Cosi Fan Tutte (Opera) by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart; libretto by Lorenzo Da Ponte; production concept by Phelim
McDermott; stage design by Tom Pye; starring Amanda Majeski, Serena Malfi, Kelli O’Hara, Ben Bliss, Adam Plachetka,
Christopher Maltman; conducted by David Robertson; Metropolitan Opera and Chorus; HD Live Transmission, March 31, 2018.
This was the only Met HD Live Transmission that I was determined to catch this year. My reason for wanting to see it –
apart from the fact that any Mozart opera is a must-see – was the modernized production. Among the Met’s contemporary
adaptations, I found LaTraviata superb and Rigoletto very good. I wasn’t so keen on The Marriage
of Figaro and Falstaff.
Would this one work or not?
It opens in a place that looks like a Playboy club – dark, with lots of red velvet in the decor. That does seem an
appropriate place for the Don (Christopher Maltman) to be taunting the two younger men about their belief in their girlfriends’
fidelity, but I found the comings-and-goings of the skimpily clad servers in the background somewhat distracting. The bulk
of the opera, however, is set on Coney Island, circa 1955. When the stage opened up on the silhouette of the Ferris wheel
and the other rides in the background, with screeching seagulls against a cloudy sky, it was one of those theatrical moments
that somehow cause a catch in the throat.
The whole point of this setting, I presume, was to emphasize the corny (i.e. "carny"?) quality of the work. A band of circus
performers – including a contortionist, flame dancer, snake-charmer, a couple of dwarfs and two sword swallowers –
was helping the Don to stage the elaborate prank which was meant to demonstrate the fickleness of the two young women. The
ensuing razzmatazz helped the production to sidestep the whole question of misogyny. With all that hocus-pocus going on, none
of it could be taken seriously.
One of my big concerns about the prospect of such a modern setting was the question of the disguises of the two men when
they each try to woo the other guy’s girlfriend. In traditional productions, the men are often garbed in turbans or
keffiyehs (headscarves), adorned with beards and such, by way of making them unrecognizable to the women. How could any such
ruse be pulled off in a 1950s American setting?
The designers managed it brilliantly. In the first scene, the two men had been spiffy naval officers in their proper uniforms
and white caps. By way of disguise, they came back as greasers: lots of hair, rakish moustaches, jeans, leather jackets. The
impression given was that the circus performers, at the Don’s request, had spirited the guys away to effect this transformation.
The conspirators must also have subjected the men to some quick acting lessons. Maybe that was achieved by exposure to videos
of performers like Henry Winkler ("The Fonz") and John Travolta. The two singers (Ben Bliss as Ferrando and Adam Plachetka
as Guglielmo), having appeared rather stuffy in the opening, showed themselves to be excellent actors in this context.
Several other costume ideas worked splendidly. Having Fiordiligi (Amanda Majeski) and Dorabella (Serena Malfi) in saddle
shoes and baggy skirts helped to establish the era unmistakably. Giving Fiordiligi horn-rimmed glasses was apparently meant
to make her seem gawky and unsure of herself – a suitable touch for the character (we often forget, given the maturity
of singers needed to sing these roles, that the characters are supposed to be young and naive) – but I found the glasses
a bit too obvious as a theatrical ploy. Fortunately, Fiordiligi was allowed to dispense with them eventually. Christopher
Maltman, in his yellow suit with a wide tie that was too short, had a cheesy quality that seemed to fit the Don when you stopped
to think about it. Another couple of dazzling costume inspirations applied to Despina (Kelli O’Hara). As the "doctor"
called to the aid of the "dying" lovers, she appeared as something like a cartoon version of Albert Einstein. At the conclusion
of the opera, when she arrives as the justice of the peace who is about to solemnize the marriages of the misled women, she
came bounding on like Annie Oakley, guns and all, doing a lively dance with a couple of the show’s dwarfs.
For the complicated business of Despina’s being the maid to the two young women, the designers came up with the clever
idea of staging the interaction in a sleazy seaside motel. They must have had great fun picking the tacky wall paper and the
kitschy landscape paintings.
This production brushes away the fusty atmosphere of a museum piece that so often accompanies classical productions. (I’m
thinking of a DVD of Cosi in which the two women in their elaborate gowns look like over-decorated sofas.) You get
the sense of fun and hijinks that must surely have been in the minds of Mozart and Da Ponte when they created this piece.
