The Misanthrope

A misanthrope is a hater of humankind.

It's also a play by Moliere, currently on at the New York Theater Workshop, which I had the privilege to see last night. It goes without saying, perhaps, that the level of acting here makes me want to write theater reviews again. And the adaptations on this were genius--everyone around the table talking on the cell phone, and photographing life's little horrors. Brilliant! And the way the lead actor handled the cop who came over when they rushed outside in the big finale--my GOD, fantastic! However, it's the content of this particular play that compels me to write.

The main character is horrified by the duplicity all around him, and yet loves the woman he finds the worst offender. He seems to be suggesting you can be right, or you can be happy. When the two most virtuous characters pair up, the sentiment is more one of relief than happiness. It reminded me of the first episode of this season's "Californication," where David Duchovny is telling his ex- that she doesn't want to marry Bill, because he's everything she never wanted, and we know he's right. So, between 1622 and 2007, the tragic state of love has remained. This is the impetus for all great art (Momus, "Art is only making do with substitutes."), thus the fear behind my book.

My book espouses the lover and the beloved view, like Carl Jung I'll say, as opposed to Osho, that I am every character in my dreams. Like Pema Chodron I ask, what is the difference between my dream and my reality? OK, collective agreement. Fine. But can that make for a satisfying end to my classic fairy tale? The separation of the head and the heart is always the trouble. More love is always the answer. Usually that comes in the form of a person, can it be convincingly otherwise? Well, I've gambled everything to find out. Back to typing.