This Old Man

by Roger Angell

  No one can be more reluctant than I to search out a weightier, less playful substratum in a work of sustained comic pleasure, but we are in the proprietor’s hands here, and there appears to be little doubt about his intentions. For all its glittering distractions and diversions, this is a love story, after all—an unexpected grand romance, with a poignance and conviction that match anything in our old box of American valentines: “A Farewell to Arms,” “The Age of Innocence,” “Ethan Frome,” “The Scarlet Letter,” “Sister Carrie,” “The Great Gatsby,” and more. Eloquent Humbert is alone at the end, and all his joys have become heartbreaking and ridiculous. A persistent sadness infects what has gone before and what will come next. The given condition of “Lolita,” one unexpectedly recalls, is that we have been permitted to read this story only because both lovers are dead: the child Dolores is to die of her child, die while giving birth, and Humbert will succumb to coronary thrombosis, a broken heart.

  Another three years must go by, late in the book, before Humbert, still on the trail of Quilty, finds his lost Dolores—Dolly Schiller now, pregnant and married to a luckless young mechanic. No matter: “There she was with her ruined looks and her adult, rope-veined narrow hands and her gooseflesh white arms, and her shallow ears, and her unkempt armpits…. I looked at her and looked at her, and knew as dearly as I know I am to die, that I loved her more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else.” And: “Lolita, pale and polluted, and big with another’s child, but still gray-eyed, still sooty-lashed, still auburn and almond, still Carmencita, still mine; Changeons de vie, ma Carmen, allons vivre quelque part où nous ne serons jamais séparés; Ohio?”

  He offers her money, four thousand dollars, for her missed trousseau, and unhesitatingly asks her to leave with him—leave on the spot, come as she is and live happily ever after. She can’t believe the money and she can’t believe him. “No,” she says, turning him down. “No, honey, no.” It is her first endearment—almost the first time, come to think of it, that she has noticed him at all—and perhaps the first moment that we see him clear. This is the Humbert we once recoiled from while he masturbated over a purloined sock belonging to the child Lo, but we can forgive him now, perhaps even tearily, because we recognize that it is not obsession but delusion that has brought him down—the oldest delusion in the world but one we have all suffered from at one time or another, and, with any luck, may fall victim to again any day now.

  Books, August, 1997

  GREETINGS, FRIENDS!

  Frank Sullivan was the inventor of The New Yorker’s delightful “Greetings, Friends!” Christmas card in 1932, and sustained it with but a single interruption for the next forty-one years. I was his editor in the late stretch in this epochal run, and, with some hesitation and much screeching of gears took it over in 1976, after his departure. Ian Frazier succeeded me in 2012 and continues to bring the sweet old chestnut vividly back to life each December.

  Early on, I described my “Greetings” within its lines as “this dogged caterwaul,” and said it again the following year, when it became “a catatonic doggerel.” Knocking off fifty-six rhymed couplets that playfully and sometimes gracefully hail several dozens of famous to anonymous statesmen and jockeys and ballerinas, plus a few slipped-in neighbors and friends’ babies, turned out to be the toughest beat I’d ever encountered, and by far the most fun. A sample couplet perhaps shows why: “Come, Will Morris; come, Maury Wills: / Make with the tonsils for Beverly Sills.” A rhyme of Frank Sullivan’s from that 1932 first edition better sums up the whole enterprise: “I greet you all, mes petits choux: / I greet the whole goddam Who’s Who.”

  My purpose in writing “Greetings” was purely to entertain, and my working method largely an effort to avoid panic. Initial attempts, beginning each year in late summer or early autumn, produced frantic lists of potential greetees jotted down while my prose-ridden brain tried once again to think in meter and rhyme. (Carol, hearing my finger tapping on the mattress in the dark, sometimes muttered, “You’re counting beats again.”) Most of the names in my slovenly worksheets never made it into the poem, and some that actually saw print got there—sorry!—only because of a rhyme. Head-of-the-line or mid-line names made it on merit.

