Quote of the Day (Andrea Barrett, on Writing as a Response to the World)

“Writing is mysterious, and it's supposed to be. Craft guides a writer at every step, as does knowledge of earlier work; we accomplish little without those foundations. Research can help, if it feeds the imagination and generates ideas; a plan is also a wonderful thing, if a writer's imagination works that way. Groping blindly, following glimmers of structure and sound, is far from the only way; other writers work differently to good effect, and any path that gets you there is a good path in the end. But one true thing among all these paths is the need to tap a deep vein of connection between our own uncontrollable interior preoccupations and what we're most concerned about in the world around us. We write in response to that world; we write in response to what we read and learn; and in the end we write out of our deepest selves, the live, breathing, bleeding place where the pictures form, and where it all begins. “---Andrea Barrett, “The Sea of Information,” in The Best American Essays2005, edited by Susan Orlean (2005)

Quote of the Day (Jason Robards, on Acting Eugene O’Neill)

“O'Neill demands your best all the time ­- no, no less ­- and the best you have. And it doesn't matter if it's as good as somebody else or worse than somebody else, none of that matters. It only matters that you give him your best. And then it works.”—Actor Jason Robards, Jr., describing the demands on actors’ stamina, skill and courage by playwright Eugene O’Neill, interview for “Eugene O’Neill: A Documentary Film,” in The American Experience series (2006) 

Shakespeare had Richard Burbage; George Bernard Shaw, Rex Harrison. In the second half of the 20^th century, Eugene O’Neill’s finest interpreter was Jason Robards Jr., born on this date in 1922. The actor might have been best known to mass audiences for his consecutive Best Supporting Actor Oscars (All the President’s Men, 1976; Julia, 1977), but his heart belonged to the stage—and no playwright claimed his allegiance more thoroughly than the only American dramatist ever to be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.

Part of his affinity for O’Neill might have stemmed from a common gene for self-destruction, one the actor shared with another Irish-American literary genius, F. Scott Fitzgerald. (Robards starred onstage in an adaptation of Budd Schulberg’s novel The Disenchanted, in a role based on Fitzgerald’s ill-starred attempt at screenwriting in Hollywood, as well as the 1961 screen adaptation of Tender is the Night.)

But Robards discovered other similarities between O’Neill’s life and his own. Both, for instance, had fathers who abandoned relatively risky but emotionally satisfying stage work for roles that spelled easier money (James O’Neill, in the role that made him rich but typecast him, The Count of Monte Cristo; James Robards Sr., in silent films). Both went to sea in their early 20s.

And both knew all too much about substance abuse and the guilt of survival. O’Neill witnessed in his family the scourge of alcohol (in brother James Jr.) and morphine (in the case of his mother), and his own despair led to a suicide attempt at the New York dive Jimmy the Priest’s in 1912 (the same year in which The Iceman Cometh is set). A legendary hellraiser even among his fellow actors, Robards got into a car accident that required massive plastic surgery. The shock of the incident may have helped him at last stave off the alcoholism he had battled for more than two decades.

Above technical skill, O’Neill—from the moment Robards played the career-making role of Hickey in the off-Broadway 1956 revival of The Iceman Cometh—required from the actor unflinching courage, the ability to stare into a psychological abyss and endure it all. Every night, he would have to dredge up a lifetime’s worth of regret about family loss and dysfunction. Robards would go on to do so with masterful effect in such other towering O’Neill dramas as Long Day’s Journey Into Night, A Moon for the Misbegotten, A Touch of the Poet, and Hughie.

(1975 photo of Robards at the Lago Mar, Fort Lauderdale, Fla., by Roy Erickson; State Library and Archives of Florida)

Photo of the Day: Horseshoe Garden

I was struck by the sight of this garden next to the Oliver Archives Center at the Chautauqua Institution in upstate New York as soon as I saw it on vacation last week. Like much of the rest of the grounds, it presents a cornucopia of flora.

I didn’t get an opportunity to explore the center itself when I was up there. This will provide another opportunity for me the next time I get up to this community.

Slices of Americana at Chautauqua II

Longtime readers of this blog know of my attachment to the Chautauqua Institution. I’ve vacationed in this lakeside, upstate New York cultural mecca at least a half dozen times over the past two decades, but each time I return, I learn something new and return mentally refreshed to my Big Apple job and New Jersey home.

There’s a good chance that, in the next week or so, I’ll touch on one of the things that went on up there over the last seven days. But a better way to convey the essence of the place might be the approach I took last year in a post called “Slices of Americana at Chautauqua”: use a larger-than-normal number of photos to convey a small community that epitomizes our national civilization, more often than not at its best.

