The Glass Character

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Out of the inkwell, into my dreams

Betty Boop - she's such a bitch

The cartoons I used to watch very early on Saturday mornings (I mean before the REAL cartoons came on, like Huckleberry Hound and Bullwinkle and Linus the Lion-Hearted) were way, way old. I mean, these barely had any talking in them, mostly just wacky music from some distant era, and I loved them.

There was something called Tarrytoons, early Warner Brothers cartoons called Merrie Melodies, very old Disney (I particularly remember "Bugs in Love"), and of course ancient Popeye, a figure so coarse and ugly he should have scared me. Not only was he smoking a pipe, one of his eyes really was popped out!

At the end of these antique Popeyes there was just a split-second glimpse of an inkwell, trademark of the animator Max Fleischer (video posted above). As a kid I used to wonder if I was imagining it, it was over so quick. I thought it was magical. Much later, when my kids and I got into the habit of taping bizarre old cartoons, we used to try to freeze-frame on it, usually with no success.

But before Popeye, even, there was Betty Boop, a frenetic little sexpot hallucinated by the Fleischer studio. These cartoons had a fever dream quality combined with non-stop, manic activity. The characters, as far as I could make out, were all animals, some of them very hard to identify. (And let's not get into that Goofy versus Pluto debate, and how a mouse could own a dog.) When they first brought out Betty Boop in the surreal Dizzy Dishes - she isn't even named but just sort of appears standing on a table - it all gets very strange, indeed.

It gets very strange because Betty has bulldog jowls,long pendulous ears, and a snout that keeps popping out grotesquely. Betty either has some sort of bizarre facial deformity, or else. . .

She's a dog.

A dog wearing garters and high heels. In other words, a bitch.

In subsequent cartoons the animators decided to turn her into a human being, making her flappy ears into earrings that still looked suspiciously canine. Mae Questel's squeaky voiceovers helped bring her decidedly flaky character into focus.

People have come out with all sorts of boopery about this subject: how Betty reflected the morals and mores of the times, how her barely-there skirt (always showing at least one garter) and wispy top, which sometimes fell off altogether, illustrated the daring style and energy of the madcap twenties and early '30s. Turner Classics made a whole documentary about this, about pre-Code Hollywood and the racy, suggestive language and dress that was common in movies before Will Hays and the suffocating legion of "decency" (read: sexless repression) shut it all down.

You can see what happened to Betty over the years, and it's alarming: her barely-there dress evolves into a suffocating uniform, completely destroying her giggly, girlish flapper/vamp image. But the thing to remember about Betty is, she was a caricature right from the start.

If anyone had a head that size, for one thing, they'd bloody fall over. (Though note that the later Boop incarnation shows a head much more in proportion with her body.) Her huge eyes with their fans for lashes are almost scary. She's a sexpot who jumps out of an inkwell, but she might as well be jumping out of a cake at some LSD-inspired stag party.

You have to ask yourself: was this character really created for children? Cartoons started off as general entertainment, a way of padding out the bill (you really got your money's worth in those days), usually shown with a movie feature or double-bill along with the newsreel and short subject. People had longer attention spans in those days and could stand to sit in a theatre for three or four hours.

If the movie was adult in nature, then - most likely - so were the cartoons. In the early 30s, this trampy little vamp ran around in her nearly-nothings, showing cleavage, having little "accidents" that tore her clothes away entirely so she had to dive behind something.
Meant for kids? Though it was hardly Fritz the Cat, I doubt it.

Somewhere along the line, maybe when TV came in, cartoons began to gravitate kidward and grow more tame. I never even saw most of the outrageous Boop cartoons I've found on YouTube: they must have been banned as unwholesome. Don't want innocent 8-year-old boys having fantasies about some trampy little tart!

Is forgiveness just a fad? (A Thanksgiving meditation)

verb (used with object)

to grant pardon for or remission of (an offense, debt, etc.); absolve.

to give up all claim on account of; remit (a debt, obligation, etc.).

to grant pardon to (a person).

to cease to feel resentment against: to forgive one's enemies.

to cancel an indebtedness or liability of: to forgive the interest owed on a loan.

"So what happened when you went to prison to visit the man who murdered your children?"

(choking back tears) "I chose to forgive him. It was the only way I could let go and go on with my life."

Am I the only one who has trouble with this?