  Selecting names that mixed and matched, and echoed, ideally, with only a vague celebrity, was lonely work, and I unashamedly called on friends and colleagues to supplement my own top-of-the-head rosters of rappers, philosophers, coaches, divines, Olympians, foreign ministers, racehorses, chefs, fashionistas, and the like. The verse needed to be Christmassy but not sappy, and little bursts of lines and the occasional neat pairing (“With libretti, con amore, / For Tipper Gore and skipper Torre”) usually turned up just before deadline, and made me laugh, too.

  Here are a pleading in-house letter requesting names; a couple of my childlike worksheets; and finished verses of mine from 1998 and 2009.

  2015

  TO: STAFF

  FROM: ANGELL

  SUBJECT: CHRISTMAS NAMES/RHYMES

  Greetings, Friends and Colleagues!

  I need help from each of you with suggested names for our annual Christmas verse. Please consult attached recent samples (there wasn’t a verse last year: I blew it), which will give an idea of the kind of people I like to mention. You can include some very obvious celebs—please do—but it’s the mid-level name that works best: someone the reader will remember, too, if reminded. But we can have interesting or lively others, as well, from any walk of life or line of work. A perky or unusual name doesn’t hurt, but that’s not the first requirement. Minority names are a must.

  Please send me names of artists, rockers, lesser-known athletes, politicians, documentary filmmakers, dancers, cyberbiggies, bankers, TV talk-show hosts and sit-com or series actors, senators and reps. and lobbyists, sculptors, Olympians, White House types, explorers, Nobelists, jazz or country performers, environmentalists, poets (I love poets), etc., etc., etc. I particularly appreciate women’s names, and I like different age groups: the remembered old actor or statesman, and the teen-aged star (Tony Randall/Serena Williams). Foreigners, too, please—premiers, marathoners, political heroes, film directors, conductors, whatever. No bad guys or notorious victims or losers, please: no Jerry Springer; no Tripps, Newts, or Starrs. Instead, give me names you’d like to see in there. Don’t be shy and don’t worry about being obvious. If every list I get begins with Jesse Ventura, I’ll be happy.

  I also much appreciate rhymed names, in pairs or more, or even full couplets (I’m shameless) and also names that rhyme with Yuley verbs or adjectives. One way that seems to work is to compare your list with those of other pals here, and then jot down the new names that will surface right away. This is fun, I mean, or should be. And a big P.S.: Assume that I won’t know the names you know by heart, so please attach a tag that identifies them.

  I need this stuff soon. E-mail is O.K. Many thanks: thanks to you all. None of you will get any credit for this, except in my heart.

  Undated

  (Credit 17.1)

  (Credit 17.2)

  (Credit 17.3)

  GREETINGS, FRIENDS!

  Dear hearts and friends, huzzah, well met,

  Regathered from the Internet;

  God bless you each wherever reachable,

  And keep you hale and unimpeachable.

  Pals, note this page, this poet’s cottage,

  Freshly wreathed with major wattage;

  Blazing waits in neon raiment

  Grace our rooftop infotainment;

  Plus yon Magi, in depiction,

  Testing Con Ed’s pow’rs of fiction,

  Draining volts from here to Yonkers,

  Driving all the neighbors bonkers—

  Well, never mind: for anodyne

  We’ll let our softer thoughts incline

  Toward Sen. John Glenn, the senior flier,

  Judi Dench, and Danny Meyer,

  Not forgetting folks to thank

  Like Paul O’N
eill and Barney Frank.

  Or to append a hug or two

  For Hedda Sterne and Harry Wu.

  Or clap the shoulder, man to man,

  Of Daniel Patrick Moynihan.

  I wish a most agreeable Yule

  To Wyclef Jean, Fintan O’Toole,

  Kofi Annan, Anne-Sophie Mutter,

  Tony Judt, and Justice Souter;

  Nor ask less by a scintilla

  For Prince Chas. and his Camilla,

  Cameron Diaz, Peter Gomes,

  Peter Gammons, and Puffy Combs.

