Jalousie

"There can be no peace of mind in love since what one has obtained is never anything but a new staring-point for further desires." ~M.P.

Spring Novels

"Okay, well, sex, I never thought about it being something girls were interested in. I guess I'd always just thought about it being something we did to them. I never thought about it being something they did to us. Does that make any sense?"
~In a scene from Tony Earley's novel, The Blue Star

My appetite for light-hearted novels (read: not heavy and ultra, ultra melodramatic epics) in recent years seem to peak during springtime. This past week alone, I've read a couple of thoroughly pleasant, as I've said light-hearted works, yet works that challenge the sensibilities of the modern, discerning reader in a profound, and hopefully enlightening way. A mark of a great novel on a person is priceless in such a way that it gives one the opportunity to escape inside the labyrinth of a particular work, loosing oneself within the confines of the story's landscape and, more importantly, in its cast of characters. The vogue for escapism, those that can be found in novels, is rampant this time of year. My imagination takes me to Florence as we speak...

The shadows of Brunelleschi's Dome, the Uffizi, David, Ponte Vecchio seem to dance before my very eyes. Next up for me is a novel by Felipe Alfau, not exactly easy-reading, but never mind... "The moment one learns English, complications set in." Following Mr. Alfau's novel is L.P. Hartley's superb The Go-Between... "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there." Following Mr. Hartley's tour-de-force of a novel is G.K. Chesterton's The Napoleon of Notting Hill... "The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has been playing at children's games from the beginning, and will probably do it till the end, which is a nuisance for the few people who grow up."

In Love

My favorite occupation: Loving. ~M.P.

Ravishing

I am currently in love with David Daniels. His 2003 Berlioz/Ravel disc on the Virgin Classics label is simply divine. D.D. is riveting in this beautiful recording, which has the amazing countertenor singing some of the most gorgeous French art songs in the repertoire. The timbre of his unique instrument in the unbearably lovely "Spectre de la rose," reserved, I believe, for sopranos with the highest tessitura and the sweetest tone, i.e. Régine Crespin, Joan Sutherland, shows-off Daniels's rare voice in full bloom, giving off a breathtaking aroma, like the scent of a buttery-floral French perfume, like Cacharel's Anais....

"Spectre:" I was in raptures listening to this gorgeous gem, my absolute favorite vocal piece by Berlioz~it is sheer musical bliss, simply heavenly. Pieces by Ravel, which I find inferior and dull in comparison to the Berlioz pieces, complete rather predictably the second half of this generous and beautifully packaged CD. For some peoople it can get downright tiresome listening to an entire album's worth of angelic, head-voice-singing~I don't. To be honest, I find it ravishing. Unlike Guerlain's most nauseating, head-spinning perfumes, listening to D.D. never induces nausea. It induces joy.

Plus this sad news: Vilaine fille has decided to close shop for now. I shall miss her. Her stars and her wisdom.

L'amour

Love alone is divine. ~M.P.

"Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches...

Et puis, voici mon coeur quine bat que pour vous..." ~Verlaine (pour J.)

Reflection on Authors

Above, a Saint Laurent haute couture bridal gown, in the style of a Russian Babushka doll, calls to mind the heroines of Dostoevsky or Pushkin

Every writer is obliged to create his own language, as every violinist is obliged to create his own "tone"... I don't mean to say that I like original writers who write badly. I prefer--and perhaps it's a weakness--those who write well. But they begin to write well only on condition that they're original, that they create their own language. Correctness, perfection of style do exist, but on the other side of originality, after having gone through all the faults, not this side. Correctness this side--"discreet emotion," "smiling good nature," "most abominable of all years"--doesn't exist. The only way to defend language is to attack it, yes, yes, Madame Straus!"

—Proust, in a letter to Bizet's widow

On Other Cultures

If it is true that love is the pursuit in another of qualities we lack in ourselves, then in our love of someone from another country, one ambition may be to weld ourselves more closely to values missing from our own culture. —Alain de Botton

Color My World

The weather over the weekend was a total flirt: Both mornings Saturday and Sunday began grey, then, without further ado, it lightened so drastically, it seemed someone had swept the sky of cloudy debris, as if on a whim, so that it looked freshly washed, cleansed from blemishes, and absolved from all minor imperfections.

I spent a portion of Saturday helping my mother choose an important dress to wear, an outfit that will be making its début at my cousin Carl's June wedding in Rhode Island. She had, rather, we had four eligible dresses to deliberate upon, edited from the original ten of which some are new and some are not so new. The dresses were: A figure-hugging hibiscus-printed black and forest-green halter number that exposes rather immodestly the back; a leopard-printed sleeveless dress worn with a golden taffeta blazer; a periwinkle strapless chiffon bridesmaid dress that flutters beautifully at the hem whenever the wind flirts and blows; finally, a simple yet streamlined fuchsia halter liquid jersey dress that sweeps the floor and forms a coquettish knot at the neckline that resembles the elegant curve of a croissant. My Mom very wisely chose the latter as the dress is very becoming, and conducive on her no-longer-size 4-figure, but still-head turning-and-curvaceous-stature.