Stately productions with nothing inventive or contemporary about them tend to make us forget that the work was surely meant
as a jest.
While the shenanigans of the circus performers helped to liven up a work that can sometimes seem a bit static, there were
a couple of places where the stage direction didn’t work so well for me. In the young women’s first scene, a fortune
teller was lurking in her booth behind them. At one point, they had a reason to turn to her but she seemed to be lingering
there pointlessly the rest of the time. Ms. Majeski had to sing one long aria while floating over the stage in a hot air balloon.
That might have seemed like a good idea except that the balloon could never make up its mind where it was going; it kept drifting
back and forth and up and down in a way that interfered with your concentration on the music.
All the singers performed magnificently, as might be expected of a Met production. One of the special pleasures of the
show was the tenor voice of Ben Bliss, as Ferrando. He is truly a Mozart tenor. His voice is high, light and sweet, with a
strong line. He is young enough that there is no wobble to it, just the pure notes. He reminded me a lot of the great Mozart
tenor Fritz Wunderlich – and that is about the highest praise you can offer any such tenor. Mr. Bliss’ singing
of "Un’aura amorosa" – standing by himself at one side of the stage, as though lost in thought – was the
musical high point of the afternoon.
Enigma Variations (Novel) by André Aciman, 2017
This is the fifth book by André Aciman that I’ve read. His Call Me by Your
Name, a novel, is one of the best love stories ever. The novel Eight White Nights and the memoir Out of Egypt
are good but not thrilling. I didn’t like the novel Harvard Square very much. Enigma Variations? Hmmm.
Not exactly a novel, it’s more like a handfull of short fictions, each featuring the same narrator, with some overlapping
of other characters. The book tells about five of the great loves in the narrrator’s life. It’s difficult to say
anything meaningful about the book without giving away more plot than we like to do here at Dilettante’s Diary.
So let’s just sketch briefly the context of each of the five stories. First, we get the narrator’s adolescent
crush on an Italian carpenter during summer holidays on an island with his family. Then comes an adult affair with a woman;
the main point of this story is that the narrator is preoccupied with suspicious thoughts on spotting her acting
flirty towards another man in a restaurant. Thirdly, there’s the narrator’s obsession with a god-like man at his
tennis club. Next, we get the narrator’s passionate reunion with a woman who was a close friend in university. (Both
of them are committed to other people at this point.) Finally, there’s a timorous, bemused attraction to a female journalist.
Throughout, there’s no explanation or apology for the narrator’s diverse sexual inclincations. Enigma variations,
If you know anything about André Aciman, you will expect that the feelings of these
relationships will be conveyed with full-blown, stunning passion. The young narrator tells us about his response to the
Italian carpenter’s eyes in one run-on sentence with 16 lines of text including the fragments: "you looked
straight back and there was no running for cover" and "I realized that what I’d been craving all this time was his eyes,
not his hands, not his voice, not his knees, or even his friendhip, just his eyes" and "I loved the way they hovered over
my face and eventually landed on my eyes like the hand of a holy man who is about to touch your eyelids"and "his eyes kept
swearing I was the dearest thing in the world, because there was piety, grace, and beneficence in his gaze."
A few other intense expressions of love:
- The narrator refers to an evening when "I stood on the threshold to our living room and thought why can’t I be him
instead of me."
- He remembers "this never love that altered everything but went nowhere."
- "Wherever I go, everyone I see and crave is ultimately measured by the glow of your light. If my life were a boat, you
were the one who stepped on board, turned on its running lights, and was never heard from again."
Not that Mr. Aciman doesn’t touch on the downside of the great emotion: "The circuit is always the same: from attraction
to tenderness to obsessive longing, and then to surrender, desuetude, apathy, fatigue, and finally scorn." But then, when
the desire fires up again, he remembers that "indifference was just a reprieve, not a verdict."
Of course, love isn’t the only thing that Mr. Aciman notices about life. He often makes incisive observations that
convince you, if you need convincing, that you’re in the hands of a truly inventive writer. For example:
- "As usual, their large table is meticulously set for a feast, with its thickly starched linen napkins sticking out jauntily
from wineglasses like overgrown blooms on steroids."
- about the rain: "It lacks conviction, has lost its vigor. Don’t bother with umbrellas, it seems to say. I’m
about to stop anyway, my heart’s not in it tonight.