One speaker last week, trying to summon the spirit of the place in a phone call to distant in-laws, said he described it as “a touch of Brigadoon with a bit of ancient Greece.” It’s not a bad description, actually: like the Lerner-Loewe musical, it springs to life periodically—in this case, once a year, in a nine-week summer program of public affairs, spirituality, the arts and recreation. Like the ancient Greeks, the center of life there is the public square, and the summer visitors abide by Socrates’ notion that “the unexamined life is not worth living.”

The “public square” here is its 5,000-seat amphitheater, where last week’s theme was “Water Matters.” My picture of the water sprite, taken in the walkway near the amphitheater, Bestor Plaza, takes its cue from the morning lecturers from National Geographic (co-sponsors of the week), as well as the sermons, continuing-education classes and even musical programs revolving around the theme (e.g., one performance of the Chautauqua Symphony encompassed Debussy’s La Mer, Ravel’s Une barque sur l'océan, and Leonard Bernstein’s symphonic suite based on his On the Waterfront soundtrack.)

One site on the grounds that combines several functions is Hurlbut Memorial United Methodist Church. The stained-glass image I’m posting symbolizes its spiritual significance. Yet the church’s sanctuary has also served as a classroom for the institution’s Special Studies program, and proceeds from daily lunches support the church’s mission and ministries.

Houses of worship, as varied as they are, represent only one form of architecture here. More striking are the homes, with many, if not most, dating back to the Victorian Era, and others clearly taking their stylistic cues from the age. A property-owners house tour in the middle of last week quickly sold out (I was fortunate to obtain a ticket for it).

Interest was so intense for this tour that long lines of visitors formed outside these homes, including the first one I visited, Sunnypoint, as seen in the third photo here. So intense was the heat and humidity that it didn’t surprise me to learn that one of the many elderly people taking the tour required medical attention.

What did surprise me—pleasantly so—were the sounds of Dixieland Jazz coming late that afternoon, several streets away from the Amphitheater. I hadn’t read anything in the list of daily events published in The Daily Chautauquan about any such musical performance. The sounds, I soon discovered, were emanating from an open space at Lincoln Park, part of a larger Chautauqua Property Owners Association celebration. Seven picnics were held that afternoon throughout the enclosed grounds.

While much of the open ground was occupied by individuals—grandparents, their children and grandchildren—conversing or lining up for food at the tables set up, another corner was set aside for a group of musicians. Not having seen a notice of their appearance, I judged this latter group to be a set of amateur—but enthusiastic and highly talented—jazz musicians. It struck me as the most Chautauquan of celebrations. I celebrate this jazz combo in another one of the pictures you see here.

Speaking of musicians…I have no idea if the youthful violinist in another photo here was part of the community’s vibrant musical education program. But visitors last week, as throughout most of the summer, would have had the opportunity to hear many different kinds of music, performed with varying degrees of proficiency.

Indeed, the final night provided a particularly vivid manifestation of this, in the form of a live taping of the National Public Radio program, “From the Top,” hosted by Christopher O’Riley. I confess that I was totally clueless about everything related to the show beforehand. (I was half-tempted to ask my friends at my inn if O’Riley happened to be the Fox News personality’s shy, retiring cousin from Ireland—you know: the black sheep of the family).

I was delighted to find that the show featured brilliant musicians ranging in age from 13 to 18. Someday, I’m convinced, when they win the fame they deserve, I’ll be able to say “I knew them back when.” In the meantime, I intend to listen to the show again—this time in October, when it’s set to broadcast in my area.

Quote of the Day (Roger Rosenblatt, With a Rule for Aging—Not to Mention Marital Survival)

“Listen for the question: ‘What are you talking about?’ Should that question arise in response to an accusation, know for certain that the person who said it knows perfectly well what you are talking about. Respond accordingly.”—Roger Rosenblatt, Rules for Aging: A Wry and Witty Guide to Life (2001)

This Day in Baseball History (Speaker Starts Record Hitting Streak)

July 24, 1912—Tris Speaker, the 24-year-old centerfielder of the Boston Red Sox, began his third streak of 20-plus games with consecutive hits in a single season, an unusual record that no hitter has since matched—not even Joe DiMaggio.

The Yankee Clipper, with a (single) 56-game hitting streak, has, along with Willie Mays, long since displaced Speaker in the popular imagination as the greatest centerfielder in baseball history. But the Gray Eagle deserves to be better known—and particularly for his performance in this season 100 years ago, when he not only led the Bosox to a World Series triumph but won the Chalmers Award—predecessor of today’s Most Valuable Player Award—in the bargain.

