Chamblee54

Gore Vidal died Tuesday. He was a writer, celebrity, and a few other things. Mr. Vidal did not suffer false modesty. He probably would not have liked this blog, if he had bothered to look at it. He produced tons of material, much of which is preserved.
The media machine is certain to go into overdrive today. Since Mr. Vidal was 86, and using a wheelchair, this event was not unexpected. The obituaries were pre written, with a blank space reserved for the date of the event.
When Truman Capote passed, Mr. Vidal said it was a good career move. Which of his contemporaries are still around to pass the snark for Gore Vidal?
Eugene Luther Gore Vidal Jr. was born on Oct. 3, 1925, at the United States Military Academy at West Point. His father was an instructor there. His mother divorced him, and married the step father of Jackie Kennedy Onassis. There were upper crust schools, service in World War II, and a few novels. The filthy money of Hollywood beckoned, and Mr. Vidal wrote scripts for TV and movies. There was script doctor work on “Ben Hur”. Mr. Vidal said that Charlton Heston was such a wooden actor that he could supply a furniture factory.
After a while, novels, essays, and TV appearances occupied Mr. Vidal. Myra Breckinridge appeared in 1968, and is currently available on amazon for $0.01. PG paid $0.25 for his copy, and had so much fun reading it.
The movie Myra Breckinridge was a big deal when it came out. PG has never seen it, but heard it was horrible. Mae West came out of retirement to perform. Raquel Welch was on the Dick Cavett show, talking about the vortex of fans at the flick’s premiere. Sex changing has never been the same.
The other book by Gore Vidal that PG owns a copy of is Palimpsest: A Memoir. (Some yard sale had a hardback copy. PG might have paid a dollar.) This is a fun way to kill a few hours. Gore Vidal might be the last man to be angry with Woodrow Wilson for getting America into World War I.
Is it fair to quote one star autobiography reviews while the body is still warm? Was that body ever warm? It doesn’t matter, since Mr. Vidal wouldn’t have bothered to read these.
Why I couldn’t finish this book July 17, 2000 A Customer
1. His ridiculous treatment of his own novels as serious literature. 2. His attempts at revenge (for WHAT?) against Truman Capote and others. (Methinks the lady doth protest too much.) 3. The disillusionment and depression I was experiencing at learning that someone whose wit and intelligence I had always admired is really lacking in both when it comes to writing about his own life.
The only hardcover book I have ever thrown away . . ., February 5, 1998 A Customer
I gave this a “1” because I cannot give it a “0”. A stylized account of who sodomised whom with detail I frankly didn’t want to know, this is an unpleasant exercise in self-agrandisement by a writer suffering from, on the basis the talent displayed here, delusions of adequacy.
Dry As Old Sticks October 16, 2005 Cat Black “Wizard’s Hat” (Boston, Mass)
How could anyone who lived such an interesting life write such a boring book? (…)It’s like the only point of this memoir is to score points off his contemporaries. And in so doing, further puff up his already inflated ego. The guy clearly has no self-awareness whatsoever. Like are we supposed to admire him when he claims he is 100% top in bed and cares not a fig for his partner’s satisfaction? Very admirable, Mr Vidal. What a prince amongst men! His “life partner” is referred to in passing approximately three times in the entire book and is otherwise notable by his absence. As are friends in general. Did Vidal have any? No, just famous acquaintances he could pick apart, if this memoirs is anything to go by. The structure of the book is as self-consciously clever-clever as is the title. A grab bag of memories scattered like cushions over the overstuffed horsehair sofa of the ultimate prissy literary queen.
As this is written, there are 1913 new tweets , waiting to be untwittered. Knowing twitter, many of them are copies of this selection. If you have the time, some of the links might prove to be fun. Gore Vidal was a smart man, and told plenty of journalists about it.
@jaketapper RIP Gore Vidal. I interviewed him 12 years ago > http://www.salon.com/2000/09/20/vidal_5/ Quite an experience!
@morninggloria Gore Vidal, genius even in death, leaves earth before having to endure something called “Chick-fil-A Appreciation Day.”
‏@brainpicker “How marvelous books are,crossing worlds & centuries,defeating ignorance &, finally,cruel time itself.” RIP, Gore Vidal http://j.mp/OAJLCd
‏@PykeA I’ve never read any Gore Vidal, but he’s dead now so I feel like I should, or something. Good starting point?