- about pining over someone he can’t have: "I’m like someone who never got off a train that traveled past the
- friendship: "It could morph into something more if she wanted, or it could as easily be taken down like unsold clothing
from a store window heaped in a pile eventually shipped to discount outlets and hurricane survivors. Friendship on consignment,
I called it."
Another trademark of Mr. Aciman’s writing is that he loves to convey the complexity of thoughts and feelings –
they can never be simply stated as being of one quality or another. There’s always an almost contradictory mixture:
- when his mother starts acting sweetly after a conflict with him: "She was pleased to see I still loved her; I was pleased
to see how readily both she and I were fooled."
- re a tutor: "As always, bitterness and humanity, like kindness dipped in venom."
- "The worst is going to be watching her lie to me and, knowing she’s lying , helping her sidestep the small traps
I might unintentionally lay down, and by steering her away from them credit myself both for being so magnanimous and so very
- about giving money to a needy person: "I didn’t want you to see. But I did want you to see that I had made an effort
to hide that I’d given the poor man money."
This waffling tendency, the sense of the ambiguity of everything – a characteristic that runs through the book –
could, perhaps, be best summarized by this passage:
Neither of us was quite sure what the other meant, but, as in dreams, our words could be taken in so many ways, which was
fine too, because we liked thinking they had more than one meaning, one obvious, one not so obvious, one hinted at but so
muddled that neither of us knew which to grasp, because each was so laced into the others that all three ultimately meant
one and the same thing.
For about three-quarters of the way, I found the book engrossing, excellent reading. At some point in the fourth episode
– the narrator’s reunion with the old college friend – I was beginning to get tired of their carry-on. These
two people are so intense that it’s hard to get into their relationship and sympathize with them. At one point, he wants
her to smash a champagne flute, cut him with one of the shards, smear his blood on him and her, then do the same with her
blood. They say things like: "We were never wrong. You and I are the only thing right in our lives – it’s everything
else that’s wrong." Really??? And: "We’re not people. We’re another species." Then: "Because you
and I are one and the same person. Everything I said about you is true about me." Are we meant to believe that we’re
dealing here with the likes of Cathy and Heathcliff??? Like those famous lovers, these two are a bit much.
The fifth episode – the friendship with the female journalist – was a further test of my patience. Up to a
point, the ambiguous, teasing nature of their relationship is engaging but the narrator is so indecisive, so tentative, that
he becomes exasperating. Even though a former lover is egging him on, he can’t declare himself. Who are we dealing with
here? A contemporary version of J. Alfred Prufrock? It doesn’t seem like the man we’ve come to know up to this
point in the recital of his affairs. Why is he going all coy at this point?
A character in one of the episodes says that "patterns are good for stories but rarely mean anything." Is Mr. Aciman suggesting,
then, that maybe we shouldn’t be looking for too much in the way of meaningful structure in Enigma Variations?
And yet, each story ends with a twist. In some cases the surprises seem more plausible than in others. Is this a case of an
author telling us just what life is like or is it a matter of his inserting something to give a story a more satisfying narrative
pattern? A bit of both, I suppose.
Two Kinds of Truth (Mystery) by Michael Connelly, 2017
You know that feeling: a book is so good that you don’t want it to end. It’s a long time since a book has made
me feel that way. But this one did
Here we have Michael Connelly’s star detective, Harry Bosch, grappling with two cases. In some mystery novels, that
can feel like padding, as though the author doesn’t have enough material in one case to fill a book. Not here, though.
The two stories dove-tail so neatly that they make a legitimate, gripping take on Bosch’s life at a certain time and
The first case has Harry dealing with the double murder of a pharmacist and his son, also a pharmacist. They’re found
shot to death in their family store. Pills have been thrown around to make it look like a robbery gone bad, but Harry suspects
otherwise. This eventually takes us into the world of the criminal drug trade where Harry has to go undercover. At some points,
there’s a terrific build up of suspense – something that I don’t remember much of in the previous Bosch
novels. Whether or not the precise scenarios that Mr. Connelly creates are factual or imaginative, I don’t know, but
he gives an appalling picture of the way that drug dealers can prey on addicts and turn them, almost literally, into their
The other case – the over-arching one and the one that’s most crucial to Harry in a personal way – is
the threat that a rapist-murderer whom he had sent away some decades ago may be exonerated on the grounds of new DNA evidence.