Am I the only one who is beginning to see this trend, often displayed on reality TV and investigative crime shows like Dateline and 20-20, as a sort of spiritual fad that lifts the victim to the level of sainthood?

How long will it be until this "forgive him and let go" will become a kind of social imperative? I'd say it's right here, folks, and not just in Sunday school any more.

Lots of things become trends, fads. Medical diagnoses change and shift, particularly in the realm of psychiatry. I can't help but notice how many people (particularly women) who used to be "borderline" (as in borderline personality disorder) are now "bipolar", as if somehow their disorder morphed in response to a kind of medical fashion.

At the root of it all, the problem is this. For the most part, human beings are herd animals. Very few break out of the pack, and those who do are seen as daring innovators, geniuses, or totally nuts. (Note that some of these subversive souls, whether they were aware of it or not, founded religious movements that changed the course of history.) The vast majority of people are deeply conventional. While thinking outside the box is superficially praised, how many have enough guts to carry it out?

Lots of jokes, most of them pretty mean, are made about the fact that this "forgive" stuff seems to stem from fundamentalist Christianity which grows very thick in the US south (where, perhaps mysteriously, most of these lurid crimes seem to come from). The essence of these remarks seems to be, well, maybe it's inbreeding, which can surely drive down the IQ points over the generations.

But there's more going on than that.

As a child I was steeped in Christianity, even though it was kind of middle-of-the-road and never involved snake-handling (which I would've enjoyed) and plaster saints weeping blood. The Lord's Prayer was dusted off and recited at every opportunity, including before school every morning (and how did the few Jews and Muslims in the school feel about that? I do remember some Jehovah's Witnesses leaving the room for those few moments, and though they seemed like unreasonable cranks then, now they strike me as courageous).

It's a pretty antiquated sort of prayer with terms like "hallowed be thy name" and "thy kingdom come", which meant absolutely nothing to me back then because no one ever told me what they meant. I just parroted them back because I was supposed to. I didn't have much choice.

Then came the meat of it: "Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us." As a kid, I thought of trespassing as breaking down a fence on public property, something my friends and I had done once or twice and would obviously fry in hell for.

It was only later, much later, that I figured out the real meaning of "trespass". Though I had seen new and much more hip translations of the Lord's Prayer that performed elaborate flips and porpoise-leaps to avoid using the original archaic terms, I came to see trespassing as a sort of violation of our natural boundaries. Which, apparently, we were always supposed to forgive without question. What a lovely and appropriate thing, what great conditioning to deeply instill in a child, particularly a girl child!

Now that I think of it, the adjective considered most desirable in a child, the description that seemed most fitting and appropriate for all of us, particularly girls, was "obedient". I can't help but hitch this horrendous term to the passive concept of "forgiveness" which to me came to mean, "It's all right what you did, I don't object to it," or at very least, "I will never hold you accountable for the damage you did to me."

I will let that sink in for a moment.

Every time I hear this "I chose to forgive him" thing on TV, which is practically every day now, it seems to be connected to some horrific act like a mother losing all her children to an axe-murderer, usually her husband or boy friend. Whenever this woman comes on - and yes, she IS usually from the US south, the Bible Belt of North America - the announcer always says something like, "In an incredible and selfless act of spiritual generosity, Betty has forgiven the murderer for this horrific deed." She will then say something like, "It's the only way I can let go and heal my life."

Oh?

Whatever this mysterious phenomenon is, I can't buy for a minute that it is going to free someone from traumatic memories and anger (fury?) towards someone who has ripped away the essence of their life. It isn't human. My feeling is that the anger will be pushed down and covered up with Bible verses, and the reward - a huge one in fundamentalist Christian circles - will be the status of sainthood. The victim's selflessness and saintly ability to completely do away with all traces of vengefulness and anger will elevate her in a way that must be mighty comforting.

But hold on a minute.

The popular culture, as it always does, is slowly but surely bending the meaning of forgiveness from the traditional "forgive us our trespasses" thing (and I still don' t know what that means exactly) to something more - well, more hip and modern.

Let's revisit the definitions I quoted at the beginning of this post.

fer-giv] Show IPA verb, for·gave, for·giv·en, for·giv·ing.

verb (used with object)

to grant pardon for or remission of (an offense, debt, etc.); absolve.

to give up all claim on account of; remit (a debt, obligation, etc.).

to grant pardon to (a person).

to cease to feel resentment against: to forgive one's enemies.

to cancel an indebtedness or liability of: to forgive the interest owed on a loan.

