Finished reading John Lahr's biography of Tennessee Williams. Earlier this year read Penelope Niven's biography of Thornton Wilder. And Kristine and I listened to the audiobook of SOMETHING WONDERFUL, the double biography of Rodgers and Hammerstein. (Also, a few years back, read a massive biography of Eugene O'Neill.) Most of these people had lives I wouldn't have traded for, even for the glory of having written extraordinary plays.
Is there something about doing this for a living that gravitates one to lives of drink, depression and disappointment? No grand thoughts on this at the moment, but I suppose I should consider myself lucky that I'm not attached to the bottle and don't have the impulse to hurl myself out the window given the profession I embrace.
Autumnal thoughts have been crowding in lately. The deaths of old friends. Barbara Harris, Glen Roven, Carole Shelley. And watching others struggling with health issues. And looking on worried at friends now in their eighties. And, yes, facing another landmark decade in a couple of years.
Somebody put on some music and break out some lemonade.
