Harpo Speaks
Perfect. I was hoping that someday the subject of this wonderful book would come up. It is pure joy. Not the puerile, unctuous or sentimental kind of joy, but the genuine joy of a man who lived it as much as is humanly possible, even after he'd lost the love of his life in a plane crash. Overall he had a remarkable life, was a hell of a story teller, gambler, and used to play croquet with his famous friends on the snowy rooftops of New York in the depths of winter, as the entire crew of the literary elite he hung out with at the time were crazy for fun and had the money to indulge their fantasies. Not everyone with considerable financial resources is a creep or lacking in soul.
Marx also recounts his experiences during the dreadful US Depression of the late 1920s and early '30s and how he asked a gambler for a critical loan to save him from financial ruin. Years later Marx ran into that man and asked him why he had been willing to loan the money. I won't spoil the answer"”because it's too good to give away, and it's the last answer one might expect"”but the gambler was a good judge of character and Marx was saved from being financially wiped out.
For me, Harpo Marx was in his own way as extraordinary as Bukowski"”being from an entirely different corner of universe, of course"”and both had remarkably memorable lives. The difference is that one was a master of gesture, perfect comedic timing and openness of heart, and the other was a master of deeply felt sentiments expressed through his amazing poetry and novels. For years, I've felt there was room enough in life for each of them to co-exist within my heart of hearts without the reality of one negating the power of the other, and I still do. "”Poptop.
Perfect. I was hoping that someday the subject of this wonderful book would come up. It is pure joy. Not the puerile, unctuous or sentimental kind of joy, but the genuine joy of a man who lived it as much as is humanly possible, even after he'd lost the love of his life in a plane crash. Overall he had a remarkable life, was a hell of a story teller, gambler, and used to play croquet with his famous friends on the snowy rooftops of New York in the depths of winter, as the entire crew of the literary elite he hung out with at the time were crazy for fun and had the money to indulge their fantasies. Not everyone with considerable financial resources is a creep or lacking in soul.
Marx also recounts his experiences during the dreadful US Depression of the late 1920s and early '30s and how he asked a gambler for a critical loan to save him from financial ruin. Years later Marx ran into that man and asked him why he had been willing to loan the money. I won't spoil the answer"”because it's too good to give away, and it's the last answer one might expect"”but the gambler was a good judge of character and Marx was saved from being financially wiped out.
For me, Harpo Marx was in his own way as extraordinary as Bukowski"”being from an entirely different corner of universe, of course"”and both had remarkably memorable lives. The difference is that one was a master of gesture, perfect comedic timing and openness of heart, and the other was a master of deeply felt sentiments expressed through his amazing poetry and novels. For years, I've felt there was room enough in life for each of them to co-exist within my heart of hearts without the reality of one negating the power of the other, and I still do. "”Poptop.
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