@GlobeBender Adieu Gore Vidal, equal parts literary genious and pompous gadly (with a tryst here or there w/ Jack Kerouac) http://wapo.st/OCP6wq
‏@SHotchkissNYC “We had been too happy, and the gods cannot bear the happiness of mortals.” – R.I.P. Mr. Gore Vidal – http://gqm.ag/MiJvMb
‏@daily “50% of people won’t vote, and 50% don’t read newspapers. I hope it’s the same 50%.” Gore Vidal dies at 86: http://bit.ly/N1sl1Q
@pete_sinclair Angry at a bad review, Norman Mailer punched Gore Vidal at a party. On the floor, Gore said “Once again, words fail Norman Mailer.” #class
@dreamhampton I was born a writer. If you’re born that, you can’t change it. You’re going to do it whether you want to or not. ~Gore Vidal
@thesulk Gore Vidal died. He was the opposite of twitter.
Perhaps the best tweet for today is this: @Holmes7David Gore Vidal quotes: 26 of the best http://gu.com/p/39dnq/tw via @guardian This fine newspaper knew today was coming, and had a collection of quotes ready. They are probably delighted at having something other than the Olympics to discuss. Here are the quotes. Pictures for this feature are from The Library of Congress.
“I never miss a chance to have sex or appear on television.”
“It is not enough to succeed. Others must fail.”
“A narcissist is someone better looking than you are.”
“Any American who is prepared to run for president should automatically by definition be disqualified from ever doing so.”
“Democracy is supposed to give you the feeling of choice like, Painkiller X and Painkiller Y. But they’re both just aspirin.”
“Envy is the central fact of American life.”
“Every time a friend succeeds, I die a little.”
“The United States was founded by the brightest people in the country
and we haven’t seen them since.”
“Every four years the naive half who vote are encouraged to believe that if we can elect a really nice man or woman President everything will be all right. But it won’t be.”
“Andy Warhol is the only genius I’ve ever known with an IQ of 60”
“A good deed never goes unpunished.”
“All children alarm their parents, if only because you are forever expecting to encounter yourself.”
“Apparently, a democracy is a place where numerous elections are held at great cost without issues and with interchangeable candidates.”
“Fifty percent of people won’t vote, and fifty percent don’t read newspapers.
I hope it’s the same fifty percent.”
“Some writers take to drink, others take to audiences.”
“The genius of our ruling class is that it has kept a majority of the people from ever questioning the inequity of a system where most people drudge along,
paying heavy taxes for which they get nothing in return”
“Style is knowing who you are, what you want to say, and not giving a damn.”
“The more money an American accumulates, the less interesting he becomes.”
“The four most beautiful words in our common language: I told you so.”
“Congress no longer declares war or makes budgets.
So that’s the end of the constitution as a working machine.”
“We should stop going around babbling about how we’re the greatest democracy on earth, when we’re not even a democracy. We are a sort of militarised republic.”
“As the age of television progresses the Reagans will be the rule, not the exception. To be perfect for television is all a President has to be these days.”
“Sex is. There is nothing more to be done about it. Sex builds no roads, writes no novels and sex certainly gives no meaning to anything in life but itself.”
“Think of the earth as a living organism that is being attacked by billions of bacteria whose numbers double every forty years. Either the host dies, or the virus dies, or both die.”
“There is no such thing as a homosexual or a heterosexual person. There are only homo- or heterosexual acts. Most people are a mixture of impulses if not practices.”
“There is no human problem which could not be solved if people would simply do as I advise.”
There are more quotes, this time from The Gore Vidal Pages. If you get tired of reading, it is perfectly all right to skip ahead to the pictures. The first five are about Truman Capote .
Truman made lying an art form—a minor art form.
A relentless liar ought to be, if not stopped, curbed.
Every generation gets the Tiny Tim it deserves. – Vespa, Mary. People. June 25, 1979. Vol. 11 No. 25.
[Capote] lived for gossip, and he was also a marvellous liar. No fact ever gave him pause.
A great zircon in the diadem of American literature.
Everything the Bushites touch is screwed up. They could never have pulled off 9/11, even if they wanted to. Even if they longed to. They could step aside, though, or just go out to lunch while these terrible things were happening to the nation. I believe that of them.
Diary: May 5 | Books | The Guardian (online). May 5, 2007.
[When I heard that William F. Buckley had died,] I thought hell is bound to be a livelier place, as he joins forever those whom he served in life, applauding their prejudices and fanning their hatred.
She never baked a pie, but she did manage to drink, in the course of a lifetime, the equivalent of the Chesapeake Bay in vodka. – on his mother. – Point to Point Navigation (2006).
Reading a speech with his usual sense of discovery. – on Eisenhower speaking at the Republican Convention (Source attribution sought; contact gorevidalpages-at-gmail.com)
[Princess Margaret] was far too intelligent for her station in life. She often had bad press, the usual fate of wits in a literal society. – Point to Point Navigation (2006).
