Learn to Laugh

Learn to laugh. That seems to be the lesson Jerry Brown wanted to impart when recently he answered an interviewer’s question: What book should people read?

In January 2019, Brown relinquished his role as governor of California, having served four four-year terms with a 28-year gap in the middle. His life story inspires reflection in thoughtful people: his father was also governor; he entered a seminary to become a priest, dated Linda Ronstadt, worked with Mother Teresa in India and was elected mayor of Oakland, California. His endorsement was enough for me to check out “Steppenwolf” from my local library.

Herman Hesse wrote the novel about the spiritual journey of Harry Haller, a tormented intellectual confronting his fiftieth year and the prospect of suicide. The title derives from the protagonist's description of one of his personalities as "wolf of the Steppes," or Steppenwolf, that snarls at his other bourgeoisie-loving self. 

 

A manuscript found by the narrator, a neighbor in a boarding house, is the device to tell the story set in an unnamed German city where Steppenwolf reveres Mozart and Goethe, condescends to everyone else and is socially isolated. Walking through the city on a rainy night, he sees an “electric sign” that flashes then vanishes. It reads: “Magic Theater / Entrance Not For Everybody.” He tries and fails to open the adjacent door then wanders away but sees reflected on wet asphalt: “For Madmen Only!” (52)*

The scene rings a bell for me about life in the city, where so much is concentrated in a small space that you don’t have time to pursue everything at once. Such things brought to your awareness become a promise for the future.

 Before gaining entry to the Magic Theater he encounters Hermine, a female representation of the best friend of his youth, Herman, and the first guide on his spiritual journey. She tells him: "'You have a picture of life within you, a faith, a challenge, and you were ready for deeds and sufferings and sacrifices, and then you became aware by degrees that the world asked no deeds and no sacrifices of you whatever, and that life is no poem of heroism with heroic parts to play and so on, but a comfortable place where people are quite content with eating and drinking, coffee and knitting, cards and wireless. And whoever wants more and has got it in him -- the heroic and the beautiful, and the reverence for the great poets or for the saints -- is a fool and a Don Quixote...'"(267)

Jerry Brown, it seems to me, has that picture inside, and I sometimes find it difficult to explain to others my desire to write and compose. If I am such a fool, I can’t be anything but.

Hermine draws Steppenwolf out of isolation, challenging and teaching him to dance, setting him up with a beautiful woman to love and introducing him to the jazz and club scene. The lesson demonstrates that his disdainful intellectual’s guise is self-imposed, echoed later in the Magic Theater where he gazes at his reflection in a mirror, which shatters into shards that transform into chess pieces, the “many selves” comprising the “unity of (his) personality.” 

A chess player sitting “in Eastern fashion on the floor” places some of the pieces on the chessboard and says, “’…man consists of a multitude of souls, of numerous selves…that he can rearrange…in what order he pleases, and so attain to an endless multiplicity of moves in the game of life. (341-344) The chess player plays a series of games in which the pieces, representing Steppenwolf in youth, in old age, singly and as part of groups, interact. 

Our society, however, considers as crazy those displaying multiple selves and lauds those with a singular focus. A contender for a job might be encouraged to say, “My whole life I wanted to be a hedge fund manager (or banker or accountant).” That’s ridiculous and I pity anyone really thinking that. Perhaps I’m shortsighted, waiting on the next day to reveal what life has in store, which requires that I roll with punches, admit mistakes and turn around at dead-ends. 

Pablo, another guide, holds a mirror before Steppenwolf and says, “You will now erase this superfluous reflection, my dear friend. That is all that is necessary. To do so, it will suffice that you greet it, if your mood permits, with a hearty laugh. You are here in a school of humor. You are to learn to laugh. Now, true humor begins when a man ceases to take himself seriously.” (317)

I had to learn not to take myself seriously. When I left the Marines, I moved to San Francisco to continue my education. Subconsciously, I thought gorging on knowledge was enough and was satisfied to be isolated from people “content with eating and drinking…” Life, though, is too large and complex to comprehend without interaction with others who help reveal your mistakes. That’s comedic enough; add the mistakes of others and soon you’re Uncle Albert bouncing off the ceiling!

