The Writer's Life 11/10 - French, Russian, American

Michel de Montaigne, 1533 – 1592, was one of the most significant philosophers of the French Renaissance, known for his skeptical remark which translates as "What do I know?" His ideas have influenced not only many authors but the field of psychology. I've just finished Selections from the Essays, a 135-page edition, perfect for lazy-bones like me. It is largely self-examination, something I've been doing since at least the age of 25, when I began writing. Philosophy is even a more difficult read for me these days than in the past. My mind wanders. I did get something important out the book, however, a thought that found itself into the novel I plan to self-publish in January: "Nothing is harder for me than to believe in men's consistency, nothing easier to believe in than their inconsistency..." I gave my adaptation of the line to the female protagonist, who is addressing the main character, her lover. I doubt it will change much from this: "Nobody's completely consistent - not even you, although you come ridiculously close. I may change my mind about all this ten to fifteen years from now. And why not? I'm allowed."

Last night I attended the wake of the best boss I ever had, affectionately known as Fat Joe, who rose to Floor Supervisor at the Commodity Exchange. He was a sweet guy who had a big heart. He knew the atmosphere was charged and often volatile, and that people occasionally went overboard in venting. He let me get away with behavior that easily could have gotten me fired. There were times I completely forgot I was low on the totem pole, and really ripped into a few brokers. They may have been jerks who deserved it, but I was out of line, no doubt my ego inflated by the fact that I was a college grad and a writer, albeit a failed one. Anyway, my fondest memory of Joe occurred away from the trading floor, on the softball field. During our three-year reign as Wall Street champs, he would often coach third, score-book and pen in hand. One game we were really rocking, scoring a bunch of runs, going first to third several times in a row. I was third in line. Although I was slow, I was a smart base-runner. When a grounder made its way into right-field, I knew where I was headed. The grounds were not maintained well. The ball would bounce erratically. There was a chance it would be bobbled momentarily. As I was sliding safely into third, I heard Joe laughing uproariously: "Hee, hee, hee." I'll never forget it. It captured his joie de vivre perfectly. His cousin, an lit' prof, delivered a wonderful eulogy that included commentary on their grandmother's atomic potato balls, which were served at the family's bi-monthly Sunday dinners. When the priest asked who'd had Joe as best man, several hands shot up. Here's a pic that also captures his personality perfectly. I took it with an old Instamatic in the mid 80's. Joe's holding the football. If it offends you, tough noogies.

Rest in peace, sir. Thank you.

Spasibo to the gentleman who reminds me of Nikita Khrushchev, who bought four books in Russian, and thanks also to the one who purchased Danielle Steel's Fine Things, claiming the author an easy read for someone of his immigrant background, which several people have remarked through the years; and to Lou, who donated three pictorials.

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