‘Are you all right?’ the daughter asked, standing in the entrance to light her cigarette.

‘I’m OK,’ the mother replied, sitting at the table. ‘I’ve been thinking about things, that’s all. I’ll get through.’

‘Thinking’s fine,’ the daughter said. ‘Dwelling’s something else.’

‘That’s true.’

I’ve taken to using my mobile to jot things down in public. I used to use a notebook but in recent years people are more suspicious of notebooks, pens, recording equipment, where the mobile is ever present, always in someone’s hand, the innocent bystander.

Some things are written down and others forgotten. Forgetting is a failure of memory. We make lists (we write) in order to remember. Technology comes to our aid, it allows us to separate out those pieces of experience we want to remember from everything else we are willing to let go.

A single man enters the courtyard, middle-aged, balding, overweight, blotchy. The mother knows him and her countenance brightens. ‘We’re going to see each other later,’ he says. Some kind of get together, most likely. A drinking party? I can’t imagine a lovers’ liaison.

‘We certainly are,’ she says.

‘Don’t forget.’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘We have to go now,’ the daughter tells him.

‘Just a swift one, this,’ the mother explains, finishing her pint, getting to her feet.

He brings a drink from the bar and sits behind me on the top of three stone steps. ‘The mountings,’ he says.

I half turn to confirm he’s speaking to me.

‘These steps,’ he says. ‘Called the mountings. This was a coaching inn, way back, and the steps were for people to climb into the coach.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘Before that it was a pigsty,’ he said. ‘And they used it as a market to sell chickens. Fifteen hundred and something, medieval. Think about that.’

He went back to his ale.

I went back to my mobile.

I wrote:
‘Writing is a struggle against silence,’ something I’d read in the work of Carlos Fuentes.

When I got to my feet the man on the step said, ‘Watch how you go.’

*

Silence is knowing: like in this poem by John Haines:

Poem of the Forgotten

I came to this place,
a young man green and lonely.

Well quit of the world,
I framed a house of moss and timber,
called it a home,
and sat in the warm evenings
singing to myself as a man sings
when he knows there is no one to hear.

I made my bed under the shadow
of leaves, and awoke
in the first snow of autumn,
filled with silence.

Back in March 2007 I posted a review of the same play with Jessica Lange in the starring role, and it was interesting and instructive to compare and contrast the differences in the two productions.

In Lange’s case one could really believe she was a faded beauty. She certainly believed it herself and the possibility of receiving 27 gentlemen callers in one day didn’t seem to stretch the point too far. With Blethyn’s portrayal, so many gentlemen in one day was a remote possibility, or, rather, a creative act of the imagination. Lange had looked after herself as much as possible, whereas Blethyn was quite content to pad around the flat in a worn old dressing gown. On the other hand Blethyn is interesting to watch and, especially, to listen to. She makes extraordinary sounds. Sounds of sympathy or incredulity which come from somewhere towards the back of her throat, a kind of vocal interrogation chamber where words are put to the rack and meaning squeezed out of them.

One has to wonder if so many revivals of the play (there was another one up in Edinburgh last month) are coming because America once again resembles Tom Wingfield’s opening remarks about the thirties when the huge middle class of America was matriculating in a school for the blind. The coming election where all candidates are lying through their teeth and the series of denials about the real effects of Iraq, Afghanistan, Guantanamo, gun control.

Because, although The Glass Menagerie concentrates its focus on one family, we are left in no doubt that Williams’ is concerned, by extension, with the community which was also his life. And this one family, the Wingfields, tell each other and themselves, lies all the time.

There are no clear victims or victors here. Each family member is complicit in locking himself or herself into the rigid web of the family. Each of them needs to be exactly as they are in order to maintain their own position and to support the position of the others. The almost terminally shy and crippled Laura has made the same decisions as her mother and brother and forfeited (as far as any audience is concerned) her special claim to pity. We only pity her as much as we pity her brother or her mother.

In the final analyses none of them can escape their chains. Tom runs away but is still tightly bound in his mind: Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be! I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger — anything that can blow your candles out! . . . For nowadays the world is lit by lightening! Blow out your candles, Laura...

A tremendous production, really enjoyable. And although Brenda Blethyn stands out, the cast has a real feeling of ensemble about it. The language, the language . . . is magical . . . it lifts you out of your seat and pushes, pulls and cajoles you around the gamut of possible emotions.

The picture shows Brenda Blethyn as Amanda Wingfield and Emma Hamilton as Laura Wingfield.

This’s not how I’d do and I never left this place to do nothing. Not me. I’d sure ‘member something like that. I’m not going down for something like that. I’m clean in this respect.

Permission to speak, sir?

Some other guy might’ve but I wasn’t the one done this and that’s the truth. Somebody done point the finger at me to cover their own tracks. Might be I’ve got more mash than him or extra gravy, something, I don’t know if it was that or something else. Something he got in his head pointing me out but it’s a lie ’cause I never went near that. Not even thinking. Not me. You can say what you like. It’s not me going down. I wasn’t the one there. I’m not interested in that.

I might’ve thunk it. Permission to speak, sir?

Any soldier can think a thing like that in a dream. I’m on sentry or something and my brain’s working on by itself. But I wouldn’t've left my post for it. And I ain’t been off this post in weeks. I’m working here and sleepin’ and eatin’ and buffing and dreamin’ and when I have to go out over the wall I’m puttin’ my life on the line and sometimes getting back and being suprised I’m still breathi’ but that’s all I’m doing. Reading letters sometime from back home. Being punished one way or another. Keepin’ my nose clean, trying to. So it wasn’t me. No, sir. I’m the one didn’t do that. Not me.

