Friday 26th December 2014

I was put in mind of Chekhov because Joshua Baring is to write a monograph on him for publication. Chekhov’s early play was called Ivanov. It is screamingly funny when they have a dance and caper about wildly, then someone says, once they’ve sat down, ‘Oh God we’re so bored!’ All the bits about the spoonful of gooseberry jam as a welcome snack for visitors ditto. But once Ivanov himself gets going with his suicidal thoughts one just longs for him to commit which at last at last he does, thank the Merciful.  Chekhov had to find a way of beating together comedy and tragedy. How on earth was it to be done? How could the impossible be achieved? As Val always says, What on earth did the first person who made mayonnaise think they were doing? Did they really imagine egg yolk and oil would bind? They will bind, but only just and not for long. Chekhov finally realised the fragile union of comedy and tragedy in Uncle Vanya, The Cherry Orchard and The Three Sisters.

So Poor Little Rich Gays in the coming year must yoke the disparate elements: Poor Little Rich Gays are poor but also rich. They will never be whole or complete, but they must not break down and be institutionalised or go on pills. A certain flashing lunacy is most attractive, provided one is not actually insane.  Nor must they ever be lovely or deeply caring, like all the people in the TV doc about Canterbury Cathedral (so C of E). Especially those damaged by Prep and Public with a certain warped attitude to the emotions must retain their astonishing harsh novel abruptness as they move towards greater humanity. Otherwise they will be merely nasty.

May every blessing pour down upon, Poor Little Rich Gays, here and throughout the World as you battle ever upwards with your impossible lives.