This analysis of the concept of forgiveness begins to alarm me when I note the thread that runs through it: not holding the offender accountable. If this were practiced to the letter, of course, the legal system as it exists today would totally disappear.

"To cease to feel resentment against" is even more incredible. Bing, bing, bing - I no longer hate this guy! I love him as one of God's children, even though he strayed from the path of righteousness and hacked my children to pieces with an axe. No more anger, no more dreadful feelings of having one's guts ripped out. It's all fixed. The indebtedness has been forgiven, the emotional loan written off.

But at the same time, I found this juicy little tidbit in that ultimate authority on the social imperatives of the 21st century, Wikipedia:

In most contexts, forgiveness is granted without any expectation of restorative justice, and without any response on the part of the offender (for example, one may forgive a person who is incommunicado or dead). In practical terms, it may be necessary for the offender to offer some form of acknowledgment, an apology, or even just ask for forgiveness, in order for the wronged person to believe himself able to forgive.^[1]

Oh really?

That sounds more like a moral contract to me: admit what you did, you slimeball, and feel goddamn sorry about it, and apologize to me for the damage you did, and maybe THEN I'll consider forgiving you. The wrongdoer must own up, must confess and truly take responsibility (which is not at all the same as confession: "I had a bad childhood and couldn't help myself" being a common dodge). But hey, I watch Dateline, I keep track of these things, and most of the perpetrators have the dead-calm unsweating demeanour of a shark, their beady eyes expressing not a trace of human emotion. These are sociopaths who wil never admit they did ANYTHING wrong and who are, alarmingly, "gotten off" by fancy lawyers in too many cases. The lawyers often look just as sharklike and devoid of humanity (i.e. Drew Peterson's defense lawyer who eerily resembles him, his cold predatory eyes sunken into his expressionless face).

Remorseful? These guys? Give me a break. They love the attention. They go on national TV and pretend to cry, choking out "sorry" to the interviewer as if on cue. "I loved my wife! I loved her more than anything in the world!", etc., etc., etc.

Forgive THAT.

Maybe this forgiveness stuff is just a way of removing yourself from the whole mess. But doesn't it involve shutting down a huge amount of very human rage at being horribly violated? How does one do it? Can we see some followup, please - some honest interviews with people five years later? Are they at peace with themselves, do they feel OK about the perpetrator and the crime, do they still forgive and feel compassion for him/her?

I can't buy it, even though, ironically, there's a whole industry springing up about healing your various physical and emotional maladies by forgiving. The implication being that NOT forgiving is really at the root of your sickness (yet another lovely way to blame the victim - as if they needed more blame).

I don't know, historically I could not feel compassion for Adolf Hitler, nor could I feel it for someone who destroyed my life and didn't even feel any remorse. Personally, I think it's dangerous. If your father happens to have certain Drew Peterson tendencies, won't he take that as license to treat you like his own personal property?

If he is sexually violating you, aren't you indoctrinated to forgive him no matter what? ("Honor thy father and thy mother" just adds another layer of helplessness.)

Won't Daddy find a way to twist your religion around so it suits him? "What's the matter with you, why can't you forgive me, aren't you a good little Christian girl? Get over here."

If you have "forgiven" him like you are supposed to, how likely is it that you'll press charges against him? I'd say, nil. The two are mutually exclusive. But what if he finds someone else to abuse, destroys another life (which is almost certainly the case with abusers), and you realize you could have stopped him?

How Christian is that?

I want to say to these people who so readily forgive, be afraid. Be very afraid. You are laying yourself open to more sharks in this shark-infested world. There is blood in the water, and that blood may be yours. Protect yourself! Though this "I forgave him" thing is beginning to seem like yet another media-driven fad, it's less and less meaingful when it becomes a knee-jerk response, the "right" thing to say, or, worse, something you do to get Keith Morrison to praise your selflessness (though I have a feeling he'd see right through it). We live in an ever-more-narcissistic world, and because human beings are (indeed!) herd animals, most of us don't consciously know how much we are being affected by social trends.

