| BUBBA LOVE |
[Aug. 21st, 2006|10:38 pm] |
if there was any doubt as to why bill clinton- aka "BUBBA" deserves to have a heroic epic poem written about him like Beowulf , there can be no more after reading this article written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez for Salon magazine about the mysteries and charm of Bubba. So effusive is Bubba's charm. His charisma drips off the page like honeydew. THE MAN SPONTANEOUSLY LAUNCHED INTO A RECITAL OF BENJI'S ENTIRE MONOLOGUE FROM THE SOUND AND THE FURY FOR CHRISSAKE!!! who does that?? marquez started out thinking that clinton was a kissass politician, but the encounter he describes left him in awe of the man from arkansas. the article makes me want to drink mead out of a goblet in honor of Bubba.
(Bubba disclaimer: i fully acknowledge that Clinton was responsible for horrible things like getting rid of welfare and signing all those neo-liberal trade agreements that wiped out the banana industy in jamaica and i do not by any means condone such acts in my blind admiration of Bubba. however, there is no such thing as a perfect hero)
http://www.salon.com/news/1999/02/cov_02news.html
The mysteries of Bill Clinton
Nobel Prize-winning author Gabriel García Márquez
compares the president's fate to that of Hester Prynne.
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BY GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ | The first thing you notice about William Jefferson Clinton is how tall he is. The second is the seductive power he has of making you feel, from the first moment of meeting, that he is someone you know well. The third is his sharp intelligence, which allows you to speak to him about anything at all, even the prickliest topics, provided you know when to bring it up.
Even so, someone not enamored of him forewarned me: "The dangerous thing about these gifts is that Clinton uses them to make you feel that nothing could interest him more than what you are saying to him."
I met him first at a dinner given by William Styron in his summer house on Martha's Vineyard in August 1995. During his first campaign, Clinton had mentioned that his favorite book was "One Hundred Years of Solitude." I said at the time -- and I was quoted in print -- that I thought he had said it simply to pull in the Latin vote. He had not forgotten -- after greeting me on Martha's Vineyard, he at once assured me that what he said had been quite sincere.
Carlos Fuentes and I have good reason for considering that evening as a whole chapter in our memoirs. From the beginning, we were disarmed by the interest, respect and humor with which he listened to us, treating our words as if they were gold dust.
His mood corresponded with his appearance. His hair was short, like a scrubbing brush, his skin tanned -- he had the healthy and almost insolent look of a sailor ashore, and he was wearing a college sweat shirt with some logo on the chest. At 49, he looked like an exuberant survivor of the generation of '68, who had smoked marijuana, knew the Beatles by heart and had demonstrated against the Vietnam War.
Dinner began at 8, with some 14 guests around the table, and lasted until midnight. Bit by bit, the conversation came down to a kind of literary round table involving the president and the three writers. The first topic to come up was the forthcoming Summit of the Americas. Clinton had wanted it held in Miami, where it did take place. Carlos Fuentes considered that New Orleans or Los Angeles had stronger historical claims, and he and I argued strongly for them until it became clear that the president had no intention of changing his plans because he was counting on reelection support from Miami.
"Forget the votes, Mr. President," Carlos said to him. "Lose Florida and make history."
That phrase set the tone. When we spoke of the problems of narco-traffic, the president heard me out generously. "Thirty million drug addicts in the U.S. go to show that the North American mafia are more powerful than those in Colombia, and the authorities much more corrupt." When I spoke to him about relations with Cuba, he seemed even more receptive. "If Fidel and you could sit and talk face to face, all problems would completely disappear."
When we talked about Latin America in general, we realized that he was much more interested than we had supposed, although he lacked some essential background. When the conversation seemed to stiffen a bit, we asked him what his favorite movie was, and he answered "High Noon," by Fred Zinneman, whom he had recently honored in London. When we asked him what he was reading, he sighed and mentioned a book on the economic wars of the future, author and title unknown to me.
"Better to read 'Don Quixote,'" I said to him. "Everything's in there." Now, the 'Quixote' is a book that is not read nearly as much as is claimed, although very few will admit to not having read it. With two or three quotes, Clinton showed that he knew it very well indeed. Responding, he asked us what our favorite books were. Styron said his was "Huckleberry Finn."
I would have said "Oedipus Rex," which has been my bed table book for the last 20 years, but I named "The Count of Monte Cristo," mainly for reasons of technique, which I had some trouble explaining.
Clinton said his was the "Meditations of Marcus Aurelius," and Carlos Fuentes stuck loyally to "Absalom, Absalom," Faulkner's stellar novel, no question, although others would choose "Light in August" for purely personal reasons. Clinton, in homage to Faulkner, got to his feet and, pacing around the table, recited from memory Benji's monologue, the most thrilling passage, and perhaps the most hermetic, from "The Sound and the Fury."
Faulkner got us to talking about the affinities between Caribbean writers and the cluster of great Southern novelists in the United States. It made much more sense to us to think of the Caribbean not as a geographical region surrounded by its sea but as a much wider historical and cultural belt stretching from the north of Brazil to the Mississippi Basin.
Mark Twain, William Faulkner, John Steinbeck and so many others would then be just as Caribbean as Jorge Amado and Derek Walcott. Clinton, born and raised in Arkansas, a Southern state, applauded the notion and professed himself happy to be a Caribbean. |
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