In his first eight years, Jerry Brown attracted significant opposition, which might have been a reflection of his youthful white-hot intensity. In the second eight, he seemed better able to absorb criticism and even head it off by moderation. “Paddle a little to the left and a little to the right,” is one of his sayings about navigating politics. That’s funny and true. Jerry learned to laugh.

By the end of the novel, Steppenwolf still has more to learn. Pablo tells him: “[Y]ou have disappointed me a little. You forgot yourself badly. You broke through the humor of my little theater and tried to make a mess of it, stabbing with knives and splattering our pretty picture-world with the mud of reality…” In the last lines of his manuscript, Steppenwolf writes: “One day I would be a better hand at the game. One day I would learn how to laugh…” (388-89) Steppenwolf vanishes from the boardinghouse and the reader is left to ponder whether he lives or commits suicide.

Life in the city is about awareness and exploration of the new and strange. This curiosity goes hand in hand with relinquishing control to a collective experience. The difference is like that between riding a bus and driving your own car. Laugh –quietly-- at the guy ranting in the back while on your way to the waterfront to see tall ships pass through the Golden Gate.  

On encountering the unknown, don’t resort to guns and knives. Instead, laugh and inquire. Learn to understand why something’s been unknown (to you) so long and consider where you have been. Steppenwolf, I believe, has turned to the next page of his life and I second the recommendation to turn the pages of this curious novel.

___

 * Excerpts from Steppenwolf  (First Picador Modern Classics Edition: November 2015, Farrar, Straus and Giroux) The novel was originally published in 1927 and translated from the German in 1929.

Fragment: Drops and Droplets

Drops and droplets
Cubes of carrot and green peas
Transparent skins of onion
Hard to see
The tops of beef
O' savory sea







____

Attempt at allegory inspired by recent road trip to Southern California

Wordplay: Sell or Cell

Sell or Cell? That is the question: whether it’s nobler to strike out into the world to market words, risking rejection, or to rest content within self-defined bars of a cell, risking nothing and gaining the same. Wordsmith wanted rest but wasn’t content with nothing so he arranged selected words in boxes of meaning called chapters inside a case called “novel” then set out.

At the first house, he proclaimed: “Here’s something new.” A haggard man with dark circles under his eyes pointed to a sign, “No Unsolicited Words,” and closed the door. At the next house, a pert young woman pointed to her sign, “Queries Only.” He had no query and that door closed too. At the end of the day, he was exhausted from lugging words and discouraged by all the closed doors.

Back in the cell, he rearranged words he already had into one-page containers that briefly described the novel, who he was and the location of his cell. Based on his previous exploration, he tailored salutations to “Dear Blue House” or “Dear Red House.” Wordsmith set out the next day and found queries much easier to carry.

One day, a house asked to see his words and later deemed them “good” but surprised him with a list of revisions. So he remained in his cell rearranging the original words. It was sell and cell, both.

Days Nine/Ten: Last Days

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

15 - 17 juillet - vendredi et samedi

The last days have the quality of memory fragments as the lead-ins -transportation and language- no longer dominate my attention: I get on and off the bus; Parisians speak French, I speak some French and at times we communicate. 

Le Palais Garnier Opera House (9e) has been the unintended focal point of my stay, and finally I go inside. The Python, sculptured in black, confronts me before I ascend the broad marble steps. All sparkles and all is glorious. On the box-seat level, the Phantom of the Opera’s box is the last one on the left! Plush, red velvet seats of the performance hall reinforce the stateliness of the place but on looking up to the ceiling and Chagall’s explosion of color, my perspective opens like a flower. 