The problem with forgiveness as a spiritual issue - and this is a huge one - is that the Bible doesn't tell you HOW to do it. People who attempt to literally practice Biblical precepts are often very, very uncomfortable with righteous anger, or, for that matter, any sort of anger at all. They prefer Gentle Jesus Meek and Mild to the scary cat who hurled over the moneychangers' tables (in public!) and chased away the sacrificial animals with a whip.

If you can find true forgiveness in your heart (and I might just be up for it if the perpetrator took total responsibility for what they did, fell down on their knees and begged me to), then that's great, and I wish you a happy Thanksgiving. But for God's sake, don't do it because "the Bible tells me so". Don't do it because misguided spiritual leaders or so-called friends say you "should" or "you really will feel better" (especially since so many people don't). If it doesn't come out of your own spiritual core (and if you don't know where that is, you are in big trouble), then it is fake - bogus - the kind of spiritual pretense that made Jesus bloody furious.

The Bible, powerful as it is for many people, is not "God", nor is it "Jesus". In fact, Jesus knew nothing about it in his lifetime because in its present form it didn't exist. It's a lens to look through, just a veil or shadow of an echo of great power that humans barely understand. Our tendency is to get hold of it and squeeze, or render it clunky and literal, perhaps because we are so afraid of it. But it's not a lucky rabbit's foot, nor can we manipulate its messages - or other people - by what the renegade prophet Bob Dylan once referred to as "strings of guilt".

If real forgiveness exists, and I'm not sure too many people are really up for it, it must be a much more dynamic process than the shallow, emotionally-dishonest variety I see in the media. Realistically, it would be a process that could take many years, and probably never be complete. But why must normal human feelings be considered so frightening that grave emotional debt somehow must be cancelled?

Why must wronged people, already aching and filled with outrage, be made to feel ashamed of themselves because they "should" forgive, and somehow can't manage it?

"I can't move on unless I forgive" is the mantra now, and it makes my hair stand on end. I can't move on unless I convince myself this person isn't to blame for destroying my life. The more I look at it, the more bizarre it all becomes.

To know all is to forgive all, and to be appalled by most of it.

Quentin Crisp, 1985

Friday, October 5, 2012

Kicked

My story is much too sad to be told,
But practically everything
Leaves me totally cold.

The only exception I know is the case
When I'm out on a quiet spree
Fighting vainly the old ennui
And I suddenly turn and see
Your fabulous face.

I get no kick from champagne
Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all
So tell me why should it be true

That I get a kick
Out of you

Some get a kick from cocaine
I'm sure that if I took even one sniff
That would bore me terrifically too

Yet I get a kick out of you

I get a kick every time I see you standing there before me
I get a kick though it's clear to me you obviously don't
Adore me

I get no kick in a plane
Flying too high
With some guy in the sky is my idea of nothing to do

Yet I get a kick
Out of you

(I really mean it)

Yes. . .

I

get

a

kick

out

of

you.

Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

It took me years to write, will you take a look

Order The Glass Character from:

Amazon
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Thistledown Press

http://www.thistledownpress.com/html/search/genre/Fiction/the_glass_character_p580.cfm

Chapters/Indigo
http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/the-glass-character/9781927068885-item.html?ikwid=the%

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Erotic collision: when Garland met Levant

If anyone doubts for an instant, for even a flea’s sneeze, that I am an obsessive, then hear ye and hark. Here comes another entry about Oscar Levant! Something about the man just hooks me, and it’s not altogether a comfortable feeling.

I have a horrible habit of sampling through books before I actually read them. It’s far worse than reading the ending of a murder mystery, for this involves sucking the marrow out of a book, vacuuming up the essence and thus insulting the author by claiming to know what’s in it, and whether or not it’s worth reading.

I have never, I mean NEVER done this with a review copy: I have always read every word, keeping in mind the golden rule. If a reviewer ever covered my work after a mere skim or a skipping dip, I’d be devastated. But when it’s my favourite form, the three-inch-thick, slightly skanky literary and/or Hollywood biography, I allow myself to abandon the sequential. I am a speedboat bumping along on the crests of exhilarating waves.

And in such a way am I bumping through this book. When I came across the passage in A Talent for Genius about Oscar Levant and Judy Garland, my heart beat a little faster. I can’t really reproduce these 2 1/2 delicious pages because it would violate every copyright ever invented. But I can describe it in my own words, and somehow I must! Oscar was in his early 30s and already a major celebrity as a concert pianist and radio personality. In various places in the book, women refer to him as “sexy”, “tender” and even “a wonderful lover”, so the big sloppy mug with the Walter Matthau looks must have had a thing or two up his pianist’s sleeve (or in the tips of his Gershwin-playing fingers).