  Now gather, gang, and sound a paean—

  Fans of life or fans Wrigleyan,

  Butcher, baker, cook, or grosa—

  Happy Christmas, Sammy Sosa!

  Say, David Wells and Two Fat Ladies,

  Step aboard my stretch Mercedes

  And we’ll go mail by Special Handling

  Warm thoughts to Seal and Garry Shandling;

  And, playing Santa, stuff the socks

  Of Chuck Schumer and Michael J. Fox;

  And drop off puppies, by comparison,

  Chez Darryl Straw and Daisy Garrison.

  Renée Fleming! Adam Clymer!

  Cheers from this endemic rhymer.

  Ho, Sam Raimi, Samuel Ramey;

  Yo, John Irving—you, too, Amy!

  Bon Noël, Zinedine Zidane,

  Pascale van Kipnis, Wu-Tang Clan;

  What say, José Saramago;

  You Bulls still idle in Chicago:

  We hail you all and wish you well

  In this reissue of Nowell.

  Now, Sister Wendy, come with me

  And we’ll go sit on Santa’s knee,

  Joining in a jolly dandle

  With Frieda Hughes and Tony Randall,

  While Venus Williams finds a lap

  Between Mark Green and Gordon Clapp,

  Deepening this steamy drama

  With Ginger Spice, Simon Schama,

  Tori Amos, Cammi Granato,

  And, yes, I guess, ol’ Al D’Amato.

  Ye feathered seraphim, deploy

  Fit songs for Arundhati Roy,

  And hit selections from on high

  For Frances Bean and Evan Bayh,

  Plus strains of Bach or Boccherini

  For Frank McCourt and Clare Rossini.

  Boys choirs, come on!—we count on you,

  And Robin Cook and Bob Giroux,

  With libretti con amore

  For Tipper Gore and skipper Torre,

  Chamique Holdsclaw, Dominique Swain,

  Sharon Olds, and Shania Twain.

  Come New Year’s, dears, we’ll all be chillin’

  With Sharon Stone and Jakob Dylan:

  With smiling faces ’round the table

  Let’s slurp up all the Mumm’s we’re able,

  Growing inly far less nerdy

  (More like Vinny Testaverde);

  Then gath’ring near the gleaming tree

  We’ll search out intime company

  Like Lauren Holly, Ian McKellen,

  Iggy Pop, and Polly Mellen.

  As midnight bongs, we’ll boogie down

  With Tony Blair and Tina Brown;

  Jeff Van Gundy, Webster Slaughter,

  Chelsea Clinton (well-known daughter);

  P. D. James, J. D. McClatchy,

  David Salle; Itchy, Scratchy;

  The Bros. Bush, the babies Hanson;

  Adam Moss, and Marilyn Manson!

  Our muse is stuck; more luck next time

  To those with names we couldn’t rhyme.

  Felicitations, everyone,

  This woeful year is nearly done;

  Pray this gentle season lend a

  Sense of calm to your agenda,

  And may our inmost selves aspire

  To higher things, like Mark McGwire!

  December, 1998

  (Credit 17.4)

  GREETINGS, FRIENDS!

  Good neighbors, hi—but O.M.G.,

  The time’s at hand again, I see,

  To cobble up these Christmas lieder,

  Fit for friend or distant reader.

  Our deadline’s near, so off we go,

  Ignoring tweets and vertigo,

  Counting beats and storing linage,

  Melding Keats and major signage:

  Names and rhymes and scenes of winter,

  Parties, Magi—hit the printer!

  God Jul, old friends, let gladness reign

  O’er Sean Penn, then Dennis Lehane;

  And season’s joy sift slowly down

  On Agyness Deyn and Tina Brown,

  Jay-Z, Kobe, Simon Schama,

  But first of all on Prez Obama:

  Hail to the chief, our frequent flier!

  Wassail from this creaky crier—

  The same, along with love and kisses,

  To Michelle and two First Misses.

  Yo, Clive Owen! Yay, Jane Brody!

  Happy days, Diablo Cody!