The future Hall of Famer’s offensive prowess (part of a season in which he batted .383, garnered 222 hits and stole 52 bases), demonstrated so strongly in this unusual set of streaks, was overshadowed by another great hitter of this era: Ty Cobb. The Georgia Peach batted .410 that year—and, as I noted in a prior post, stole most of the media attention that summer because of a notorious incident in which he ran into the stands to beat up a disabled heckler.

Speaker’s brilliance at the plate might also have been taken for granted because of his superlative defensive skills. So fast that he could catch up to long line drives, he repeatedly played close to the infield, even throwing out batters before they could even reach first base. In effect, his daring positioning allowed him to function as a fifth infielder and plug up any holes on the diamond.

The outfielder, however, remains among an elite group of players whose superior glove is matched by a devastating bat. His .344 lifetime batting average exceeds Babe Ruth’s. His 3,515 hits—still fifth best on the all-time list—were accumulated in the deadball era, when, as the “Green Monster” blogger notes, “the league-wide batting average was .243, entire teams only hit less than 10 home runs in a season, and pitchers were allowed to scuff, spit on and manipulate the ball in ways that are illegal in today's game.” He remains the career leader in doubles, and his 436 stolen bases are simply another manifestation of the speed that made him such a daring and unique outfielder.

When it comes to all-around brilliance on the diamond (and even in the clubhouse—as player-manager, he would direct his next team, the Cleveland Indians, to a World Series triumph in 1920), Speaker’s election to Cooperstown in 1937 was as close to a slam-dunk as possible. But “character”—the criterion that has prevented gambler Pete Rose and steroid user Mark McGwire from entering the Hall of Fame—proves a more difficult problem for this hero of early baseball.

The fact was that the player who set these records—and could change the outcome of the game with his bat as well as his glove—often felt out of place in the Red Sox clubhouse and his adopted city, a fact outlined with considerable skill in Tris Speaker: The Rough-And-Tumble Life of a Baseball Legend, by Timothy M. Gay (2006). 

The Hubbard, Texas, native reflected the rural Protestant sensibilities of his region. He not only thought that the Civil War was “the war of Northern aggression,” but admitted to a sportswriter early in his career that he was a member of the Ku Klux Klan. 

Moreover, on a Red Sox squad with growing appeal to Boston Irish Catholics then coming into their own as a political force, Speaker was, together with great friend “Smokey Joe” Wood, one of the “Masons” clique in opposition to its “Knights of Columbus” contingent.Tensions between the two groups became so bad that at one point, Speaker’s practical joke on fellow outfielder Duffy Lewis—knocking his cap off out on the field so that the Lewis’s receding hairline was exposed for all the world to see—led to fisticuffs. Catcher Bill Carrigan, another member of the "Knights" who had clashed with Speaker, didn't mourn his loss after the centerfielder departed the Red Sox just before the 1916 season in a contract dispute.

In Speaker’s defense, one could argue that he grew over time—or, at least, that his rough edges were smoothed out. He eventually married an Irish Catholic immigrant, and 20 years after his retirement he mentored Larry Doby, as the player who broke the color line in the American League adjusted to the outfield.

But Speaker may have been guilty of the one offense that, above all else, still represents the third rail in baseball clubhouses: gambling. Late in their playing careers, Speaker and Cobb faced an accusation from pitcher Dutch Leonard that they had bet on and “fixed” a game. The two men, in fact, resigned after American League President Ban Johnson followed up on Leonard’s charge by speaking to the two players.

Then, when the news aired publicly, Speaker and Cobb, deciding they had nothing left to lose, turned around and fought the charges, with the help of their attorneys. Baseball commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis, finding Leonard’s credibility problematic, absolved Speaker and Cobb, and the two finished up their careers with the Philadelphia Athletics. But, to some extent, the taint of scandal clung to their names in baseball front offices. 

When Cleveland Indians owner Bill Veeck asked Speaker to work with Doby, this was the first major league job that “Spoke” had had in years. Ironically, the name of “The Gray Eagle” ended up sanitized through his assistance to a man he would never have wanedt to play with or against early in his career because of the color of his skin.

My longtime friend, autograph authentication expert Jim Spence, offers a fine analysis of the career—and distinctive scrawl—of Speaker here.

(Photograph of Tris Speaker from the Prints and Photographs division of the Library of Congress)