From Beware of Pity

So much depends upon “the so-called ‘chancery double,’” “a folded sheet of prescribed dimensions and format,” “perhaps the most indispensable requisite of the Austrian civil and military administration”:


Stefan Zweig, Beware of Pity, trans. Phyllis and Trevor Blewitt (New York: New York Review Books, 2006).

I would like to know what those “so-called ‘guides’” looked like. They likely bear little resemblance to the present-day shitajiki.

Related reading
All OCA Stefan Zweig posts (Pinboard)

NPR, sheesh

“. . . before expelling the same amount of British diplomats. . . .”

Related reading
All OCA sheesh posts (Pinboard)

C. & E.I. pencil

[From the Museum of Supplies.]

Great pencil!

Thanks. Your voice sounds familiar. As do your italics. I mean, your italics look familiar. Are you the same guy who interviewed me about my Illinois Central Railroad pencil?

Look — let me ask the questions, okay?

Okay.

So what can you tell me about this pencil?

Not much, really. It’s a gift from my friend and colleague John David Moore, who likes all things old. He’s an excellent pianist, and he and Elaine have been playing recitals together for years. He’s also an expert mycologist.

Shall we keep to the pencil?

Sure. John David —

The pencil?

— likes antiques stores and flea markets, so I suspect he found this pencil in one of them. C. & E.I. is the Chicago and Eastern Illinois Railroad, which ran from 1877 to 1976, from Chicago to St. Louis, southern Illinois, and Evansville, Indiana.

So you knew that all along and were holding out on me?

No, I had to look it up. But about the pencil. I like the sincerity of its motto: “Friendliness is a C. & E.I. tradition,” a motto that sharpens much better than, say, “Don’t use drugs.” And I like the numero sign before the numeral: № 1. And I like that it’s a № 1 pencil, a nice soft lead for the railroaders as they sit and drink coffee and write in their pocket notebooks.

What a cozy little scene. [Rolls eyes.] Sentimental fellow, aren’t you?

Yes and no. It’s really Elaine who’s the sentimentalist about train travel. You may wish to speak to her. Oh, and thanks, John David.

[This post is the eighteenth in a very occasional series, “From the Museum of Supplies.” Supplies is my word, and has become my family’s word, for all manner of stationery items. The museum is imaginary. The supplies are real. A bit of the dialogue in this post comes from Citizen Kane.]

Other Museum of Supplies exhibits
Dennison’s Gummed Labels No. 27 : Dr. Scat : Eagle Turquoise display case : Eagle Verithin display case : Esterbrook erasers : Faber-Castell Type Cleaner : Fineline erasers : Illinois Central Railroad Pencil : A Mad Men sort of man, sort of : Mongol No. 2 3/8 : Moore Metalhed Tacks : National’s “Fuse-Tex” Skytint : Pedigree Pencil : Pentel Quicker Clicker : Real Thin Leads : Rite-Rite Long Leads : Stanley carpenter’s rule

”Pencil by default”

From I, Daniel Blake (dir. Ken Loach, 2016). Blake (Dave Johns) is a Newcastle carpenter recovering from a heart attack and navigating a bureaucratic maze to attain his Employment and Support Allowance. A clerk tells Blake to complete the necessary paperwork online: “We’re digital by default.”

Blake’s reply: “Well, I'm pencil by default.”

Related reading
All OCA pencil posts (Pinboard)

Solitude and good company

I noticed this unattributed sentence in an advertisement for stationery: “Letter writing is the only device for combining solitude with good company.” It’s a Famous Quote.

But it’s not an accurate quotation. The sentence should read: “A letter is in fact the only device for combining solitude and good company.” Its writer: not Lord Byron but Jacques Barzun. Quote Investigator explains it all.

From my dad’s CDs

I’m still making my way through my dad’s CDs: Julian “Cannonball” Adderley, Ivie Anderson, Louis Armstrong, Fred Astaire, Mildred Bailey, Count Basie, Tony Bennett, Art Blakey, Ruby Braff and Ellis Larkins, Clifford Brown, Dave Brubeck, Joe Bushkin, Hoagy Carmichael, Betty Carter, Ray Charles, Charlie Christian, Rosemary Clooney, Nat “King” Cole, John Coltrane, Bing Crosby, Miles Davis, Matt Dennis, Doris Day, Blossom Dearie, Paul Desmond, Tommy Dorsey, Billy Eckstine, Duke Ellington, Bill Evans, Gil Evans, Ella Fitzgerald, Judy Garland, Erroll Garner, Stan Getz, Dizzy Gillespie, Benny Goodman, Stéphane Grappelli, Bobby Hackett, Coleman Hawkins, Woody Herman, Earl Hines, Billie Holiday, Lena Horne, Dick Hyman, Harry James, Hank Jones, Louis Jordan, Stan Kenton, Barney Kessel, Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross, Peggy Lee, Mary Ann McCall, Susannah McCorkle, Dave McKenna, Ray McKinley, Marian McPartland, Johnny Mercer, Helen Merrill, Glenn Miller, the Modern Jazz Quartet, Thelonious Monk, Wes Montgomery, Gerry Mulligan, Red Norvo, Anita O’Day, Charlie Parker, Joe Pass, Art Pepper, Oscar Peterson, Bud Powell, Boyd Raeburn, Django Reinhardt, Marcus Roberts, Sonny Rollins, Jimmy Rushing, Catherine Russell, the Sauter-Finegan Orchestra, Artie Shaw, George Shearing, Horace Silver, Frank Sinatra, Paul Smith, Jeri Southern, Jo Stafford, and now, Art Tatum.

