The Charterhouse of Parma (5*)

Who woulda thunk that a "himbo" could be the faux hero of a classic French novel?  Or that Fabrizio would be an early member of the 27 Club's literary equivalent?  But that's what makes Stendahl's 1839 masterpiece--450 pages dictated in a mere 52 days--so entertaining, even today.

Sure, the convoluted politics can be a little difficult to parse for readers without advanced degrees in European history.  The Charterhouse of Parma mostly takes place shortly after the Napoleonic wars in what is now northern Italy but during the author's lifetime was ruled off and on by the French and Austrians (guess which conquerors the locals, for the most part, preferred?). Stendahl pretends to be telling an authentic Italian story from the perspective of a Frenchman, a conceit that affords him the opportunity for plenty of fond stereotyping.

Italian hearts are, far more than ours in France, tormented by the suspicions and wild ideas which a burning imagination presents to them, but on the other hand their joys are far more intense and more lasting.

*  *  *  *

Once her vengeance was determined, she felt her strength; each step her mind had taken gave her a certain happiness. I am inclined to think that the immoral delight Italians experience in taking revenge is a consequence of their power of imagination; people of other countries do not, strictly speaking, forgive; they forget.

We meet the noble Fabrizio, the apple of his aunt Gina's eye, just as he leaves home to join Napoleon's army, alienating his father and older brother, both conservative sticks-in-the-mud who prefer to hole up in their castle near Lake Cuomo and enjoy the status quo.  It takes only a farcical chapter or two to realize that the rebellious teenager is a blithering, well-meaning idiot who has to rely on the kindness of women for tips about how to survive, including where to point his saber (heh, heh) if not how to mount his steed.

Nonetheless, he persists although his "service" at the Battle of Waterloo limits his career prospects upon his return to Parma.  Thanks to Count Mosca, a powerful patron enamored of his aunt Gina, Fabrizio is groomed for the "violet stockings" worn by archbishops.  This does not prevent him from skirt chasing, however, which results in a peculiar crisis of conscience for a man who presumably will take a vow of chastity.  Balzac's silence about this hypocrisy reflects a deep understanding of human nature as well as his own rejection of religious dogma in favor of the rationalism of the Enlightenment.

“But how odd it is,” [Fabrizio] would occasionally tell himself, “that I’m not susceptible to that exclusive and impassioned preoccupation known as love? Among all the relationships chance has bestowed upon me at Novara or in Naples, have I ever met a woman whose presence, even in the first days, I preferred to a ride on a fine new horse? Is what they call love,” he added, “only one more lie? Doubtless I love the way I have a good appetite at six o’clock! And could it be this rather vulgar propensity which our liars have made into Othello’s jealousy and Tancred’s passion? Or must I assume I am constituted differently from other men? Why should it be that my soul lacks this one passion? What a singular fate is mine!”

Singular indeed.  The further machinations of his aunt (now the wealthy Duchess of Sanseverina in a sham marriage arranged by Count Mosca) in the wake of a roadside altercation, propel an often breathless plot of page-turning intrigue and incident.  While Fabrizio intuitively understands the need to keep on Gina's good side, her flirtatiousness gives him serious pause because he believes they are related by blood.  Convention keeps the Duchess from hooking up with the hottie she loves but not from ruthlessly protecting him in a small but hostile court that recalls Peyton Place if all its residents had studied The Prince.

But the Frenchly amoral Duchess shares the same insecurities that plague women in Hollywood nearly two centuries later.  Here's how she reacts when she realizes that Fabrizio has finally fallen in love with Clélia, a much younger member of the court, in highly unusual circumstances.

A woman of forty is no longer something for the men who have loved her in her youth! Now I shall find no more than the pleasures of vanity; and do they make life worth living? 

After nine months of being locked away in a tower like a fairy princess, Fabrizio finally becomes a man, courting Clélia with sign language as she tends to her aviary. Unfortunately, the piety of his beloved--who promises the Madonna never to see Fabrizio again if he ever gets out of jail--and Gina's obsession with her nephew complicates the young couple's future.  