It looks like Harry might have screwed up in the investigation. If so, this could completely undermine Harry’s credibility,
with the result that all the convictions he has achieved could be thrown into doubt. Not surprisingly, this amounts to a nightmare
for Harry. His attempts to cope with it involve his reaching out to his half-brother Mickey Haller, known from some of Mr.
Connelly’s other books as the Lincoln Lawyer. This inevitably leads to the culminating trial scene where we know that
Mickey – and Mr. Connelly – are going to be at their best. While this courtroom appearance isn’t as thrilling
as some of the other Mickey Haller gigs, it is dramatic and it involves some of Haller’s trademark subterfuge and wizzardry.
The few drawbacks to this book would include some trivial exchanges among the cops – routine greetings and such –
that would sound natural in a tv show but stick out as being banal in a novel. Also, there are occasional patches of dull
prose, usually when Mr. Connelly is giving background. On the other hand, there’s a bit of what strikes me as over-writing,
as in the description of a psychopath’s eyes as "glowing like trash-can fires in an alley at night." One other quirk
of the writing: Mr. Connelly employs a strange use of ‘alert’ when he speaks of fake ID cards that any bouncer
"would’ve alerted to in any club in L.A."
But the writing in some passages stands out as being particularly interesting. Mr. Connelly builds intrigue nicely with
little hints of things like "another issue," timing pressures, Bosch’s "feeling worse," his "growing concern" and an
evelope that he forgets to open. As for Harry’s character, there’s his reflection on one of his heroes, the explorer
David Livingston, who once said that sympathy was no substitute for action. "That was an essential brick in Bosch’s
wall," Mr. Connelly tells us. That observation zeroes in on Bosch’s uniqueness and helps us to understand him better
than many detectives. I did find it odd, though, that the writer tells us nothing about Bosch’s inner reaction when
he’s obliged to strip and he’s left sitting naked in an office for an hour. You’d think Bosch would have
had some feelings about that situation which would be worth Mr. Connelly’s noting. But he lets us in on a fascinating
bit of cop lore that’s new to me. It’s about how well you trust your partner. The test comes when you’re
having to speed through an intersection on a red light. Each cop is supposed to check the intersection on his own side of
the car. If you truly trust your partner, you don’t feel the need to turn and check his side after you’ve checked
your own. And the title of the book comes from this sample of Bosch’s thoughts:
He knew that there were two kinds of truth in this world. The truth that was the unalterable bedrock of one’s life
and mission. And the other, malleable truth of politicians, charlatans, corrupt lawyers, and their clients, bent and molded
to serve whatever purpose was at hand.
Much as I enjoyed this book, I did find it strange that it ends with two chapters having mainly to do with other books
by Mr. Connelly. One of the chapters ties up loose ends from a Bosch mystery dating back a few years. That might be interesting
to readers who remember that novel but I don’t. The other concluding chapter – relating to a character in Two
Kinds of Truth – is clearly a prologue to Mr. Connelly’s next book. You’d think Mr. Connelly’s
fans would be committed enough by now that he wouldn’t need to rope them in with these sorts of teasers. Are these two
chapters, then, the result of an author’s having to produce the number of pages required by his contract?
Serving Victoria: Life in the Royal Household (Biography) by Kate Hubbard, 2012
You might wonder whether the world needs another book about Queen Victoria. Surely she’s one of the most written
about women in history. Kate Hubbard, however, has a new perspective on the Queen: how she seemed to those who tended to her
behind the scenes. What enables Ms. Hubbard to know that is the fact that, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram not having penetrated
the walls of the royal residences in Victorian times, the occupants were given to voluminous letter writing. Fortuitously,
those written documents remain squirrlled away in archives, waiting to reveal their secrets to an intrepid researcher like
Of course, it would be impossible to get any such peek behind the scenes of a royal household these days, given the non-disclosure
agreements that all royal hangers-on are obliged – quite understandably – to sign. While these private glimpses
of the Queen don’t quite contradict the public image that has come down to us, they provide intimate details that help
to make the monarch seem more like a real person.