Musically, this weekend, the music never stopped playing, except, of course, when I slept. I listened non-stop Sunday to several formidable instruments played by formidable musicians. A riot of sounds congregated in my place....

....violins, piccolos, flutes, clarinets, oboes, bassoons, trumpets, French horns, trombones, a tuba, violas, cellos, a piano and a harp; not to mention the daily instruments that punctuate our lives: alarm clock, cell phone, washing machine, electric toothbrush and shaver, coffee pot, blender, vacuum, hair-dryer, kettle, toaster, plus more than a dozen more--including the most compelling and phenomenal of all musical instruments--Diva Angela. Gheorghiu, like Streisand, is a singing-actress, a "painter of scenes and emotions; a voice-box that reaches out to rub an Aladdin's lamp, to launch a magic carpet on an authentic world-wide tour." Both ladies are "unpredictable, chameleon-like, never doing anything in conventional fashion. Just about the time you think you have them nailed down to a category, they ooze into yet another role, another voice, another original characterization."

Plus, a shocking confession: I ate my first Chicago hot dog of the season: Steamed poppyseed bun, Vienna beef, yellow mustard, relish, onions, peppers, and I was hooked all over again. Something tells me that I'll be eating a lot of hot dogs this summer. Food-wise, it was all meat, meat, and more meat for me this gastronomic, sinful, gluttonous weekend: Bacon, the thick kind, one that could only be found in the Midwest; BLT sandwiches; pepperoni-topped pizzas, steamy, mouthwatering Italian bratwursts. I ate all of the above to my heart's content and delight. I found myself so totally in the mood for it all. It thrilled me. Today, I am craving for them the way a pregnant woman craves for whatever she happens to crave during her pregnancy.

Mother

The painting above, by Mary Cassatt, is dedicated to my Mom, and to all mothers out there, with much love, today and always....

"Of all the rights of women, the greatest is to be a mother."
—Lin Yutang

"I want my children to have all the things I couldn't afford--then I want to move in with them!" —Phillis Diller

"Being a full-time mother is one of the highest-salaried jobs--since the payment is pure love." —Mildred B. Vermont

What are the best lessons we have learned in life and about life from our mothers? I was raised by a mother who was a teacher by profession and who imparted to her two kids lessons more through her actions than through words--her love for books and the written word; her child-like faith in God and in the power of prayer which I still need to fully imbibe; her innate optimism and positive attitude despite life’s vicissitudes; her discipline and her healthy lifestyle of simple foods and early sleep which are all still my shortcomings; and her total devotion to family. Beyond flowers, gifts, greeting cards or restaurant dinners, I believe one of the best ways for us to truly honor our mothers is to heed their lessons and to make the most of our lives so that someday we can be like the greatest US president, Abraham Lincoln, who once said: “Everything I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my angel mother.”
—Wilson Lee Flores

♥ Thank you, Mom, for always pointing out the green lights, and all the twinkling stars in the sky for me. I quote Hallmark, well, Shakespeare: "A good heart is worth GOLD."

Opéra-Comique Heroines

I've always held a deep fascination--even a schoolboy infatuation--for the many operatic heroines concocted by French composers, as only they could: Carmen, Marguerite in Faust, Charlotte in Werther, Dalila, et al. Also, I've always been sort of curious as to the reason why no French composer of renown has ever written an opera based on the life of Marie "Let-them-eat-cake" Antoinette. Certainly, Gounod or Bizet would have been more than qualified for the job of immortalizing Madame Deficit. But, writing gorgeous melodic confections for literary and historical heroines was Jules Massenet's domain. His intoxicating operas--Hérodiade, Thais, and Manon--are sublime examples of Massenet's supreme gift: "designing" melodies of searing beauty and charm for the most torrid of femme fatales, the way a couturier drapes a mannequin in swathes of costly chiffon and satin. I regret that he chose not to honor M. A. with an opera.

All week long, I have been held captive by Angela Gheorghiu's marvelous Manon (1999, EMI) with Antonio Pappano, and the often charming Des Grieux of her husband. For some reason, I prefer listening to Alagna speak sensuous and impeccable French rather than hear him croon and bellow in any language. Luckily for me, this Manon was recorded complete with dialogue. In this recording, A. G. uses her instrument like a yo-yo: she commands it to tighten up, make it sound tense (the gambling scene, while trying to win back Des Grieux's love at Saint-Sulpice) and she can make it soar heartbreakingly and thrillingly (the Cours-la-reine look-at-me scene, during a touching "Adieu...") If I may, Madame G. is like a great and consummate novelist, one that is especially persuasive when writing about moments of heated passion, the type that always knows how to make a love scene last for the reader, long after the thrill and glow of lovemaking has faded, long after the lovers in the story have resumed breathing normally. This has always been Angela Gheorghiu's greatest gift: that rare gift of conveying a plethora of emotions--confused, agitated, tormented, ravished or traumatized by love--solely through the stirring expressiveness of her incomparable voice.