My favorite Tatum performances are the ones made outside a recording studio. Some appear on God Is in the House (HighNote Records), a collection of 1940–1941 recordings made mostly in Harlem after-hours clubs. (I gave my dad that CD years ago. A friend now has it.) Other informal recordings appear on the more upscale Piano Discoveries, two LPs’ worth of 1950 and 1955 performances from the Beverly Hills home of Ray Heindorf, musical director for Warner Brothers. It’s a joy to hear Tatum joking, deflecting requests, commenting on his host’s piano, and playing like he means it.

My dad had the Discoveries LPs (20th Century Fox) when I was a boy. The CD reissue 20th Century Piano Genius (Verve), now out of print, includes further unreleased material, and ample liner notes in which pianists Hank Jones, Adam Makowicz, and Lou Stein attempt to wrap their heads around Tatum’s genius.

Here, via YouTube, are two (unembeddable) recordings from the Discoveries: “Moon Song” (Arthur Johnston–Sam Coslow) and “Would You Like to Talk a Walk?”/“After You’ve Gone” (Harry Warren–Mort Dixon–Billy Rose/Turner Layton–Henry Creamer). They speak for themselves.

 
[The 1961 LPs, as seen on the Internets. I recognize the mid-century design from childhood.]

I’m nearing the end of the alphabet. But I’m far from the end of the music: T also stands for Mel Tormé.

Also from my dad’s CDs
Mildred Bailey : Tony Bennett : Charlie Christian : Blossom Dearie : Duke Ellington : Coleman Hawkins : Billie Holiday : Louis Jordan : Charlie Parker : Jimmy Rushing : Artie Shaw : Frank Sinatra

YouTube apps for Mac

Two free apps for Mac: 4K YouTube to MP3, for “audio extraction from YouTube, VEVO, SoundCloud, and Facebook in MP3, M4A, OGG.” And 4K Video Downloader, for “downloading videos, playlists, channels and subtitles from YouTube, Facebook, Vimeo, and other video sites.”

I like the idea of paying for music that’s commercially available. But if it’s, say, Duke Ellington and Paul Gonsalves playing “Happy Reunion” at the University of Wisconsin’s 1972 Ellington festival, I will download. Websites that offer to convert or download YouTube material are often at least mildly sketchy. These apps are a better choice.

From the Saturday Stumper

A nice clue from the Newsday Saturday Stumper: 18-Across, nine letters, “Taken a great deal.” INWIDEUSE? No. And no spoilers. The answer is in the comments.

Today’s puzzle is by “Anna Stiga,” or Stan Again, Stan Newman, the puzzle’s editor. The pseudonym is meant to signal an easier Saturday. But for me, this puzzle was difficult. Finishing the Saturday Stumper is still cause for minor self-congratulation.

Day jobs

From an essay by Katy Waldman, “Does Having a Day Job Mean Making Better Art?,” a glimpse of Philip Glass at work:

“While working,” Glass recounted to The Guardian in 2001, “I suddenly heard a noise and looked up to find Robert Hughes, the art critic of Time magazine, staring at me in disbelief. ‘But you’re Philip Glass! What are you doing here?’ It was obvious that I was installing his dishwasher and I told him that I would soon be finished. ‘But you are an artist,’ he protested. I explained that I was an artist but that I was sometimes a plumber as well and that he should go away and let me finish.”

Mailboxes of Seattle

Behold Mailboxes of Seattle, David Peterman’s photographs of Seattle’s 346 — no, make that 347 — mailboxes.

My little town has just ten mailboxes — no, make that eleven, if you count the one that appears on no map but which our carrier has assured us is genuine. We’ve yet to risk it.

Looking at these photographs makes me think of the most important mailbox in my life, one that stood at the bleak semi-industrial intersection of Ashford and Malvern Streets in the Allston neighborhood of Boston. In my first year in Boston, that mailbox was my primary connection to friends back in the Bronx. (Phone calls were expensive.) I’d walk out at night to mail a letter and think about messages in bottles. The loneliness of the long-distance mailbox.

[Via Atlas Obscura. The Allston mailbox still stands, though its surroundings are less bleak, less industrial.]