Without planning to, I encounter the beast: the Eiffel Tower. At Trocadero (16e), I’m surrounded by one of those grand Parisian circles that obscure everything beyond and tread counter-clockwise until stopped in my tracks. A gap between buildings frames a marble platform on which hundreds of onlookers view the Tower across the Seine, like a trophy on a mantle place. Hawkers peddle 10-inch replicas, selfie-sticks and lighters as I study the structure that on the whole is more graceful than its pig iron parts. Incredible to consider it was nearly pulled down in 1909, but spared for being useful as an antenna. 

A huge tricolor flag from Bastille Day hangs from the Arc de Triomphe on my way to the Alliance Francaise, which is close by le Jardin du Luxembourg (6e) where the streets are empty that Saturday. I attended the Alliance to study French. My journal reminds me I stayed just one week because in a four-hour class I would speak only one or two sentences; there were so many students. So I gave it up to study independently with Monique, a German university student. A fond memory is of buying bread, wine and cheese to take to the park. Monique, thin and dark, had a death grip on our baguette. “Tu as tue le pain,” I said, pointing to the crimp in its neck and we broke into laughter. For a going away present, she gave me a French translation of James Michener’s Centennial.

Later, I come upon Rue de Montogueil (2e) where the street blooms with activity: pedestrians, boutiques, cafes and produce stores. Despite having already eaten, I can’t pass up the scene and take a seat at Café Montorgueil. Just inside, because the outside seats are taken, I still have fresh air and a great view. Periodically, a grocer barks a promotion. A fishmonger in white smock displays a thick cut of fish on a plate; his co-worker holding a similar cut seems lost. I order salade de fruit and soda and then in a moment of inspiration ask if they have calvados. They do (9 euros) and I end up having two. As Hemingway might have said, “The apple brandy was fine.”   

***

Concluding Thoughts

Thirty-nine years ago, an older lady in black elbowed me at a turnstile in the Metro. I was on my way to the airport after nearly three years in Europe and carried a full duffle and an unwieldy wooden chessboard purchased in Spain. There were so many ladies in black back then that their image stuck in my mind. A scant 33 years before, the Second World War had ended and many French were mourning loved ones. A twenty-year-old Parisienne during the Occupation could have been my lady in black. One would often be sitting in restrooms beside a stack of paper towels and a tip plate. I don’t recall any this trip and only the large restroom at la Gare de l’Est required payment to a man behind the counter at the fork between les hommes et les femmes.

Unnerving back then were beggars on the streets or in the Metro. Dark, emaciated and often physically deformed, they presented a disturbing reality and, later in the US, I would look with disdain on comparatively whole and healthy beggars. Nowadays ours appear more ragged and distressed and I’m much more sympathetic. A strange sight this trip was on the Champs Elysees where two plump middle-aged women in long dresses and headscarves lay prone in the middle of the sidewalk. Their clothes were attractive and they didn’t have begging cups, so I believe they were asking for something more than money. All the while, the issue of refugees and immigrants simmered, playing out before me on TV. One immigrant camp, I learned, was not far from my first hotel.

Is Paris still there for me? The people are sympathetic and the city is as fascinating now as it was decades ago. I love the language, which plays in my ear like jazz and classical. Paris, greater France and the culture would seem a rewarding focus for the coming years and at my level, affordable: hotel rooms cost not much more than a decent one in Los Angeles, and I’d much rather be in Paris: walking ancient streets, peeking inside the odd museum or church, sipping wine and people watching. So, yes, I’ll head there when in need of a break or in search of pleasure or la difference.