Anyone say different he’s a liar. Should say his prayers. Wash his mouth out with soap. Talkin’ lies. Middle of a war an all.

Permission to speak, sir?

OK. It can come into a guy’s head. That stuff. Listen to the others talk, how they at it all the time. An if there’s plenty liquor and she’s begging me and whispering in my ear and smellin’ sweet an everyone’s saying the next time we go over there we’re not coming back. It could happen then but I ain’t admitting nothing ’cause there’s no memory of it or any names and I’d sure ‘member a thing like that if it happened to me.

If it’s a sin, whatever. I don’t care what they call it, that’s not what I’m saying. It’s not a question about me. It’s a question about somebody else.

Permission to speak, sir?

I don’t mind taking a bullet. I’m not arguing for it, cause no one wants a bullet. But if the bullet’s coming for a man that’s what he’s gonna get. There’s plenty of men with a bullet had their name on it and even if you’re ducking and weaving that bullet’s gonna keep on coming till it makes itself at home. Guys on the field with their mouth open and that startled look. Flutterin’ eyes. Sometimes dead and dyin’ and there’s no blood.

No, sir. Wasn’t this soldier. Other things I done I’ll stand up and take the rap. This thing wasn’t on my tab.

Permission to speak, sir?

I might’ve agreed to it or not. I don’t have no memory. I don’t know her face, sir, or her name. I don’t know how she knows my name. Five foot two don’t mean nothing. Fair hair. Nobody said nothing about getting pregnant. If somebody’d said something about getting pregnant it would never’ve happened. Not with no female. Not on my watch. What we were saying was all through the liquor and we should have some fun one time before we die. That’s no way to die and still be a virgin like some of those guys we bring in. Bodies not been anywhere or done anything ‘cept with their folks. They got mud on their faces and might’ve shot somebody and been to school and never seen a woman. And now they’re not gonna. The train’s left the station and they’re not on board.

Permission to speak, sir? It couldda been me I suppose. Couldda been any of us. We all in the same boat.

No, sir, that is not an admission, sir. No way. Not me. I’m sure. That’s the one thing I can say I’m sure.

Joseph’s crippling post-traumatic stress comes from an incident that happened during his time in the army in Ireland. The event itself may not have been traumatic to another soldier. Someone was killed, but only during the normal course of duty. There was no bomb involved, no massacre, not even the death of an innocent. A more or less average day at a border patrol meant Joseph had to pull the trigger to save the life of a comrade.

This novel revisits, in some measure, the themes of Seiffert’s previous work, particularly her take on guilt. But although it is a study in the mechanics of post-traumatic stress syndrome, it also addresses the topic of memory.

Joseph’s memory is ambiguous to say the least. He does not seem able to remember what happened, who he was before the trauma, nor who he is supposed to be to his girlfriend, Alice, or to his sister or parents or friends.

His single obsession, although ostensibly the frightening thing that happened to him, is, in reality, himself. Because of this self-obsession he can no longer relate to anyone else with any degree of reality. Because he fears he will run out of control he can no longer tolerate the existence of others around him. He reaches out to them from time to time, but any or no response is liable to see him overwhelmed with rage.

This is a competent novel, perhaps a courageous one. But after the bright promise of the Booker shortlisted The Dark Room(2001), it is ultimately disappointing.

You write in your book about Montaigne, who confessed to having a poor memory and to forgetting about books he himself had written. Which leads you to ask: If we read a book and forget that we read it, is that the same as never having read it?

I think between reading and nonreading there is an indeterminate space that is quite important, a space where you have books you have skimmed, books you have heard about and books you have forgotten. You don’t have to feel guilty about it.

These things are even more true when they happen in the middle of the night. For then, if you forgot to bring the notebook to bed with you, you have to get out of bed, go downstairs, switch on the light, find the notebook and get whatever it was came to you into the notebook. OK, there’s a slim chance if you don’t do this you’ll still remember it in the morning, but do you want to take a chance like that?

This is from my notebook:

A teacher in the local arts college told me about asking her new intake of students what were the three best and worst things in the world. One of the young guys told her:

The best three things in the world: cakes, my girlfriend, and television.

And the worst three: death, sprouts, and opera.

You see? Without the notebook I could have lost that.

I turn back time. I reverse it to that quaint period, the thirties, when the huge middle class of America was matriculating in a school for the blind. Their eyes failed them, or they had failed their eyes.

Tom Wingfield’s opening monologue

Rupert Goold’s staging at the Apolo theatre is a faithful adaptation of Williams’ masterpiece, often referred to as a ‘memory’ play. Amanda Hale, Jessica Lange, Ed Stoppard and Mark Umbers come together wonderfully in the series of dream-like scenes which make up the play.

Set in St Louis in the depression years, The Glass Menagerie presents us with Amanda Wingfield (Lange), the mother whose husband fell in love with long-distance and disappeared into it; Laura (Hale), her crippled and psychologically fragile daughter; Tom (Stoppard) the son who spends every evening at the movies and dreams of following his father into long-distance; and Jim(Umbers), the gentleman-caller who offers hope and, in spite of himself, delivers despair.

The Glass Menagerie tackles the problems of flawed memory, of unfulfilled dreams and the way that families conspire to trap each other within the web of the familial, while at the same time insulating themselves against the ultimate disappointment of the others. Rich in symbolism and metaphor, Williams’ script revolves around a series of abandonments, at one and the same time mirroring the experience of his central male character and of the playwright himself.

The writing, the production, and each member of the cast are memorable. Jessica Lange and Amanda Hale stand out, but that is to take nothing away from the others. This is a real treat.

The production continues until the 19th May, but don’t leave it too long, you might want to go again.

This post refers to another version of the same play

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.

*

*