I think I finally understood Sinatra. By chance, you know. I was working at the web, like now, with the tv like one inch from me, when the old face with the grey hair showed up. I turned up the sound. He was singing Send in the clowns. Maybe singing isn't the right word. He did it so easily. So so easily. He was talking, really. Then, the thing itself I never got about him turned out to be the real deal - the way he sounded no-musical, the way he looked uninspired and cold about the songs.This thing moved me. Here we have a guy so matter-of-fact about things, so down-to-earth and yet....

I fail to explain, I know.

Maybe over time you just get tired of "artistic types", full of intentions and pretention. And you get in awe of this guys, to whom art comes as naturally as sex. I wonder.

The Moviegoer

“When she was sick for the first time”. That’s the sort of passing reference they use when talking about Kate. And you don’t know if should worry more or less because of that. The book has a peculiar way of saying important things with a careless voice. You never see a big speech coming, the sort that make actors inflate their chest and modulate their voices. All is said in a passing manner, as if it doesn’t matter, as if it is circunstancial. I recognize that voice. I have a friend very much like that, who would be tottaly embarassed on making things seem bigger than they are, who has to sound casual about everything.
Talking about Kate’s sickness, it says, for example: “When she was a child and her mother was alive, it used to seem to her that people laughed and talked in an easy and familiar way and stood on solid ground, but now it seemed that they (not just she but everybody) has become aware of the abyss that yawned at their feet even on the most ordinary occasions – especially on the most ordinary ocasions. Thus she would a thousand times rather find herself in the middle of no man’s land than at a family or luncheon club.”
Even that I would say I never felt like it was easy and familiar, I’m very much aware of the abyss. Actually, this little passage explain much of my present isolation. Without a sweat. And so goes the book. Its called The Moviegoer, and that must be one more point of identification for me. We, moviegoers, are one particular tribe, I suppose.