  V. S. Naipaul, Rafa Nadal,

  We hug you one and each, et al.;

  Rory Stewart, Nico Muhly,

  We admire you more than duly.

  Let’s carve a niche within these lines

  For Mary Karr and Razor Shines,

  And scope out Yuley tropes to match

  Lady Gaga and Orrin Hatch.

  Now choirs of angels wait upon

  The Mets’ own Gary, Keith, and Ron;

  And lay a lissome roundelay

  On Peter Gelb and Tyson Gay,

  Yuja Wang, Stephenie Meyer,

  Michelle Wie, and Pico Iyer.

  By bike or sleigh or Segway borne,

  We’ll tour the ’hood this Christmas morn

  And, lightly latte’d, press a call

  To wake up Maggie Gyllenhaal.

  With Tom DeLay we’ll drop a gift

  Chez Taylor Branch and Taylor Swift,

  And say hello, as is our habit,

  To Tim Tebow and Milton Babbitt;

  We’ll hang these greens beside the doors

  Of Wyclef Jean and Michael Kors,

  Then bunch up hay and pachysandra

  As lunch for Rachel Alexandra.

  Then it’s on to glögg with Robert Pinsky,

  Sarah Smith, Mika Brzezinski,

  And hotties ever on the scene

  Like Susan Rive and Billy Beane.

  Bring bijoux, Santa, if you can

  For Mary D. and Steely Dan,

  And pleasant toys or duds as well

  To buoy Zooey Deschanel,

  And action games to seize Prince Andrew,

  Paolo Szot, and Mary Landrieu,

  Adding stops along your circuit

  To please the likes of Brian Urquhart,

  Wanda Sykes, William H. Macy,

  Robert Gates, and Lorraine Gracey.

  This New Year’s, dears, to beat the blues,

  We’ve booked a tiny guilt-free cruise:

  In distant parts like cool St. Bart’s

  We’ll bare our bods and warm our hearts;

  At Zürs or Vail we’ll slip downtrail

  Betwixt Drew Brees and Milky Quayle;

  With Susan Boyle, the startled diva,

  We’ll tan at Sanibel Captiva,

  Or linger in Himal’yan shadow

  With Sergey Brin and Rachel Maddow;

  Or, saving bucks, just grab a chair

  Downstairs from here, in drab Times Square.

  But sooner, friends, and by your leave

  You’ll find us home this Christmas Eve,

  While kids and neighbors raise the fir

  And pleasing meetings reoccur.

  Look, there’s Frank and Carla Bruni,

  Joe Girardi (not in uni),

  With Ethan Canin, midst the crush,

  Beside Claire Danes and Geoffrey Rush.

  Chamique Holdsclaw! Eric Holder!

  Here’s some Mumm’s that’s growing colder,

  And now there’s dancing—come and choose
<
br />   Bo or Björk, Penélope Cruz,

  Anna Paquin, Renzo Piano,

  Or Janet Napolitano:

  We’ll glide about till dawn comes by,

  With Johnny Depp, Anita Desai,

  Donald Hall, Beverly D’Anne, and

  The Dalton Teachers Marching Band!

  This rhyme’s run dry, our end is near;

  We’ll see you guys same time next year,

  With these weary thoughts refitted

  And names of friends so far omitted.

  A happy new year, if you can,

  And if not, then just stick to the plan;

  Christmas lifts us by design,

  And peace on earth’s the bottom line.

  December, 2009

  ICE CREAM AND ASHES

  Summer movies aren’t about summer and they don’t have to open during the summer movie-theatre doldrums. For me, they’re the movies that come up in conversation at night with friends on the porch or during a long drive, or even late in bed when somebody says, “What was the name of that movie where the cow falls down a well and everybody’s looking for that famous old Irish tenor who’s disappeared and—wait a minute, it’s, it’s—” And you say, “Oh, my God, yes, it was—I know this—it was Ned Beatty!” And the first person says, “Yeah, got it now—Ned Beatty, can you believe? In ‘Hear My Song.’ I think it was English or maybe Irish but, you know, not Irish. Great movie, remember?”