*

This is the last post in the series of posts about my 2017 Paris trip. Below are links to earlier posts:

Day One -  Day Two-  Day Three -  Day Four -  Day Five

Interlude: Strasbourg

Day Six -  Day Seven- Day Eight – Days Nine to Ten

   
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Day Eight: Bastille Day

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

14 juillet – jeudi

Emmanuel and Donald, Brigitte and Melania, tour Napoleon’s Tomb, which I do get to see albeit on TV. With large purse in hand, Brigitte breaks away from the quartet to inspect the base of the pedestal as if stalking prey. Then, while posing for a photo, she strains to hide the buff purse behind her back. The scene reminds me that all four are new to the presidency of their respective countries. Later, the heads of France and the United States view the parade of troops and weaponry from a platform at Place de la Concorde. Leading the way is a contingent of 150 U.S. military to commemorate the 100-year anniversary of America’s entry into WWI. The French called them sammies after l’Oncle Sam.    

 

I forgo the parade on TV to begin the day’s adventure, not knowing what to do except avoid the crowds aux Champs Elysees. The lack of bustle is evident as I drop my postcards through the slot of the closed post office then head to the nearest stop where the electronic screen reads “Ne Pas Service.” I go to Rue La Fayette to wait for a bus to nowhere in particular. Most shops are closed and my fellow riders exude a “free day” attitude. After awhile, I catch sight of water and push the button for arrête to debark at St. Martin’s Canal near Metro Stalingrad (18e).

The greenish water stretches to the right as I cross a bridge to the shady side. A gentle breeze tickles the sweet air, briefly soured by an outdoor pissoir beside a group of sleeping homeless. But the good air returns and I fall into a rhythmic cane-and-foot gait amid six-level apartment buildings whose gritty sunscreens show wear and neglect.

Outside a café a man catches the sun while I take a seat shade-side on a concrete ledge. I snap some pictures then pull out my copy of Le Parisien whose front-page vows: “N’OUBLIONS PAS – Nice, un an après.” Today is the one-year anniversary of the terrorist attack killing 86 people in the southern French city, which lends logic to the military helicopter hovering like a dragonfly above the parade route, so high its rotors beat the air unheard. A yahoo shouts from a car; some things alas! are universal.

                  

Je continue a promener, encountering a jogger, a bicyclist and dog walker, all of whom seem content to let crowds amass elsewhere, and then to my delight a batoboat on the canal. The shallow-keeled double-decker is nearly empty, carrying about ten people and crew. I’m envious of their leisure and would catch up and board with a picnic of bread, cheese and wine. Unfortunately, loose ends do not a knot make and it doesn’t happen. The boat goes on ahead, entering a lock to adjust to a lower water level, while I watch along with others.

Farther up the canal is the high-arched walking bridge appearing in the movie, Amelie, where the eponymous character skims rocks off the water’s surface. Then another: the retractable bridge on Rue de Lancry whose asphalt road swings out of the way of passing boats. The moving parts fascinate as does the canal overall. The city had planned to pave over the “useless” waterway until residents rose up to fight. What a loss that would have been.

Lunch is at Lulu La nantaise where outdoor tables under burgundy awning make a single file along the narrow sidewalk. Food service doesn’t start for forty-five minutes so I have a somewhat small glass of wine for 4.5 euros, which suffices till I place my order for an andouille sausage plate and a carafe. For 17 euros, the carafe is rather large, evoking another Goldilocks moment, but I’m up to the challenge. Noteworthy is the sausage that presents like a dark sheet of paper. Timidly, I tear a piece, bring it to mouth and pronounce it ---good.

Back at the hotel I look forward to le feu d’artifice that starts at 2300. Before that, a competing channel shows an Italian production of Carmen, which begins with a totally nude man under brass helmet on revolving platform. Had the production been French the nude would have been a woman. Two hours before the fireworks, Canal 2 hosts a concert at the base of la Tour Eiffel performed by l’orchestre national de France, le Choeur et la Maitrise de Radio France. Works range from Verdi to Prokofiev with contributions by Berlioz and Puccini, according to Le Parisien. I watch and listen and wonder how an American audience would take it.