One of the first impressions that comes through in Ms. Hubbard’s take on the royal scene in Queen Victoria’s
day is the excruciating boredom for many. The worst times, apparently, were the evenings. Charles Greville, privy councillor
and diarist, gave an account of a gathering early in Queen Victoria’s reign. After dinner, he said, everybody had to
stand in the drawing room while the Queen walked around, saying a few trivial words to each person, then card tables were
set up and then "two mortal hours" were given over to "the smallest possible talk." Anything interesting – politics,
for instance – was avoided. The only relief came in the form of silly games or music.
Some of Queen Victoria’s ladies in waiting were assigned to tours of duty lasting only a few months, after which
they’d return to their normal lives. One member of that group was Sarah Lyttleton, a wife and mother. Arriving at court
fairly early in the Queen’s reign, she was, at first, taken on as lady of the bedchamber but Queen Victoria found Sarah
so empathetic and trustworthy that she was eventually given the important assignment of heading up the staff of the nursery.
In spite of her tremendous loyalty to the Queen, Lady Lyttleton was capable of distancing herself somewhat from the monarch’s
enthusiasms. Around 1849, when Queen Victoria was rhapsodizing about the beauties of Scotland, which she had recently discovered
in the company of Prince Albert, Lady Littleton permitted herself to make this remark in a letter to her daughter: "The chief
support to my spirits is that I shall never see, hear or witness these various charms. This soothing thought helps me to smile
Sir Henry Ponsonby, who served as the Queen’s private secretary for many years, had this to say about a rainy summer
at Balmoral, where the staff had to resort to badminton and battledore in the ballroom: "I get into states of utter vacuity
here sometimes, at breakfast and dinner, and cannot think what to say." Sir Henry did have plenty to say, however, when it
came to defending himself on the charge of never standing up to the Queen. He told his wife, Mary, that it was simply a matter
of not forcing one’s opinions on the Queen: "... she says 2 and 2 make 5. I humbly point out that no doubt she has some
good reason for thinking so, but that I cannot help thinking they make 4. She replies that there may be some truth in what
I say but she knows they make 5. Thereupon I drop the discussion. It is of no consequence and I leave it there knowing the
Although Queen Victoria didn’t appear to be much concerned with inconveniencing servants – she thought nothing
of making them endure sodden drives in open carriages, rough sea crossings, standing for hours at official functions, being
summoned in the middle of the night – she did care about their feelings. Writing imperiously to the Prince of Wales,
she said that the servants "ought to be comfortably lodged, but not luxuriously, but I think and so do all right minded
people that the chief thing is treating them kindly ... making them feel that they belong to the family and
are cared for and not to treat them like other kinds of beings who have no feelings – and
who may be abused and spoken to harshly and rudely."
While the image of Queen Victoria that has come down to us portrays a rather dour, forbidding figure, some saw a more attractive
person. Randall Davidson, who became her personal chaplain, said her "irresistible charm" was "the combination of absolute
truthfulness and simplicity with what had become an instinctive realisation of her position and what belonged to it.""As a
woman," he said, "she was both shy and humble ... but as Queen she was neither shy nor humble and asserted her position unhesitatingly."
One of those unhesitating opinions was directed at Davidson himself. It had to do with the Queen’s planned memoir
of John Brown, the Scotsman who had become her close friend and confidant after the death of the Prince Consort. Members of
the household who’d seen excerpts from the Queen’s planned tribute to Brown after his death found it "painfully
almost ludicrously inappropriate." Randall Davidson’s advice against publication got him banned from the pulpit and
the Queen’s company for two weeks. Maybe that’s why he said he found Queen Victoria "in many respects like a spoiled
child, a nice child, but one who has not been properly handled or subjected to due restraining and there is a good deal more
difficulty in dealing with a spoilt child at the age of 60 or 70 than with a spoilt child at 6 or 7." And yet, he wrote: "In
the long run, her common sense judgement always prevailed."
That common sense may have been the basis of her attitude to religion. Ms. Hubbard says the Queen "could not abide religious
mawkishness," and she dismissed many of the condolence letters she’d received on the death of the Prince Consort as
"twaddling religious nonsense." In fact, she disliked "over-churchiness." Except for memorial services – a form of liturgy
that she loved – she was a dutiful rather than enthusiastic church-goer. It interested me to find that Queen Victoria
didn’t despise Catholicism or Catholics, as such. What she couldn’t abide was Anglicanism that acted too much
Given that we tend to think of Queen Victoria as strict about morals, it comes as something of a surprise to discover how
indulgent she could be towards servants’ failings, as noted by Sir James Reid, her physician for many years: "It is
quite astonishing how lenient the Queen is to drunkenness among her servants. When any of the constantly recurring cases comes
to her knowledge she always tells me I am on no account to breathe a hint of it to anyone ‘especially the Gentlemen
and Sir H. Ponsonby and Sir J. Cowell’, and she often fancies no one knows anything of it, while in reality there is
hardly a soul in the house who does not know."