It was even more surprising to learn just how readily he partook. Women, glamorous or otherwise, were there for the sampling, but he didn’t just sample. He devoured. Prostitutes were his first choice as a young man, with his rowdy older brothers actually dragging him off to a brothel to celebrate his bar mitzvah.

"Oscar was sexy," one of his conquests claimed, "and women instinctively knew he'd be good in bed. . . particularly if they were a little thwarted in that department with their husbands."

Along with other people's wives, he was drawn to actresses, gorgeous and glittery, many of them beautiful sexual predators. These were mere hors d’oevres to Levant, who no doubt enjoyed himself with them (and they with him!), but felt no real emotional attachment.

He was a Victorian sort of male in that he kept sex and love so widely separated that they barely inhabited the same planet. Eventually he married one of these glittery women and made it last 33 years, so let’s hope he got over the dichotomy enough to thrill her with those swift and talented fingertips.

Anyway, one day came a momentous encounter at the Capital Theatre in New York – don’t ask me where that is (New York, maybe?). Judy Garland was still in her protracted girlhood, her chest strapped down to play Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. But at 17, florid passions were beginning to bloom, and the first object of her romantic obsession was . . . Oscar Levant.

Yes. Oscar Levant, rumpled and gangsterish (and who wouldn’t love a man who strode down Fifth Avenue “hatless as usual, wearing Nick the Greek’s castoff overcoat”?), with his tragic eyes and lips that suggested all sorts of dirty orgasmic things: somehow this unlikely poet of Tin Pan Alley had attracted the attention of a dynamo, a girl already hurtling towards phenomenal stardom. When she sidled up to him and asked him, “What do you think of me?”, he quickly replied, “You’re enchanting.” “Don’t give me that! What do you really think of me?”

The two of them had instantly recognized something essential in each other: both of them were terminally insecure, with an incurable inner void that may have held the key to their magnetism. Still in her teens, Garland was a mere bud, and Levant must have known it, for he handled her passionate love letters and gale-force eyelash-batting with extreme care. ANY attention from him was welcome, obviously, but when she wrote to him confessing her undying passion and existential angst, he recommended certain books for her to read and music to listen to. Not exactly what she had in mind.

He must have believed that mentor was a safer role than lover for such a vulnerable creature, and of course he was right. In fact, they never did become lovers, but something better happened. I think this was a case of mutual fascination, something that went on for years and years. Their paths would cross again and again because they ran in the same circles. Which is to say, they did a lot of running around in circles and falling down. They’d salute each other on the way down, maybe trading a pill or two.

Thank God they never married. When he met the girlish bundle of insecurity that was Judy Garland, Oscar was already deeply involved with June Gale, his future wife, but was not above using Judy to create the aphrodisiac of jealousy. This helped June leap over the chasm of uncertainty about marrying such a walking dilemma.

Oh God, Garland and Levant! Am I the only one who has such trouble with them? They both lapsed into an awful sort of tawdry deterioration at the end of their lives. It was painful to watch. Garland kept dragging herself onto the stage, singing in a raucous parody of her early brilliance, while Levant mercifully withdrew, but with body and soul mangled, mental health completely ravaged. According to this book, there were times when he really was insane, howling his anguish in mental hospitals, hallucinating, and. . . I really can’t go on.

Life stinks. You know it does. If YOUR life doesn’t stink, then you are damn lucky. Would you want the sort of life these two had? Would you choose the life of ANY great artist, since so many of them are ripped apart by sharks, either internal (Levant) or external (Garland)? Why must it be that way? If I had a gun in my hand. . . but I don’t, and my life is boring and ordinary and I am spectacularly untalented. Perhaps it’s just as well.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

The evidence is here: Why Oscar Levant Wasn't Just a Crazy Person

Oh yes. Do you know why all this is happening? Three guesses. Because I can only cure one obsession by taking on another.