 

When the fireworks do come on, I’m perplexed: did they begin at the end? American fireworks start slow with maybe one or two bursts then three then progressively more in various patterns until the final crescendo. Right away the French orgasm surrounds la Tour Eiffel, accentuated by horizontal streams of light from the La Tour itself. What else can they do? Answer: more of the same for nearly thirty minutes. Well, the audience has been listening to classical for two hours.

When finally the sky goes dark and the crowd disperses, I hear:

     I love Paris in the springtime

     I love Paris in the fall

    I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles

    I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles…  

Ol’ Blue Eyes, Frank Sinatra, puts to bed a day of surprises.

(FOR THE VERY INTERESTED ONLY: Four hours of Bastille Day activity broadcast on Canal 2 from 2014. Very colorful and good practice for your French.)

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Next post in about two weeks.

 

Day Seven: "Doucement"

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

 12 juillet – mercredi

Helene was petite, brunette and nervous. I can’t recall where we met or where we went, yet for 39 years her address has been printed inside the back cover of my Michelin guide to Paris (English Edition, 1976): “Helene R__­­______, __ Rue Rochechourt, 6^th Pl., #4, 9^th.” A memory fragment recalls a car parked in the woods with a grand sunlit building in the distance. Perhaps we went to Versailles in the family car after her mother’s caution to be careful.

My hotel being in the same arrondissement (“9^th” or 9e) suggests a trip to the address as goal for the day. Maybe retracing the steps of so long ago will jog the memory. I catch a bus on Rue La Fayette and pass Place Franz-Liszt and le Gare du Nord on the way to La Chapelle where a troupe of beefy peroxide blondes in tight dresses spills from a side street. Once off the bus I search four corners of the intersection for another to take me to my destination. A woman with a big smile greets me; I ignore the come-on. 

Later near the overhead tracks of Metro Barbes-Rochechourt, women in colorful African robes populate the busy sidewalks as thin men try passing business cards to passersby. I seek out the area map at a bus shelter in which an elderly man sits with foot raised to his face. I’m charting my course when the man approaches. “Monsieur,” he begins, presenting a sneaker and the end of a shoelace, and gesticulates his desire to thread the lace through the tongue’s fabric label. His thick glasses suggest poor eyesight is part of the problem; coordination is the other as it takes me three tries.

The countdown to Helene’s address takes place on a street of discount stores, which becomes transformed by a thirty-foot wide median with shady trees and park benches. Finally, on reaching a blue enameled door beside a shoe store, I look to the sixth floor and come up short! Reeling, I take refuge on a median bench.

The missing floor is a gap between buildings on either side whose design is of another century. It’s clear that Helene’s building has been renovated. The top three levels have brick façade while the lower two are of white stonework. The grills of the tall windows are cautiously inset, whereas those of adjacent buildings allow a footstep into open air. Renovation accentuates the passage of time: Helene would be a mature woman with her own family. Does she live there still and might she be gazing from a window even now? I don’t feel her presence. Farewell, Helene.

In a reflective mood and finding comfort under shady trees, I walk the median to Metro Anvers and then onto Metro Pigalle where I buy some postcards. Then, on realizing I’m in the neighborhood of Le Progres, I head in the general direction, passing up one street in favor of the next that leads to the intersection on Rue des Trois Freres. I’m pleased with my directional acumen and the sense of having closed a loop begun last week, just as my entire trip closes a loop nearly four decades in the making. 

The café is small with a floor-to-ceiling window that faces Restaurant Florenza where I ate last week. Despite not having open windows, the ceiling is high and the two rooms airy. As promised by Lonely Planet, the patrons are local: mothers with children, a young blonde in jeans grabbing a bite. Two couples stand by the wooden bar long enough for a shot. The meal is tasty: the standard filet of something, potato something, a cheesy something and wine. The recommendation is a good one.