She’s just another dum-dum waddling along the pike. And she is not demure. If she were demure, she’d realize that there are whole areas in which a 10th-rate member of Congress ought to keep her trap shut. Nobody cares about her views. – on Congresswoman Michelle Bachman (R-Minnesota). Interview with Timothy Hodler. Details. March 2011.
[Tennessee Williams’ writings had] a tone of voice the like of which had not been heard since Mark Twain. Each was a comic genius within a dark universe that the innocent persist in calling “home sweet home.” – Point to Point Navigation (2006).

After a few minutes, PG ran out of excuses. He found a clean shirt, and his sandals, and put them on. The drivers license was removed from the wallet. A bungee cord wrapped around the billfold, as a reminder to replace the ID. The rain was nothing but a glorified drizzle, and not a good reason to stay inside. Maybe, just maybe, it will be a bit cooler today.
The path was in mid summer form, with a few of the vines trimmed out of the way. There are always a few renegade plants creeping into the walkway. The first couple of feet are easy to snap off by hand, and nothing here has briars or poison. If only you could say the same about the ballot.
When you vote at the school you attended as a child, you always notice how little everything is. The cafetorium was a giant hall way back then. There is a sepia of picture of the Principal in the hall. PG may be the only person there today who knows who got sent to his office.
The slip of paper you fill out asks you to list a preference. It means Democratic or Republican. While PG is non affiliated, he knows there is usually more action on the Republican side. Just a preference.
The third person you interact with takes your drivers license, and holds it in front of a device. The gizmo code on the back is scanned. PG said hi to big brother, which confused the poll worker lady.
Then you go to the ballot stations. They are these stand up devices, with a *privacy* barrier on each side. There was the usual onslaught of judges. Ashford Park is in the sixth Congressional district now, with Tom Price as the designated thief. Casino gambling, cell phone towers on school property, and an non binding anti abortion measure were all there for the bleary eyed voters to consider.
There are two proposals on the ballot today. Both have spawned highly unpleasant debates. PG received a number of robocalls supporting T-SPLOST over the weekend before the vote. Roy Barnes, Joseph Lowery, Burrell Ellis, and a few county politicians earned eternal scorn with their automated efforts.
There was only one yard sign visible on the walk to the polls. It said “No City”. PG did not argue. Pictures today are from “The Special Collections and Archives,Georgia State University Library”.

In the time when there were hobgoblins and fairies, Brother Goat and Brother Rabbit lived in the same neighborhood, not far from each other.Proud of his long beard and sharp horns, Brother Goat looked on Brother Rabbit with disdain. He would hardly speak to Brother Rabbit when he met him, and his greatest pleasure was to make his little neighbor the victim of his tricks and practical jokes.
For instance, he would say: “Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Fox,” and this would cause Brother Rabbit to run away as hard as he could. Again he would say: “Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Wolf,” and poor Brother Rabbit would shake and tremble with fear. Sometimes he would cry out: “Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Tiger,” and then Brother Rabbit would shudder and think that his last hour had come.
Tired of this miserable existence, Brother Rabbit tried to think of some means by which he could change his powerful and terrible neighbor into a friend. After a time he thought he had discovered a way to make Brother Goat his friend, and so he invited him to dinner.
Brother Goat was quick to accept the invitation. The dinner was a fine affair, and there was an abundance of good eating. A great many different dishes were served. Brother Goat licked his mouth and shook his long beard with satisfaction. He had never before been present at such a feast.
“Well, my friend,” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, when the dessert was brought in, “how do you like your dinner?” “I could certainly wish for nothing better,” replied Brother Goat, rubbing the tips of his horns against the back of his chair; “but my throat is very dry and a little water would hurt neither the dinner nor me.”
“Gracious!” said Brother Rabbit, “I have neither wine-cellar nor water. I am not in the habit of drinking while I am eating.”
“Neither have I any water, Brother Rabbit,” said Brother Goat. “But I have an idea! If you will go with me over yonder by the big poplar, we will dig a well.”
“No, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit, who hoped to revenge himself—”no, I do not care to dig a well. At daybreak I drink the dew from the cups of the flowers, and in the heat of the day I milk the cows and drink the cream.”
“Well and good,” said Brother Goat. “Alone I will dig the well, and alone I will drink out of it.”
“Success to you, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit.
“Thank you kindly, Brother Rabbit.”
Brother Goat then went to the foot of the big poplar and began to dig his well. He dug with his forefeet and with his horns, and the well got deeper and deeper. Soon the water began to bubble up and the well was finished, and then Brother Goat made haste to quench his thirst. He was in such a hurry that his beard got in the water, but he drank and drank until he had his fill.
Brother Rabbit, who had followed him at a little distance, hid himself behind a bush and laughed heartily. He said to himself: “What an innocent creature you are!”
