Interesting passage from the novel The Magus by John Fowles...
MrEureka
Posts: 24,419 ✭✭✭✭✭
Interesting, especially for us collectors...
He led the way into the room, which ran the whole width of the house. Books lined three walls. At one end there was a green-glazed tile stove under a mantelpiece on which stood two bronzes, one a modern one. Above them was a life-size reproduction of a Modigliani, a fine portrait of a somber woman in black against a glaucous green background.
He sat me in an armchair, sorted through some scores, found the one he wanted; began to play, short, chirrupy little pieces, then some elaborately ornamented courantes and passacaglias. I didn't much like them, but I realized he played with some mastery. He might be pretentious in other ways, but he was not posing at the keyboard. He stopped abruptly, in midpiece, as if a light had fused; pretention began again.
"Voilà."
"Very nice." I determined to stamp out the French flu before it spread. "I've been admiring that." I nodded at the reproduction.
"Yes?" We went and stood in front of it. "My mother."
For a moment I thought he was joking.
"Your mother?"
"In name. In reality, it is his mother. It was always his mother." I looked at the woman's eyes; they hadn't the usual fishlike pallor of Modigliani eyes. They stared, they watched, they were simian. I also looked at the painted surface. With a delayed shock I realized I was not looking at a reproduction.
"Good Lord. It must be worth a fortune."
"No doubt." He spoke without looking at me. "You must not think that because I live simply here I am poor. I am very rich." He said it as if "very rich" was a nationality; as perhaps it is. I stared at the picture again. I think it was the first time I had seen a really valuable modern picture hanging in a private house. "It cost me... nothing. And that was charity. I should like to say that I recognized his genius. But I did not. No one did. Not even the clever Mr. Zborowski."
"You knew him?"
"Modigliani? I met him. Many times. I knew Max Jacob, who was a friend of his. That was in the last year of his life. He was quite famous by then. One of the sights of Montparnasse."
I stole a look at Conchis as he gazed up at the picture; he had, by no other logic than that of cultural snobbery, gained a whole new dimension of social respectability for me, and I began to feel much less sure of his eccentricity and his phoniness, of my own superiority in the matter of what life was really about.
"You must wish you bought more from him."
"I did."
"You still own them?"
"Of course. Only a bankrupt would sell beautiful paintings. They are in my other houses." I stored away that plural; one day I would mimic it to someone.
"Where are your... other houses?"
"Do you like this?" He touched the bronze of a young man beneath the Modigliani. "This is a maquette by Rodin. My other houses. Well. In France. In the Lebanon. In America. I have business interests all over the world." He turned to the other characteristically skeletal bronze. "And this is by the Italian sculptor Giacometti."
I looked at it, then at him. "I'm staggered. Here on Phraxos."
"Why not?"
"Thieves?"
"If you have many valuable paintings, as I have — I will show you two more upstairs later — you make a decision. You treat them as what they are — squares of painted canvas. Or you treat them as you would treat gold ingots. You put bars on your windows, you lie awake at night worrying. There." He indicated the bronzes. "If you want, steal them. I shall tell the police, but you may get away with them. The only thing you will not do is make me worry."
"They're safe from me."
"And on Greek islands, no thieves. But I do not like everyone to know they are here."
"Of course."
He led the way into the room, which ran the whole width of the house. Books lined three walls. At one end there was a green-glazed tile stove under a mantelpiece on which stood two bronzes, one a modern one. Above them was a life-size reproduction of a Modigliani, a fine portrait of a somber woman in black against a glaucous green background.
He sat me in an armchair, sorted through some scores, found the one he wanted; began to play, short, chirrupy little pieces, then some elaborately ornamented courantes and passacaglias. I didn't much like them, but I realized he played with some mastery. He might be pretentious in other ways, but he was not posing at the keyboard. He stopped abruptly, in midpiece, as if a light had fused; pretention began again.
"Voilà."
"Very nice." I determined to stamp out the French flu before it spread. "I've been admiring that." I nodded at the reproduction.
"Yes?" We went and stood in front of it. "My mother."
For a moment I thought he was joking.
"Your mother?"