Going down to Rue Rochechouart, I cross a mustachioed vendor carrying a crate of produce and hurry out of his way. He calls out, “Doucement, doucement,” a sweet way of telling me to take it easy. We nod on passing and I’ll carry his advice through tomorrow: Bastille Day.

Postcard excerpts:

Image: Sacre Coeur Basilica

 “You won’t get this until you’re back from your x-country trip. Hope it’s meeting your expectations. I’m having a great time. Luckily, I bought a cane. Feet are tired but knees in good shape.”

Image: Paris from the air

First week in Paris I was dragging in 90 degree heat, three days in Strasbourg coincided with a break: 70 degrees with light rain for the rest of the trip. POTUS in town so I guess Paris is big enough for the both of us.”

Image: Moulin Rouge

If you were here this is the kind of place you’d hang out. This is my second week and I haven’t done much nighttime stuff. Too tired really. Long lunches and people-watching are just fine.”

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Next post in about two weeks.

          

 

Day Six: Snapping Fool

After 39 years, the writer revisits Paris

  to explore memories and discover whether

   for him there is still there

11 juillet – mardi

Back in Paris, I hoist bag to shoulder and cane through Gare de l’Est to the taxi stand outside. Good choice. Though having reserved a hotel not far from the station, I would not easily have found it on public transport. The driver loads my bag in the trunk and I hand him the business card with the address written on the back: Best Western, Anjou-Lafayette, 4 rue Riboutte. I made cards for all four hotels; my second best idea of the trip. Instead of stumbling over pronunciation and misinterpretation, I point to the card. He punches the address into GPS and delivers me to the 9e arrondissement. Whereas my first hotel was in a gritty area in the 18e; the second in touristy Strasbourg, the third is in a neighborhood with a nice park.

The woman clerk checks me in speaking rapid French, which I mostly understand. I ask about a shuttle to the airport Sunday and she advises that a taxi ride costs about 55 euros; so for me it will again be the Roissy Bus.

The room key reminds me that the hotel had undergone major renovation, which apparently did not include locks. The large metal key is attached to a plastic square with the room number boldly displayed. No “pour la securite” here, unless employing some sort of metal and electricity link a la Ben Franklin.

Ma petite chambre est dans le cinquieme etage, from where I can see rooftops opposite and treetops of the park. An odd feature is the one-foot step up to the window area with the closet and a chair. I imagine being drowsy, forgetting and falling. However, without stepping up I can reach over to place hangers on the closet rod. On my way out, I notice another strange thing: no peephole in the door to invade the privacy of what goes on in the hallway.

This evening my goals are to replenish my Navigo card and get something to eat. At the end of the narrow street I turn right then discover Metro Poissoniere and am happy to observe the up-escalator in operation. The self-service machine on the wall of the empty station reads my pass, accepts my credit card and makes me good for another week.

I continue in my initial direction and come upon Place Franz-Liszt. To my left, is the church Saint Vincent de Paul, whose columns evoke ancient Greece. I reach for my camera, but upbraid myself for being a snapping fool. Anything old is tempting and here everything seems old, like that church on the hill built in the mid-1800’s. I head across la Place for Cafe de l'Eglise.

Squeezing between closely spaced tables, I settle in my chair. The church seems to levitate in the background as a drama unfolds: a young man sits on the pavement, his hands cuffed behind him. Though his legs point to the café, he turns his face away, in shame I suppose. Two men in jeans and polo shirts stand over him. The silence attendant on the scene is extraordinary: no one shouts, curses or explains, and the café crowd doesn’t appear to pay them any mind. “A mime show,” I think. “This is Paris after all.” At any moment the man’s head would turn to reveal greasepaint and sad red lips. I study the menu and when next I look up, the trio is gone.

Partaking of olives, hummus, bread and red wine, I stay till after 2100. On the way back to the hotel, I buy soda from Monop’ Lafayette, a small supermarket. As of tomorrow, I have four days left in Paris and an old address to check out.

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Next post in about two weeks.