Message-ID: <Pine.NEB.4.64.1003220436050.8588@panix3.panix.com>
From: Alan Sondheim <sondheim@panix.com>
To: Cyb <cybermind@listserv.aol.com>, Wryting-L <WRYTING-L@listserv.wvu.edu>
Subject: Michael, who I never knew
Date: Mon, 22 Mar 2010 04:36:20 -0400 (EDT)
Michael, who I never knew Michael Benedikt and George E. Wellwarth edited Modern French Theatre: The Avant-Garde, Dada, and Surrealism. I recently bought a used copy of the book, first edition. It might have been Benedikt's first book. There's an author's signature on the title page, and an inscription inside the front cover: for Mother dear and F.F. with thanks for the right genes, Michael Michael Benedikt was born in 1935 and died in 2007. I didn't know him. There is something uncanny about the inscription. Michael Benedikt lived 72 years. I think perhaps he gave this to his mother with a sense of pride; he was 29. I think to myself: He gave this book to his mother and F.F., perhaps a father. His mother and perhaps F.F. died, and Michael inherited. It would have been sad for the book to be returned to him, after a temporary journey of pride and happiness. And then Michael died and someone, perhaps a wife or other relative, sold or gave away some of his books, perhaps all of them, and this was one of them. And so Modern French Theater ends up in Adam Tobin's book-store, coming from somewhere, somewhere unknown, perhaps untraceable, and I am reading and learning a great deal, revisiting some old friends, playwrights within. I fear death, death dominates me; I am constantly fighting off depression as best I can. As we run out of money, depression and stress increase. And I think: soon this book will be passed on, and I am less than a silent witness to its passing. So perhaps this is the singing of a solitary and mournful note, so that its passing will be remembered. And perhaps this will be forgotten as well.