Desperate to keep him alive by any means necessary, she enlists Clélia  to prevent Fabrizio from being poisoned by his jailers, who include her clueless father.  In an act of supreme self-sacrifice Gina also finally clarifies the nature of her relationship with Fabrizio to Count Mosca so that her protector will continue scheming on his behalf .

People will have told you that I loved Fabrizio, for I know that such rumors have run through this wicked court.” Her eyes shone for the first time in this conversation, when she uttered the word wicked. “I swear to you before God, and on Fabrizio’s life, that there has passed between him and myself not the smallest thing which the eye of a third person might not have tolerated. Nor shall I tell you that I love him altogether like a sister; I love him by instinct, if I may put it that way. I love in him his courage, so simple and so perfect that one might say that he is not even aware of it himself; I recall that this sort of admiration began upon his return from Waterloo. He was still a child, despite his seventeen years; his great anxiety was to know if he had truly participated in the battle, and in case he had, if he could say he had fought, since he had marched to the attack of no enemy battery or column. It was during the serious discussions we had together on this important subject that I began to discern a perfect grace in my nephew. His great soul revealed itself to me; how many knowing lies would a well brought up young man have proffered in his place! In short, if he is not happy I cannot be happy. There, that is the phrase which perfectly describes the state of my heart; if it is not the truth, at least it is all the truth I can perceive.”

Stendahl, who died in 1842, just three years after the publication of The Charterhouse of Parma, filled his final novel to the brim with a lifetime of mostly 19th-century experience that somehow remains relentlessly contemporary, even for gay men (AIDS poet Thom Gunn called the book his favorite at one point). He juggles the consciousnesses of his fully drawn characters as dexterously as he scatters aperçus.

The presence of danger gives a touch of genius to the reasoning man, places him, so to speak, above his own level: in the imaginative man it inspires romances, bold, it is true, but frequently absurd.

But most memorably of all, the sly, proto-feminist author has turned what first appears to be a picaresque novel about a callow young man into a story of unrequited love that gives pride of place to one of the literature's most beguiling women who also happens to be more action-oriented than most.  If I were directing the limited series--and Charterhouse literally screams for a tart and leisurely adaptation--I would license a Rolling Stones classic for the Duchess's final scene:  

You can't always get what you want

But if you try sometime, you'll find

You get what you need

Blue Skies But Chillier Than Antarctica

For the first time ever, I spent Christmas alone. But at the Folly, it felt like just another beach day in spite of the seasonal decorations downtown.

Palm trees in natural light can be just as pretty as Christmas trees.

Walmart roses brightened up my simple holiday meal:  a stew of kale, cannelloni beans and sausage sprinkled with parmesan cheese.

The contrast between clothing displays in buttoned-up Palm Beach and let-it-all-hang-out Miami Beach windows always makes me giggle.

There's no question that I socialize more during winters in Florida than I do in New York.  Paul, Linn and I checked out Mizner Park where they bought Beatles-inspired prints from Carla Bank.  On another occasion, they introduced me to the guy who played guitar for the Andrea True Connection ("More More More")!  At least 20% of retirement is reminiscence with old friends and new.

Anthony and Zoltan, who stayed at the Folly a week apart, both ranked the Wakodahatchee Wetlands high on the list of places we visited.

Those lovey-dovey wood storks sure do know how to photobomb!

During a cold snap in February--which, according to a tradesman who has lived here for more than four decades, was the longest in his experience--iguanas literally fell out of trees, making close-up photography of the invasive species possible around our pool where they typically relieve themselves.

Upon returning from an Antarctic cruise with Steven and Andrew, Chris reported that the temperature there one morning had been higher than it was in south Florida!

Bird life made late afternoon walks around Lake Osborne more interesting

. . . and the gator Thom spotted was bigger than any other I saw this season, at least ten-feet-long and well-camouflaged.  Small pet owners may have been wary

. . . but its presence didn't deter jet skiers or fishermen.

