A surprising treat of a book (2/14/04)

How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not “the thing with feathers.” The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich — Woody Allen

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I have a few books on the shelf I haven’t read. Once in a while I order the “come-on offer” to join a book club — you know, four books and the promise to buy two or three in the next two years, all for a dollar plus tax. It seems like such a bargain, and it is. However, I occasionally take a chance on a book in the lot I know nothing about and am often disappointed in it. One one of those occasions I chose a book by Woody Allen. I hadn’t read anything by him, and haven’t seen any of his movies. In fact, he has never interested me.

I opened the book a few times while seeking something to read, read a page or two, and put it back in favor of something else. To be truthful, what I read in those sneak previews made little sense to me. Fantasy isn’t my favorite thing. I decided to try it one more time and then put it in a rummage sale.

Last week’s snow and ice provided me with the time to spare to give Woody Allen one more chance.

The book is a collection of articles he wrote for The New Yorker, Playboy, The New Republic, Kenyon Review and others. None of which were on my coffee table.

I started reading it half-heartedly a couple of times, then finally with determination. I wasn’t far into the book until I was hooked. The man has to be a genius to write nonsense so skillfully. I tried to compose a passage of my own in a similar vein and realized that finding just the right, clever, off-the-subject sentence was next to impossible.

The following are some random short statements from the book:

•Thought: Why does man kill? He kills for food. And not only for food; frequently there must be a beverage.

•Today I saw a red-and-yellow sunset and thought how insignificant I am. Of course, I thought that yesterday, and it rained. I was overcome with self-loathing and contemplated suicide again — this time by inhaling next to an insurance salesman.

•The lion and the calf shall lie down together, but the calf won’t get much sleep.

•The wicked at heart probably know something.

•Had coffee with Melnick today. He talked to me about his idea of having all government officials dress like hens.

•It is impossible to experience one’s own death objectively and still carry a tune.

•The universe is merely a fleeting idea in God’s mind — a pretty uncomfortable thought, particularly if you’ve just made a down payment on a house.

•Not only is there no God, but try getting a plumber on weekends.

I liked the chapter on obesity, entitled, “Notes from the Overfed (after reading Dostoevski and the new Weight Watchers magazine on the same plane trip).”

After reading Allen for an hour or so I have the temptation to end a perfectly normal conversation with a remark off in space such as, “If the head is under X-ray for several hours it is difficult to blink the eyes in union.”

I don’t feel especially enlightened after reading Woody Allen, or that I have come away with new knowledge, but it has been an amusing, refreshing break in an otherwise dull day.

Woody Allen was a stand-up comic in 1964-65. His style was “uniquely neurotic with a New York sensibility. he had a self-deprecating, awkward style that defined him in the eyes of the movie public.”

He wrote for “The Show of Shows,” but became bored with it. He produced and wrote several movies, among them “Annie Hall,” “Take the Money and Run,” and “Hannah and Her Sisters.”

I would recommend that if you own an unopened copy of “Without Feathers,” “Getting Even” or “Side Effects” by Woody Allen that you read it. If you can pick it up at the library, do so, but if you have to buy it at today’s price of $15 in paperback, don’t. Waiting your turn in the line at the library will save you at least that much or more.

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