"In name. In reality, it is his mother. It was always his mother." I looked at the woman's eyes; they hadn't the usual fishlike pallor of Modigliani eyes. They stared, they watched, they were simian. I also looked at the painted surface. With a delayed shock I realized I was not looking at a reproduction.
"Good Lord. It must be worth a fortune."
"No doubt." He spoke without looking at me. "You must not think that because I live simply here I am poor. I am very rich." He said it as if "very rich" was a nationality; as perhaps it is. I stared at the picture again. I think it was the first time I had seen a really valuable modern picture hanging in a private house. "It cost me... nothing. And that was charity. I should like to say that I recognized his genius. But I did not. No one did. Not even the clever Mr. Zborowski."
"You knew him?"
"Modigliani? I met him. Many times. I knew Max Jacob, who was a friend of his. That was in the last year of his life. He was quite famous by then. One of the sights of Montparnasse."
I stole a look at Conchis as he gazed up at the picture; he had, by no other logic than that of cultural snobbery, gained a whole new dimension of social respectability for me, and I began to feel much less sure of his eccentricity and his phoniness, of my own superiority in the matter of what life was really about.
"You must wish you bought more from him."
"I did."
"You still own them?"
"Of course. Only a bankrupt would sell beautiful paintings. They are in my other houses." I stored away that plural; one day I would mimic it to someone.
"Where are your... other houses?"
"Do you like this?" He touched the bronze of a young man beneath the Modigliani. "This is a maquette by Rodin. My other houses. Well. In France. In the Lebanon. In America. I have business interests all over the world." He turned to the other characteristically skeletal bronze. "And this is by the Italian sculptor Giacometti."
I looked at it, then at him. "I'm staggered. Here on Phraxos."
"Why not?"
"Thieves?"
"If you have many valuable paintings, as I have — I will show you two more upstairs later — you make a decision. You treat them as what they are — squares of painted canvas. Or you treat them as you would treat gold ingots. You put bars on your windows, you lie awake at night worrying. There." He indicated the bronzes. "If you want, steal them. I shall tell the police, but you may get away with them. The only thing you will not do is make me worry."
"They're safe from me."
"And on Greek islands, no thieves. But I do not like everyone to know they are here."
"Of course."
Andy Lustig
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
0
Comments
Everything is relative. Now, show us a sample of your writing.
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
I give away money. I collect money.
I don’t love money . I do love the Lord God.
Unfortunately, like I said, everything is relative.
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
<< <i> DRIVEL
Everything is relative. Now, show us a sample of your writing. >>
I already did.
<< <i>DRIVEL >>
wtf?
I could see Anthony Quinn delivering those lines.
Apropos of the coin posse/aka caca: "The longer he spoke of his honor, the tighter I held to my purse."
Everything is relative. Now, show us a sample of your writing. >>
I already did.
As I thought.
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
It'll never happen.
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
No problem here.
Mr. Eureka, that is one of my favorite novels.
Someday, perhaps, someone will explain the ending for me.
Thanks for the intermission.
"Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working" Pablo Picasso
Apropos of the coin posse/aka caca: "The longer he spoke of his honor, the tighter I held to my purse."
It's funny. I read it 25 years ago and barely remember it, but that one passage stuck with me. For obvious reasons.
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
Wow!
Now, imagine if I set my mind to selling coins...
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
The upcoming offering of the Garrett-Partrick Brasher Doubloon just reminded me of this passage, and this thread. Still love it!
Doggedly collecting coins of the Central American Republic.
Visit the Society of US Pattern Collectors at USPatterns.com.
A very very weird book.
I don't share your enthusiasm for it but that's what makes us all different....
Walter Magus?
Interesting... have not read that book.... will add it to my stack....Cheers, RickO
You have a good memory.
Funny, I just heard about this book for the first time two days ago.
Proof Buffalo Registry Set
Capped Bust Quarters Registry Set
Proof Walking Liberty Halves Registry Set
Thank you for that. I love that novel.
Time for a re-read.
"Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working" Pablo Picasso
Thanks for the break...Palette-cleansing mental stimulation.
This place is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you'll find.
Haven't read the book but the parallel universe is as clear as glass.
``https://ebay.us/m/KxolR5