The next day, when Brother Goat, with his big beard and sharp horns, returned to his well to get some water, he saw the tracks of Brother Rabbit in the soft earth. This put him to thinking. He sat down, pulled his beard, scratched his head, and tapped himself on the forehead.
“My friend,” he exclaimed after a while, “I will catch you yet.”
Then he ran and got his tools (for Brother Goat was something of a carpenter in those days) and made a large doll out of laurel wood. When the doll was finished, he spread tar on it here and there, on the right and on the left, and up and down. He smeared it all over with the sticky stuff, until it was as black as a Guinea negro.
This finished, Brother Goat waited quietly until evening. At sunset he placed the tarred doll near the well, and ran and hid himself behind the trees and bushes. The moon had just risen, and the heavens twinkled with millions of little star-torches.
Brother Rabbit, who was waiting in his house, believed that the time had come for him to get some water, so he took his bucket and went to Brother Goat’s well. On the way he was very much afraid that something would catch him. He trembled when the wind shook the leaves of the trees. He would go a little distance and then stop and listen; he hid here behind a stone, and there behind a tuft of grass.
At last he arrived at the well, and there he saw the little negro. He stopped and looked at it with astonishment. Then he drew back a little way, advanced again, drew back, advanced a little, and stopped once more.
“What can that be?” he said to himself. He listened, with his long ears pointed forward, but the trees could not talk, and the bushes were dumb. He winked his eyes and lowered his head: “Hey, friend! Who are you?” he asked.
The tar-doll didn’t move. Brother Rabbit went up a little closer, and asked again: “Who are you?”
The tar-doll said nothing. Brother Rabbit breathed more at ease. Then he went to the brink of the well, but when he looked in the water the tar-doll seemed to look in too. He could see her reflection in the water. This made Brother Rabbit so mad that he grew red in the face.
“See here!” he exclaimed, “If you look in this well I’ll give you a rap on the nose!”
Brother Rabbit leaned over the brink of the well, and saw the tar- doll smiling at him in the water. He raised his right hand and hit her—bam! His hand stuck.
“What’s this?” exclaimed Brother Rabbit. “Turn me loose, imp of Satan! If you do not, I will rap you on the eye with my other hand.”
Then he hit her—bim! The left hand stuck also. Then Brother Rabbit raised his right foot, saying:
“Mark me well, little Congo! Do you see this foot? I will kick you in the stomach if you do not turn me loose this instant.”
No sooner said than done. Brother Rabbit let fly his right foot— vip! The foot stuck, and he raised the other. “Do you see this foot?” he exclaimed. “If I hit you with it, you will think a thunderbolt has struck you.”Then he kicked her with the left foot, and it also stuck like the other, and Brother Rabbit held fast his Guinea negro.
“Watch out, now!” he cried. “I’ve already butted a great many people with my head. If I butt you in your ugly face I’ll knock it into a jelly. Turn me loose! Oho! You don’t answer?” Bap!
“Guinea girl!” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, “Are you dead? Gracious goodness! How my head does stick!”
When the sun rose, Brother Goat went to his well to find out something about Brother Rabbit. The result was beyond his expectations.
“Hey, little rogue, big rogue!” exclaimed Brother Goat. “Hey, Brother Rabbit! What are you doing there? I thought you drank the dew from the cups of the flowers, or milk from the cows. Aha, Brother Rabbit! I will punish you for stealing my water.”
“I am your friend,” said Brother Rabbit; “don’t kill me.”
“Thief, thief!” cried Brother Goat, and then he ran quickly into the woods, gathered up a pile of dry limbs, and made a great fire. He took Brother Rabbit from the tar-doll, and prepared to burn him alive. As he was passing a thicket of brambles with Brother Rabbit on his shoulders, Brother Goat met his daughter Beledie, who was walking about in the fields.
“Where are you going, Papa, muffled up with such a burden? Come and eat the fresh grass with me, and throw wicked Brother Rabbit in the brambles.”
Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended to be very much frightened.
“Oh, no, Brother Goat!” he cried. “Don’t throw me in the brambles. They will tear my flesh, put out my eyes, and pierce my heart. Oh, I pray you, rather throw me in the fire.”
“Aha, little rogue, big rogue! Aha, Brother Rabbit!” exclaimed Brother Goat, exultingly, “You don’t like the brambles? Well, then, go and laugh in them,” and he threw Brother Rabbit in without a feeling of pity. Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his feet, and began to laugh.
“Ha-ha-ha! Brother Goat, what a simpleton you are!—ha-ha-ha! A better bed I never had! In these brambles I was born!”
Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help himself. Brother Rabbit was safe.
A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence.
A French Tar-Baby was written by Joel Chandler Harris.
The text is from Project Gutenberg . The pictures are from The Library of Congress . This is a repost.