Speaking of Thom, Lake Worth Beach's premier mixologist was in and out all season.

His Cosmos definitely improved the healthy appetizers, including tapenade, a holdover from the Pines.

We dined out more often than usual, too.  Sofra serves a terrific Turkish appetizer platter

. . . and you can't beat the crab fried rice

. . . or the strawberry almond shortcake at Oceano Kitchen.

I met Optimus while getting a firmware update at the Tesla dealer in West Palm Beach.  Let's hope the buff robot (and selfie magnet) can function with less hostility than its brilliant inventor.

Atmospheric museum selfies are more my speed.

The Chariot took us to Miami where we saw exhibits at the Bass Museum and the Institute of Contemporary Art.

"Jack Pierson: The Miami Years"

Patio View, Institute of Contemporary Art

"From the Heart to the Hands: Dolce & Gabbana" brought back memories of my recent trip to northern Italy, particularly Venice.

Venezia San Marco Collection, F/wW 2021-22

There also were local cultural attractions, in addition to the first-rate Rembrandt exhibit Florian and I caught at the Norton late last fall.  Works by mostly contemporary LGBT+ artists comprised "Beyond The Rainbow," a terrific show at the Bunker Artspace, but a stellar group of guest curators from the community seasoned it with respectful nods to their elders, too.

"I Am Out Therefore I Am" by Adam Rolston (2025)

Alas, creativity at the Lake Worth Beach Street Painting Festival seems to be in decline, although there always are at least a dozen interesting works

. . . and colorful murals remain an integral part of the city's landscape.

A huge majority (80%) of Lake Work Beach voters signaled their determination to keep our community funky by defeating a ballot initiative that would have granted 99-year leases (as opposed to the current 30-year duration) to develop our municipal beach front and golf course. Look no further than our streets for evidence of the town's occasionally dilapidated charm.

Folly Bros

Zoltan paid a fast visit--his first--to the Folly.  Hosting a straight guy in his mid-30s was definitely a novel experience but he seemed to enjoy it just fine despite arriving in the midst of an Oscar-watch party.  

On Monday morning we drove to the Beth David Memorial Gardens so that he could pay his respects to his grandparents.  It was my second visit.  I'd been before with his father.

Audrey personalized her parents' niches on the top row with a crown and a harmonica. Simple, symmetrical and very cool.  I spent several Thanksgivings at their apartment in Jackson Heights in the late 70s. David came with me once, too.

Zoltan shares my fascination with cemeteries so we wandered around for a bit afterward.  

En route to the Hollywood Beach Broadwalk, 20 minutes due east, he told me how much he had disliked Disney World as a kid and his contempt for single adults who visit it.  Walt struck back quickly.

Three tacos from Floridays helped him get over his childhood PTSD and empty his wallet.

We took this mermaid shot for the D-Girls who beat their uncle to the Folly by five years.

Spring Break was in full swing so we skedaddled to the Stranahan House in Fort Lauderdale for a self-guided tour of a remarkably well-preserved, multi-use structure which has fronted the New River for more than a century.

Frank Stranahan, an Ohio refugee and entrepreneur, first opened it as a trading post frequented by the locals, then mostly members of the Seminole Tribe whose trust he earned with fair dealings.

Frank and his wife Ivy, a young school teacher, lived together upstairs until the early Florida real estate market collapsed and two powerful hurricanes devastated the area in the mid 1920s.  Frank drowned himself in the river but Ivy turned the place into a boarding house, living in the attic when all the rooms were full. She remained on site until her death at the age of 90 in 1971 even after it became a popular restaurant under new ownership.  The woman had pluck

. . . and a close female friend, a pharmacist, whose home she often visited.  Hmmm.  The tabebuia trees are in bloom now, too.  That's how I know spring is imminent in Lake Worth Beach.

Frank, now considered the founding father of Fort Lauderdale was also its first postmaster. This oddly modern portrait was painted in 1929, the year of his death.