And why did I need to cure my obsession with Harold Lloyd? Three guesses. Absolutely no one wanted to publish my novel about him (The Glass Character),and my heart broke. It shattered. No matter how much I am bombarded with imperatives to epublish it, I can't buy it, I don't think I'd sell more than a couple dozen copies, if that. Just more discouragement. I have no idea how to promote it, and surely the market is flooded by now. As far as I know, there are no editorial standards for ebooks, similar to the paper self-published books I've seen (which so far have all been dreadful, just screaming for an editor). Around here, traditional publishers are so freaked out by the new forms that they won't go near you, so you will be basically stuck at that level. My paper books sold poorly enough, and I am not convinced sending it out into the ether would net me more than a few hundred at most. I could go on, but I won't.

Therefore the only way I can avoid major depression is to take up my next obsession, which I will NOT NOT NOT write a book about. I have promised myself, and I will stick to it.

Anyway, Oscar Levant, genius, creative polymath, crazy as a hoot owl (speaking of birds), and father of three beautiful daughters - wait! Could this be right?

Oscar Levant had a whole 'nother life besides the grumbling, Buster-Keaton-faced, piano-dextrous sidekick in innumerable movies. He was a chick magnet. I can't find a good photo of his first wife, but I know she was gorgeous in the plucked-eyebrow way women were back then (showbiz women, anyway). Once they split, he pursued singer/actress June Gale with obsessiveness and fervor, and it worked.

I get the feeling June Gale was one of these glamorous women who was tough as nails inside, and it was a good thing because she would gradually evolve into her husband's caregiver. Oscar would fall apart and drag himself up again over and over, until he took final refuge in his bed. I wonder if his wife had to go up to his bedroom 30 or 40 times a day to supply with him with coffee.

There is evidence, slim but fascinating, of this other life, a much happier one: dare I say it, almost normal? I only found a few photos of June Gale, but she is a knockout's knockout, dazzling even by Hollywood standards. Oscar wasn't exactly anyone's idea of handsome, but he had a "something", no one could figure out exactly what it was, some odd kind of charisma or tidal force that dragged people into his sphere of influence and wouldn't let them go.

He would come up to women and drape his arm around them and murmur to them in that distinctive low tough-guy voice, and they'd melt. These weren't necessarily affairs, but rather Levant experiments to see how far he could get: and he often got pretty far.

Anyway, on to his daughters. I found only a couple of poses, one in which Oscar receives a kiss from his eldest daughter with visible affection while holding the youngest rather awkwardly on his knee. Obviously happy, he DOES look handsome here. Fathers didn't get down on the floor then to play Lego or take their kids to the park in a stroller because such things didn't yet exist, but there is no doubt Oscar loved these girls and gave them all he had, all that his crippled, fragile, crushed but valiant heart could give them.

Oh, and this picture of the three girls - they all have the full lips and sleepy-lidded, haunting Levant eyes, and to be honest it looks a lot better on them. He has stamped them all with his crazy DNA, and one wonders what happened to them (though the biography claims they all went on to solid careers in different fields), whether they struggled the way he did to stay upright, to stem the force of his tidal despair.

So Oscar wasn't really alone, not at all, he had a beautiful and devoted family (with June fighting like a tiger to keep him out of the hideous cuckoo's- nest sanitariums of the day), but it didn't really save him. I find this incredibly sad. What would have saved him? I'm not sure. His meeting George Gershwin was the best and worst thing that ever happened to him: the bio quotes someone-or-other saying, "What makes you, unmakes you." Even after Gershwin's death at 38, Levant would forever walk in his shadow.

(Looking up something else, I found this little splash of delight about his disastrous purchase of a "summer house", in which he functioned about as well as Woody Allen on a game farm):

The transition to country gentleman was not an easy one. The quiet, the sound of crickets, the animals rustling through the underbrush at night were a torment to Levant. The first day in their new house, he went out to take his walk, as was his custom in the city. Almost as soon as he stepped out of doors he saw two black snakes undulating along a rock. Certain they were poisonous, he scuttled back into the house, where he remained for three days.

The next time he emerged, the sight of a hedgehog terrified him. Insects gave him anxiety attacks. Even birds, with their restless fluttering, upset him. Levant, his nerves already unraveling, found that the most anxiety-producing creature in all the woods was the hummingbird.

'The hummingbird is crazy,' he confided to the journalist Maurice Zolotow. 'I make that statement flatly. The hummingbird is psychotic. If there were psychiatry for birds, they would have to analyze every hummingbird.'