By Ned Rorem
A powerful number of essays, reviews, and reflections on existence, tradition, paintings, love, and music—always lyrical, witty, and openly provocative—from probably the most acclaimed modern American composersTime journal has referred to as Ned Rorem the world's top composer of artwork songs. yet his genius doesn't result in the world of classical song. Rorem has a unprecedented present for writing, in addition, and the large acclaim that has greeted his memoirs, essay collections, and released diaries attest to this truth. An Absolute reward is a cornucopia of Roremisms—essays, reports, and critiques on an unlimited array of interesting topics, from track to movie to drama to intercourse. the following are also candid diary entries, exhibiting the frankness and noteworthy perception for which Rorem is understood. even if he's lambasting or celebrating the world's nice musical works and their creators (and, in keeping with Stephen Sondheim, he's the most effective writers approximately tune that i've got ever read), providing intensely own musings on demise and love, or brilliantly dissecting the artist's craft, Ned Rorem is often attention-grabbing, regularly provocative, and drastically unique.
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Extra resources for Absolute Gift: A New Diary
You sure? Okay. ” With a little flounce, she turned over on her side. From the way she went about adjusting her pillow, plumping and re-plumping it, I could sense her acceptance of our situation, her growing contentment with it, and this only made me feel more wretched. Amazingly, while I was growing up, my hippie mother had gone through an Eastern religion phase, during which she’d compelled us all to practice Transcendental Meditation and listen to a guru named Baba Ram Dass. “Be here now,” he’d instructed.
People with their vacation photos. ” Claire looked at me sympathetically. Suddenly she clamped her hands over her mouth. ” I said. She shook her head back and forth like a horse breaking free of its bridle. Then she started laughing. “Oh, my God. ‘Let’s go to Bali. Let’s go to Philadelphia. ’ Suze, would you listen to us? What kind of wusses are we? ” Claire said. “Jet lag. And culture shock. The two of us are so exhausted and disoriented, we’re practically psychotic. So we’re getting freaked out.
When she wasn’t berating her housekeeper—whom she degradingly called “the domestic”—she’d sit back in a crushed velvet armchair with an enormous gin and tonic and speak glowingly of Trotsky. “You’re not a Communist, Ma,” my father would say with irritation. “You’re an alcoholic. ” Real Communists didn’t have country houses and tennis club memberships, he pointed out. Real Communists didn’t play the stock market. Luckily for me, though, my grandmother did. For a Bolshevik, she was somehow the only person in our family with any disposable income.
Absolute Gift: A New Diary by Ned Rorem