Over the course of his many years as the Queen’s personal physician, Sir James became one of her most trusted allies.
That meant that he was often called on to deal with problems having nothing to do with medicine. One of the most challenging
issues was the household resentment over the Queen’s favouritism towards her Indian servant, Abdul Karim (best known
to us today from the movie Victoria and Abdul, starring Judi Dench as Queen Victoria and Ali Fazal as Abdul). When
it came to dealing with someone from India, the Queen was remarkably free from ‘race prejudice’ and snobbery,
but her family and household were not. The ranks were seething with dissention over the Queen’s honours bestowed on
The Queen’s partiality to her Indian servants was vividly demonstrated in the case of the theft of one of her brooches
and its sale to a jeweller in Windsor. Although documented proof fingered Hourmet Ali as the perpetrator, the Queen was furious
that anyone could suggest that he could do such a thing. After a conference with Abdul Karim, (Hourmet Ali’s brother-in-law)
she insisted that Ali was "a model of honesty and uprightness and would never dream of stealing anything." She accepted Abdul’s
explanation that Houmet had picked it up and that it was an Indian custom to keep anything one found and say nothing about
it and that he was only acting up to the customs of his country.
Eventually, Sir James became ill as a result of being caught between the Queen and the household on the subject of Abdul.
Whereupon, the Queen suddenly turned compassionate and repentent. She wrote to Sir James, saying that she was greatly "distressed"
at his becoming ill "from the worry I caused you the last few months and especially the last week which might all have been
prevented but for my senselessness and want of thought."
Nevertheless, the Queen kicked up a fuss when Sir James revealed his intention to marry Susan Baring, one of the Queen’s
maids-of-honour. Generally, the Queen tried to stop her male staff from marrying because "they were never the same afterwards."
Having enjoyed the undivided attention of her doctor for nearly twenty years, she was highly disconcerted that he should feel
the need to seek a wife. Realizing that she could not stop this marriage, she made the couple wait three weeks before making
their announcement public. Meanwhile, she dictated their living arrangements, his schedule and his duties consequent upon
his continuing, as a married man, in the role of her physician. In due time, the Queen produced lovely presents for the couple.
When she heard, however, that many of the royal household were planning to attend the wedding in St. Paul’s, while she
remained at Windsor, the Queen was heard to inquire plaintively: "And who shall bring me my tea?"
These incidents are just a few highlights from a book packed with such gems. If there’s one drawback to the book,
it might be that a reader sometimes runs the risk of being overwhelmed by the plethora of names and personalities. On one
gossipy page, for instance, we get references to Charles Canning (the viceroy of India), Charlotte (his wife), Lord Curzon
(a future viceroy of India), Johnny Stanley (a young ADC to Canning), Colonel Stuart (Charlotte’s cousin), Minny (Colonel
Stuart’s wife), Louisa (Charlotte’s sister) and Lord Waterford (Louisa’s husband). Trying to keep all those
connections in your mind is a bit like listening to one of your elderly aunts rattle off names in a complicated network of
It was to Sir James, her beloved physician, that Queen Victoria wanted to speak privately as she lay dying on the 19th
of January in 1901. Having ordered everyone else out of the room, she told him: "I should like to live a little longer, as
I have still a few things to settle. I have arranged most things but there are still some left and I want to live a little
longer." Reid reports that the Queen "appealed to me in this pathetic way with great trust as if she thought I could make
her live." (She died on the 22nd.)
So there you have it – Queen Victoria felt that her life wasn’t quite full enough. She still wanted more. In
other words, she was like any mortal. This book shows that Queen Victoria was as full of conflicts and contradictions as anybody
could be. It’s just that, in her case, the weirdness was magnified so much because of her eminence. Who’s to say
that any of us might not have emerged looking just as strange if we had been forced to live in such an atmosphere of
pampering and panoply?