Florian and I had visited the post office almost two decades ago, when my beard was still dark.  Time waits for no one.

We ended the afternoon at the Loxahatchee National Wildlife Preserve under a rainbow.

Snowy egrets, ibises, a roseate spoonbill, a snake and a mostly submerged alligator definitely made the quick stop worthwhile.

The next morning, gray skies and a deep dive in the temperature, accompanied by blustery winds, sent us to Jupiter, the "elbow" or eastern most point of Florida, instead of MacArthur Park where we had planned to kayak in the estuary.  But first we stopped for a fascist photo-op on the Southern Bridge, soon to be re-named for you-know-who.  PBI is about to become DLT, too (if you know, you know).  Ugh!

Our tour of the Jupiter Lighthouse grounds included another of example of early white settler (a.k.a. "cracker") architecture in Florida.

Twelve people once inhabited the Tindall House, built in 1892 and re-located here for preservation purposes.  Mom and Dad conceived ten kids in this bed.

Zoltan and I agreed that Randy, our pompadoured tour guide, aced his assignment with solid information delivered with a subtle soupçon of defensive liberalism.  "There are times when I will be referring to the BLM," he said.  It refers to the Bureau of Land Management, not Black Lives Matters."  You definitely have to be careful what you say nowadays.  Randy seemed most at home in the kitchen and dining room.

I've photographed the Jupiter Lighthouse on multiple occasions but had never been inside. Built in 1860, it was designed by George Meade, a young lieutenant in the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. By the time the Civil War broke out, he had risen to the rank of brigadier general and eventually defeated Robert E. Lee at the Battle of Gettysburg.  His short temper earned him the nickname "Old Snapping Turtle."

An enormous ficus tree at the base of the lighthouse shades the brick deck.

The original lantern, an antique now worth nearly $10 million, can be seen from ships up to 25 miles out on the Atlantic. It has been lit continuously every night since the defeat of the Confederacy.

No place in Palm Beach County offers better views.

Arthritis notwithstanding, I climbed steadily to the top, 105 steps in all without taking advantage of any of the rest stops.

Going backwards down the spiral staircase definitely eased my descent.

We stopped at the Loggerhead Marine Life Center and the Manatee Lagoon before heading back to the Folly where Thom had prepared his traditional Erin go Bragh dinner for St. Patrick's Day.  I hadn't noticed this prehistoric replica when I visited with Florian in December, but some of the turtles that had been given names from classical Greek mythology were still recuperating.

At 6'4," Zoltan measured up if the Manatee Lagoon did not.  None were present.

On Wednesday morning, we indulged in some nostalgia:  Zoltan still holds the Pines record for consuming the most pancakes flipped by me at breakfast.  He now holds the Folly record as well.

After dropping him off to see the Rembrandt exhibit at the Norton Museum, I explored the waterfront in West Palm Beach for the first time since the pandemic.  

The public has access to a promenade with views of the Royal Park Bridge which connects  the Palm Beaches.

For as little as $7.5 million (or as much as $78!), residents can watch the draw bridge rise and lower with super yachts docked in the distance.  In 2022, a woman fell to her death when a negligent tender raised the spans as she was crossing the fittingly named bridge with her bike.

You've got to wonder what the Apostle of Cuban Independence would have had to say about what's going on today in his beloved homeland.  He's also memorialized in Ybor City and New York.

Zoltan enjoyed the Wakodahatchee Wetlands, our final stop, more than any other tourist attraction he's ever seen in Florida.  It recycles millions of gallons of water on a daily basis and also serves as a wildlife sanctuary.  Dagny beat her uncle here, too, although there's no chance she remembers it.

Zoltan reprimanded another visitor for petting this anhinga.  "How would you like it if someone patted your ass?" he growled to a clueless teenager and his mother.

A marsh hare and a purple martin risked their lives to feed near the water. 

According to another excited visitor, this alligator just missed lunching on a bird that strayed a little too close.

A pair of wood storks photobombed us!