not solace — where is the solace in such a profound loss? — in that repose which is still within her somewhere. That she know that she will continue to make her mother proud — or, if you prefer, to live a life that would make her mother proud. And for the future, if I can be so bold and presumptuous, I think her mom would want for her that she is able to find a way, without giving up the tropical climes so important to her, to be surrounded by, or at least have some smart people in her life. (I think Eileen would have similar advice for her nieces, Caroline, whose independence as a teenager on her own in Paris she never stopped vaunting, and Susan, whose smartness she also frequently praised.) Because the fools are plenty, the sages few.

PS: Wondering whether to use ‘wise’ instead of ‘sage’ reminded me of another citation from Eileen which I have often had resort to. It’s from W.B. Yeats, concerns ‘wise love,’ and (paraphrasing) goes something like this:

In wise love, the beloved, refusing to see the daily self of the other, sees his higher self, and reflects it back to him.

For myself, I’ll remember a brilliant Summer Day in 2012 when, the light suffusing 23rd Street as I made my way Eastward towards the river through the throngs and past the second-hand stores to Peter Cooper for Cosmos with Eileen, I was never happier.

Eileen, you really hit the nail on the wall!