No Need For Verbosity Or Unnecessary Vocabulary Like Verbosity

I recently wrapped up Steve Martin’s Born Standing Up and have to say it was a wonderful look into important years of his life.

One fun connection for me was that Mr. Martin studied philosophy in college and he even mentioned Continental Rationalism and Symbolic Logic courses in the book. Those of you paying any attention to this blog know that I am somewhat versed in both and have been known to point out Leibnitz motifs in our modern world, especially the best of all possible worlds in relation to suffering.

Now what brought me to Born Standing Up was research into memoirs as I write my own. I began with Bill Byrson’s The Life and Times of The Thunderbolt Kid. I’m taking memoir recommendations so feel free.

Both writers share a very concise approach with no need for verbosity or unnecessary vocabulary like verbosity. And both are very funny. Now truth be told, though the Martin book is about his foray into and departure from stand-up comedy, it is mostly about his process and also the business of comedy, much of which is very pedestrian…like a job. Who woulduh thunk it? Bryson’s book, while about growing up in the 50’s, was laugh out-loud funny.

But, both books made me think; Bryson about the incredible advance of the country post WWII but also about the unknown fallout from some of our own nuclear testing, especially the Bikini Atoll and Martin about the importance of early performance experience (he performed magic tricks from a very early age) and the importance of music as it relates to the imagination. As an aside, my father who picked up the banjo as his very first instrument and who could play the ubiquitous Foggy Mountain Breakdown, conveyed to me that Steve’s banjo playing on The Crow: New Songs for the 5-String Banjo was really groundbreaking and incredible.

But gogdammit! Both books made me wistful. What the fuck is it with me and wistfulness?

A passage from each for you:

“I was alone with him in the bedroom; his mind was alert but his body was failing. He said, almost buoyantly, “I’m ready now.” I sat on the edge of the bed, and another silence fell over us. Then he said, “I wish I could cry, I wish I could cry.”
                At first I took this as a comment on his condition but am forever thankful that I pushed on. “What do you want to cry about?” I said.
                “For all the love I received and couldn’t return.”
                I felt a chill of familiarity.
                There was another lengthy silence as we looked into each other’s eyes. At last he said, “You did everything I wanted to do.”
                “I did it for you,” I said. Then we wept for the lost years. I was glad I didn’t say the more complicated truth: “I did it because of you.”

I was waiting only for the moment when I was invited to step up to the toy box and make a selection.
                When that moment came, it took forever to decide. Every little package looked so perfect and white, so ready to be enjoyed. Eventually, I chose an item of middling size and weight, which I dared to shake lightly. Something inside rattled and sounded as if it might be die cast. I took it to my seat and carefully unwrapped it. It was a miniature doll – an Indian boy in a papoose, beautifully made but patently for a girl. I returned with it and its disturbed packaging to the slightly backward-looking fellow who was in charge of the toy box.
                “I seem to have got a doll,” I said, with something approaching an ironic chuckle.
                He looked at it carefully. “That’s surely a shame because you only git one try at the gift box.”
                “Yes, but it’s a doll, I said. “For a girl.”
                “Then you’ll just have to git you a little girlfriend to give it yo, won’tcha?” he answered and gave me a toothy grin and an unfortunate wink.
                Sadly, those were the last words the poor man ever spoke. A moment later he was just a small muffled shriek and a smoldering spot on the carpet.
                Too late he had learned an important lesson. You really should never fuck with the Thunderbolt Kid.